Star Trek: Dagger
by MorbiusXX
Summary: This is a story of the Romulan war based on the Star Fleet museum website. You can view the types of spaceships on that site. I've used characters from Enterprise but the story departs that storyline.
1. Chapter 1

Introduction: Hope Unbounded

"We commend to each of you our futures," The Admiral spoke. He was obviously an accomplished public speaker. "You, the Starfleet Academy class of 2228 will go boldly where no man, where no one has gone before." The admiral's voice droned on. The boy looked over when he heard the restful sounds of light snoring. At seven years of age the young boy was wide awake despite the long journey by shuttle to San Francisco. The sight of the beings in multi-colored dress uniforms and the military fanfare held the boy enthralled. So of course he could not understand why his great-grandmother was not equally excited.

"Gramma!" he exclaimed. "You are falling asleep on the man!" The boy's father looked sharply at his child. Then the man turned a concerned glance to his aged grandmother, his son's great-grandmother. He wished that she had not chosen to come to this commencement ceremony. He thought that she certainly had seen enough of them in the past. Life expectancies were high these days but at 93 the woman ought to know better he thought.

"I'm awake child!" The elderly woman exclaimed. Her eyes twinkled with a youth that belied her age. "Now why don't you hush your mouth and listen to the man!"

"I wanna see the ships Gramma!" The boy whispered with quiet glee.

"We will just listen and wait!" The woman told her great-grandson firmly. Underlying the tender voice of a kindly grandmother was another firmer voice that was used to being in authority—and of being obeyed. The boy fell silent.

"I wish we could do that with him," The woman's grandson whispered quietly. His wife tuned to her husband with a warning glance. The admiral continued speaking in the background.

Starbase One, Starfleet Museum

"This is the bridge of the Bison class starship Beagle; such ships were in general use in the mid-twenty second century." The cadet announced. The young Tellarite had all the earmarks of someone who had acted as tour guide one too many times. "As you can see compared to the Daedalus class we just left the bridge of these craft are much smaller and more primitive. Hard to believe anyone would go into space in something like this!" This last drew twitters of laughter from the tour group.

"It smells," A nameless Vulcan in the group declared. For a race that maintained a mental leash on their emotions the Vulcans did not always prove to be the most tactful people in social situations. The Vulcan's nose was wrinkled in disgust. Several nods and a chorus of uh-huhs issued forth from the tour group.

"The air scrubbers were not as efficient as the ones we use today." The Cadet explained. "These were relatively primitive ships. Imagine spending months in one!" This last he added in a voice full of amusement; he looked nervously at his chronometer. "Now if you will move along with me we will end our tour in the engineering section." The Tellarite cadet waved to the group to move on. He did not notice that one of his charges had fallen behind.

The elderly woman had left her family in a restaurant in the orbiting museum. She needed a little time alone. Her Grandson had looked after her with alarm. But she had given him a look that had cowled many another person in the past. In the end he had let her go about her business. Toby, her great grandson would soon be cranky after the tour and now a full belly.

She moved around the tiny bridge. All the instrument panels were as she remembered them. She moved her hand tenderly over each of them. Yes it did smell; it smelled of old burnt electrical systems, burnt plastics, and the sweat and charred flesh of humans, andorians and tellarites. The smell was intimately familiar to her. The elderly woman moved to the center seat. The ancient captain's chair was padded in an older synthetic material. The seat covering was cracked and old and seemed to smell most of all. The woman seated herself gingerly in the chair. It all seemed like yesterday.

They were all so innocent. No one had asked for what had happened. Before it began it had been a time of innocence; a time so innocent as to seem like an idyllic childhood. She had been born into those days. She gripped the armrests of the command chair as one would grip the hand of a good friend in greeting; memories came flooding in. At 93 she had hoped she would forget the worst of it; but it all returned; the good and bad. It almost made the tall elderly woman wish she had the safe blanket of senility. But no, she was never one to run. She had never run away or shirked her duty. She closed her eyes and let the memories embrace her like an old lover.

Shattered Paradise

Savannah Georgia, Earth Dec. 2155

"Jo-Jo you get your butt in here!" Jocelyn Stiles mother Kendra yelled. "It's raining cats and dogs out there!"

"Mom you forgot about Sparks!" Jocelyn Stiles was referring to her parents' dog Sparks. The animal was of indeterminate origin. Jocelyn had often heard her father refer to the pooch as a 'Heinz 57'; referring to how many different breeds were involved in Spark's lineage. Stiles let the rain soaked dog in the house. Jocelyn swept back her hood. Stiles was a tall athletic, willowy woman with dusky chocolate colored skin on the good side of her twenties. The pooch had very little thanks for Jocelyn as he headed for his bowl of chow.

"That dog likes the water baby," Her mother replied. "Lord, when your Daddy takes him fishing it is more like a swimming trip for ole Sparks!" Kendra stooped over and rubbed the dog's head. She let out a small groan as she bent down. Closer to fifty than forty Kendra Stiles was starting to feel those little aches in her joints.

"He doesn't like water that much Mom," Jocelyn replied. Her voice had a note of tension in it.

"It's gonna be alright honeychile," Kendra Stiles assured her daughter. The older Stiles knew what was troubling her daughter. "Henry took a shine to your man when you first brought him here. Lord knows how you and a pasty skinned fellow like that ever got together but that is love for you."

"C'mon Mom that sort of thing went out 200 years ago!" The younger Stiles exclaimed.

"Oh I don't mean that!" Kendra answered in explanation. "No one cares that he is a white boy. I was thinking; you know whoever you brought home with you is going to have to spend some time in the fields with your Dad. Well hon, you should've picked someone who isn't going to fry like bacon in the Georgia sun!"

"I can't help it!" Jocelyn admitted with a rueful grin. "It was like when I met David he was it! I don't know why I thought that."

Her mother let out a raucous guffaw. "Baby I still remember the day I met your Dad. There he was asking me if I knew where the Agronomy center was on campus. He had a hat on that made him look like a criminal from the 20th century and a stack of computer data tablets that were dropping on the ground while he was talking to me. For some reason I knew this was the silliest man I ever met; next year we were married."

"Now is the worst part of the relationship honey," Kendra said knowingly to her elder daughter: "Meeting the parents."

Jocelyn looked at her mother with a worried look on her face. Her Mom, as always had gotten right to the crux of the problem. To see the younger Stiles one would think that her fiancée was facing serious surgery rather than a dinner with her family. Her mother looked at her with undisguised humor. Kendra Stiles looked at her watch, seemed to think a moment then announced to her daughter:

"I think that is enough time for your dad to interrogate your man. Let's get in the study before he has Davy out cleaning the stalls or something like that! Remember hon, when they get yapping about men things wave some food under their noses. There'll soon forget about all of that stuff!"

The women made their way to the study of Henry Aaron Stiles when they bumped into Henry Aaron Stiles II. The young man had gotten home for a short break from West Virginia University medical school. He embraced his mother first and then his sister. His sister dwarfed him in height by at least six centimeters, but Henry junior was a wide young man who excelled on the college wrestling team and it showed. The siblings hugged for several long moments.

"Look at you Halfpint!" Jocelyn referred to her younger brother by the not so affectionate nickname she had assigned him while they were young children. Her brother looked at Jocelyn with mock anger.

"I'll Halfpint you, Lieutenant Stiles!" Henry put the emphasis on Jocelyn's rank. "My sister, the soldier!" The young man joked. The two embraced again. Neither had seen the other for over a year. Jocelyn had graduated from the Air Force Academy a year earlier and was immediately assigned to the United Earth Stellar Navy as a science officer. The young officer languished in the personnel pool performing menial jobs. In the meantime she had met another young officer; a graduate of the US Navy Academy. The two had become romantically involved. Two weeks ago she had received the news that she would get a posting to a starship. One week after that Lt. JG David Allen Hudson, a young fair skinned man from Virginia had proposed to Jocelyn. She had accepted happily.

"Where is your girl Junior?" Kendra Stiles asked her son with a gleam in her eyes. "I was hopin' to meet her again she is a sweet girl."

"She has finals next week Ma," Henry Aaron Stiles II replied. "Amanda wanted to come but she is worried; just two more years and she will be done. Besides I think it embarrasses her when you talk about wanting to play with your grandchildren."

"I wasn't playing matchmaker Junior," Kendra Stiles protested with mock anger. "Just speculatin' on the fine looking grand kids you and Amanda would make!"

Henry Aaron Stiles II rolled his eyes. He looked at his sister and both siblings laughed. They both told their mother that she hadn't changed. Then the youngest of the Stiles' children said:

"Looks like big Sis will be filling the Grandchild role Mama!"

The trio had entered the study to find Henry Aaron Stiles I engaged in a game of checkers with his prospective son-in-law. Both men looked up in greeting and David Allen Hudson jumped up to greet his fiancées younger brother. The two young men had become fast friends despite being separated by distance. The two men shook hands; both were about the same height. David Allen Hudson wasn't as broad-shouldered as his future brother-in-law. Hudson was a man with a thick crop of sandy blonde hair. He was the same age as his fiancé which was to say 23.

"Dad beating you in checkers?" Henry Jr. asked humorously. "An all collegiate chess champion and he plays checkers!"

"Chess is for people who hate each other," Henry Aaron Stiles declared. The elder Stiles was a powerfully built, bald man just entering his early fifties. "Checkers is for friends. And Davy here might well be the daddy of my first grandchild! That sure as hell makes him a friend in my book!"

"What is it about you guys and grandchildren?" Jocelyn asked her parents.

"We have a big house baby," Her mother replied. "It needs family."

The group bantered a while longer as family does. Finally they headed for the dining room after Kendra heard the oven timer go off. The elder Stiles headed off for the kitchen. The older woman fairly batted her daughter away when Jocelyn followed her to help in the final preparation of the family meal. Jocelyn returned to hear her brother chiding her fiancé about David's and Jocelyn's expected family life.

"I see how she got you David!" Henry Junior said with a voice full of mirth. "You're a shorty like me. Did she protect you? Did she beat up midshipmen who were bothering you? I remember when I was ten years old. Joey Talbott was gonna beat the hell out of me. He was older—and bigger. He had me by the collar and here comes this terror in a pink sun dress; my older sister. Poor Joey! He stayed home from school for three days! Jo-Jo didn't thrash him that bad he was just…embarrassed!"

"No one messed with my little brother again!" Jocelyn declared. There was a note of love in her voice.

"I had to get big muscles and wrestle just to get out from under your shadow Sis!" Henry Stiles II declared. Then he added sadly. "I wish your shadow was over me again Jo-Jo. I hate to see you leave. You too…brother." Stiles Jr. said to his future brother-in-law.

The two military officers had met, fallen in love and decided to be married. But all of that had escaped the attention of the Stellar Navy's Bureau of Personnel. Both Jocelyn and David had received assignments; to separate postings.

"It'll be less than a year!" Both Jocelyn and David chimed in together. They had discussed this matter many times before. "I'm off on a solar survey and David is going to a boring space station."

The room visibly chilled. The discussion went elsewhere. A year seemed so long when one was postponing happiness. No one around that table that night wanted to think about the couple's immediate future. Space travel was still new and many ships and their crews went out into the black never to return.

San Francisco, California, Earth Dec 2155

Christophur Thorpe leaned back in the comfortable leather, chief executive's chair. Thank God he was not running for reelection again! Thorpe was man on the high side of his fifties distinguished by thick white hair and a moustache. Thorpe turned on the vidcaster. The holographic tank displayed a choice of political round-robin talk shows. The pundits of the day, most of whom Thorpe reflected bitterly could never be elected dog-catcher much less president of the United Earth government. But there they were criticizing Thorpe's government like they had all successfully run one of their own and were now in a position to judge Thorpe. Christophur picked a panel discussion where the moderator was a particularly acerbic gentleman from Islamabad.

Now there was a model society if Thorpe had ever seen one. The United Earth President thought with no small amount of irony. Pakistan had sided with the dreadful Eastern Coalition deciding, at the last minute to switch allegiances from the West who had propped most of their formally dictatorial regimes up. The wrath of the West was visited on that region in a most harsh fashion. When cooler heads had prevailed relief workers arriving in the scorched radioactive cities found the old ways had kicked in: Men were executing women for nothing more than going outside with their heads uncovered. Tribal warfare was rampant everywhere. Thankfully the United Nations' forces were buoyed by military escorts. Order had been restored, albeit in sometimes distasteful ways. Now less than 100 years after First Contact here was a representative of that country, now an enlightened democracy passing judgment on Thorpe and his government.

"Mister Zadari," A commentator Thorpe knew to be from Scotland but whose name he could not recall questioned the pundit. "You have been one of the harshest critics of the Thorpe government. Don't you think our continued expansion into space and the implementation of unlimited education for all humans were notable cornerstones for this administration?"

"Cornerstones yes," Zadari replied in a clipped lilted accent. The portly dark haired man was on the bad side of his forties. "But was it enough? We have pushed out so far—now there is a colony on Deneva. And why I ask? The educational provisions were not enough. There is limited choice for a student. What if one wants to attend Peking and lives in London? Also there is still joblessness. Thorpe has done nothing to relieve that!"

Thorpe cut the display angrily. Yes there was joblessness. Everyone who wanted a job now had one; total employment was now a reality. But the simple fact was that there was a small portion of people who wouldn't work if their lives depended upon it. What did men like Hasif Zadari know anyway Christphur mused? Did the pundit think that Thorpe should call in the troops; hold those people at gunpoint and tell them, 'yes you will work yes you will have a good life.' Human nature was what it was Thorpe had discovered. Hell, the United Earth President thought. He had discovered that at a far younger age than Zadari, who apparently still did not know it. Thorpe was distracted from his bitter thoughts by a call from his administrative assistant.

"Mister President," Karl Eberstark's heavily accented Germanic voice came out of the grille of the ornate intercom box. "Ambassador Shran is here to see you."

Relief! Thorpe thought with a mental chuckle. Shran was a good man—Thorpe knew the Andorian was not strictly speaking a man, but he thought of the blue-skinned alien as such. Without further ado Thorpe replied to Eberstark indicating that worthy should admit the waiting ambassador. This was a scheduled meeting Thorpe knew. The UE President knew the results might not be what he wanted. But it would be a good diversion to speak again with his friend Shran again.

The two beings, one human one Andorian greeted one another in the formal fashion. Then the large carved oaken doors of the Presidential Office closed. Both beings took seats. Shran, a middle-aged Andorian whose physique was still toned from his previous military service sat across the desk from the elderly white-haired Thorpe. Shran produced a bottle of yellowish liquid from his briefcase while Thorpe pulled out a bottle of brownish liquid from his drawer.

"Wiser's Canadian," Thorpe said with a grin handing the bottle over the desk to Shran. "As you requested my friend; you know when I'm out of office you'll have to buy your own whiskey!"

"Andorian Ale," Shran replied formally. His antennae tipped forward. "And unless you move to Andor you will have to buy your ale at import prices after your retirement."

"Move to Andor," The United Earth President replied wistfully. "Seriously my friend you know me and Maggie have considered that." Thorpe and his wife had visited Andor in his official capacity. The two Nordic Earthers had fallen in love with the beautiful frozen Andorian landscape. The human couple had first met their friend Shran during that visit. The Andorian had remarked off-handedly that Thorpe could have a position with an Andorian export firm at the end of his presidency. The President knew the offer, though strictly not ethical had not been offered as a bribe by Shran. The Andorians had received no special treatment from Thorpe in his capacity as chief executive of the United Earth government. The offer had come of genuine friendship between the two beings. Thorpe realized in one clear moment that bribery and deceit were above such men as Shran and himself; would that it was so for others.

"The offer is still open my friend." Shran replied. "I have had the pleasure of working with you. We Andorians treasure those who can get things done. That ability seems to be a rare commodity among all of the species."

"That is talk for another time I guess." Thorpe said breaking the mood from one of jovial friendship to one of business. "What is the reply to my particular offer?"

Shran uttered a very human sigh before replying. "Not what you had hoped for my friend. The Caldone want an alliance with your people very much. An alliance based on economics, scientific exchange and cultural exchange. But there are too many like me: old Imperial Guardsmen who fear giving up our military. I can see integrating our forces into a unified…spacefleet. But not all agree with that."

"What of mutual defense then?" Thorpe asked the Andorian Ambassador pointedly.

"That was an easy trade-off in the Caldone." Shran said without emotion. "Most see the same thing as your council of nations do: We have not encountered a hostile race since the border skirmishes with the Vulcans. You brought that unfortunate build-up on our ice rails to a close."

The Caldone, Thorpe knew was the Andorian governing body. Much like the Imperial Senate in old Rome the Caldone was the power. The Andorians had a Shahar: An Emperor. But the position of Shahar was purely ceremonial. Nonetheless it was an avenue Thorpe inquired about.

"What of the Shahar?" The President asked. "Were he to speak on behalf of an alliance…," The United Earth President trailed off when he saw the reaction on the face of his Andorian friend.

"I truly am sorry Christophur," Shran replied morosely. "The Shahar will not say a word on foreign relationships. True the position carries weight. It is for this reason that the Emperor will not speak unless he feels that the future of Andor is at stake."

Thorpe bowed his head slightly. The future of Andor, the executive thought, was at stake. So were the futures of Tellar and Vulcan, and of Earth. But Christophur understood the context that the Sharhar had spoken in. The Emperor of Andor meant an immediate danger facing the planet; not a decline in long-term growth.

"It would've been grand Christophur," Shran said sadly. The Andorian's antennae visibly dipped. "A force of ships under one flag, defense and exploration budgets one-third of what they are today. The benefits to the people of Andor, of Earth, would've been immense."

Both beings reflected on the loss. Thorpe had been a career politician, Shran a general in the Imperial Guard then later a diplomat. Both of them knew and abhorred the fickleness of politics. Thorpe for all his years in government service reflected ironically that much would've been done without the hindrance of government.

"Let's turn to happier things then Shran," Christophur said in an abrupt change of subject. Next week is the House New Year's Eve Party; it is an official function but has been one of our more interesting soirees. The march of time is celebrated by almost all civilizations on Earth. I was hoping you and Ketra were going to attend."

Shran smiled. "It will be mine and she who is my mate's pleasure to help you celebrate 2156."

Topaz, Earth's farthest colony, the farm of Mordecai & Flora Demsky, March 2156

The tractor was stalled. Mordecai would've given anything for an old chemically fueled diesel engine tractor. The high-tech crystal based battery in the tractor's electric motor was connected. But no power was indicated on the tractor's indicator panels. Mordecai knew that the battery had been fully charged! The farmer looked to his small home less than 100 meters away. Flora was outside feeding the chickens. Mordecai mused that his son Benjamin must be asleep. Otherwise she would be in their small prefabricated farmhouse tending to the little terror. Mordecai had a fleeting thought of returning to the house and enjoying some intimate time with his wife. Since Ben's birth those exciting times had been few and far between. He suspected that Flora would be in the mood for that as well. But the fields needed plowed.

Topaz was Earth's newest colony. Mordecai and Flora had been so excited about emigrating to the planet. The young couple had grown up talking about frontiers. Their parents had each, respectively told them of how at one time Earth had no more frontiers. Man had fallen upon one another and no where had been more a battleground than the old nation state of Israel. There had been much crying when the young lovers had announced their decision to leave Tel Aviv—and Earth. But in the end their parents had blessed them in the old ways and wished them the best.

The couple knew they were the farthest out man had so far settled. It had taken them almost two years to get there in the crowded colony ship. Mordecai reflected that not even the most adventurous human would emigrate if they saw the crowding on a colony ship. One bumped into other people as soon as they left their small assigned cubicle. It had taken Mordecai and Flora the best part of a month to acclimate to the open spaces of Topaz after their close quarter adventures on the Plymouth. The young couple had gotten an appreciation for wide open spaces that they doubted most people could acquire. Mordecai thought with happiness that his children would never know such cramped quarters. And speaking of children Flora was looking more desirable and the necessity to get the crop in less attractive.

The young farmer became concerned when he saw his beautiful black haired wife emerge from their small home bearing their small son in a bundle in her arms. Now why would Flora do that Mordecai wondered? He watched as his wife ran out toward him. The farmer decided he should see what was the matter. The couple was far from the small colonial town. But Mordecai had had the foresight to purchase a small land cruiser. The dependable little vehicle could rush them into town if need be. If, God forbid his young son needed the services of a doctor then he could get him to one quickly.

"Nothing works!" A distraught Flora announced as soon as she was within earshot of her husband. "None of the electronics works. I don't know what could've happened. I know things break; but all at once? What is happening Mordecai?"

"The tractor will not start either." A confused Demsky replied thoughtfully. The young man was trying to reach for solutions when he had none. There was a flash of light. Off in the distance the young couple heard a noise like thunder. But not thunder; Mordecai thought. This was a sharper blast of sound. Flora dew closer to him. Mordecai put his arm around his wife. He could feel her trembling beneath his touch. The young man was frightened himself. But he realized his duty as a husband was to care for his wife and child; he had to show strength.

Suddenly an aircraft roared overhead. An aircraft such as Mordecai Demsky had never seen the likes of before. The farmer glimpsed the aircraft from behind, so fast it had passed overhead. It looked for all the world like a metallic bird of prey. Mordecai had a fleeting thought that some sort of bird pattern had been painted on the aircraft's lower fuselage. The aircraft was gone; speeding off into the distance. Flora nudged her husband's shoulder. His wife pointed at a canister descending by parachute over their home.

It was the last thing the Demsky's saw. The enormous surge of neutron radiation dissolved their bodies and that that of their child's like sand cast into a fierce wind. The only sound was that of an ornate wind chime fashioned in the shape of an owl that Flora's mother had given the couple as a wedding gift.

Kobayashi Maru, freighter, outbound from Mars, one lightyear from Deneva March 2156

"Another hand Frank?" Carolyn Rodgers asked the freighter's captain.

The older man sighed. "What is it Carol; do you have X-ray vision? Tell me again why I play poker with you? I already owe you my retirement."

At fifty the captain of the Kobayashi Maru was far from retirement. The average age of spacefarers had been estimated to be well into their early 100's. Frank Zeller was still a relatively young man when judged against that standard.

"You and me are going to spend your retirement together!" Carolyn exclaimed. "I had to get you some way. I tried feeding you good food; that didn't work so well. I tried the sex angle but I see you figured out you can get that anywhere. So I thought—I'll just take your money!"

Frank looked at the woman and smiled. Carolyn was on the soft-side of her thirties with short brown hair and eyes. She was one of those women who would always carry a few extra pounds around their hips. But that added, rather than subtracted from the woman's beauty.

"I don't get it," Zeller said wistfully. "You fall for an old worn out man like me but you kick my ass in cards every time!"

Carolyn was about to say more when the proximity alarm sounded. They were still in warp so both of them looked at one another with puzzled expressions. Nothing solid should be in a subspace field with the Maru. Carolyn had calculated the course and Zeller had double-checked her work per space-farer's regulations. There should not be anything near them for millions of kilometers.

Carolyn checked the main control panel. Except for the proximity alert no other conditions existed that would warrant an emergency. Meanwhile Frank had started scanning the immediate vicinity using an old enhanced subspace radar rig. The electromagnetic detection system had been new when Earth had fought its Second World War. The ancient system had been upgraded for use by ships traveling at superluminal speeds. The modified radar units could pick up objects around a starship—barely. Frank looked with alarm as it appeared that two very large objects were apparently paralleling them and closing the distance with the freighter. Zeller turned to his navigator and told her what he had found. Rodgers activated the Kobayashi Maru's external video units.

The pair stared into the video monitor panels. Some of the freighter's crew had made their way to the Maru's small bridge. The small nerve center of the freighter had a loadmaster's position, an observer's chair, the captain's seat and Carolyn's seat at the navigation position. The Maru's bridge did not have a lot of room for people to stand around in; it was a working spacecraft. Those that could squeeze themselves into the small bridge saw the same things Zeller and Rodgers were looking at.

Two craft approached from what appeared to be overhead. Actually one was descending onto their position while another approached 180 degrees from its mate. The unknowns were two green colored ships with warp nacelles. Rodgers took a radar reading, fed it through the computer to determine that the newcomer was about 157 meters from top-to-bottom. Augustus Kelly, one of the Maru's loadmasters noted the similarity in appearance between the strange ships and an Earth cabbage. Rodgers saw what the man was talking about but rather thought of the strange ships as pots on posts. The navigator also noted the design painted on the hull: A representation of some sort of bird she thought. She looked with concern at Zeller.

"I don't like this one bit," The captain of the Kobayashi Maru stated. "Try raising them on the subspace and shortwave. Oh and Carolyn; prepare a marker buoy and start recording," This last Zeller added in an ominous tone. The buoys were only to be dispatched in an emergency.

"I've tried math and linguacode," Rodgers replied. "No go on either. I've got them at less than one-hundred meters boss!" Carolyn paused then added in a hushed tone: "Comms are scrambled. I'm not sure what jamming looks like but this can't be a coincidence; all of a sudden these ships appear and we can't talk anymore?"

Zeller looked around wildly. He noted his crew looking at him; looking to him. Now was not the time for panic Zeller thought. Finally he came to a resolution:

"Carol, take us out of warp. Deploy the emergency buoy—and go to emergency stations."

"Damnit Frank—boss," Kelly said loudly. "Once we go STL it'll take a day for us to spool back up to warp critical. You know we will lose money if we're late!"

"I hope this is all gonna be a funny ha-ha first contact story Augy," Zeller replied sternly to the Loadmaster. "But if it is not I got a feeling we are going to be more than a day late for Deneva."

The Kobayashi Maru's 1000 meter length seemed to increase dramatically then return to normal as the Schneider class freighter traded the realm of multi-dimensional subspace for normal space. Most of the vessels length was accounted for by its boom-like structure with numerous cargo pods attached to the length. The command section in the front of the boom and the engineering section at the end of the freighter accounted for very little of the ship's mass. Most of the Maru's weight was from her accumulated cargo storage containers. The twin continuum-distortion pods slung over the top of the engineering hull seemed to be added as an after thought. A brief flare ignited from the back of the freighter as the emergency marker buoy was fired away. The intruding green ships could be seen growing larger in the distance.

"They have us!" Carolyn reported from her station. "We are grappled. Bastards! They nailed the buoy with some kind of missile!"

As the navigator spoke those last words an enormous clang of metal against metal sounded throughout the Kobayashi Maru. Frank closed the air tight door to the bridge. The captain of the Maru went to a smack locker embedded into one of the walls of the bridge. Old paper navigation logs and magazines covered the access to the locker. Zeller swept this debris aside. He fumbled nervously through a set of keys he had hooked to his belt. Finally after several attempts with a succession of keys the old padlock opened. Zeller reached in the locker and withdrew two old-styled 12 gauge pump action shotguns. He handed one to Carolyn.

"Hey rumor has it that Cochran nearly shot the Vulcans on First Contact." Zeller told Carolyn in a nervous tone as he handed her a shotgun. He laughed grimly. "Maybe we'll all be drinking beers with these guys and swapping jokes and dancing the Watusi."

The bridge hatch glowed a cherry red in the upper portion of the heavy metal door. A small hole was made into the bridge. Zeller vaguely noticed that his vision was growing dimmer. The captain of the freighter felt short of breath and he was embarrassed to feel a mess running out of his nose. He looked over at Carolyn as one clear moment of perception dawned in his mind: They were going to die. Frank felt an enormous tightening vise-like grip in his chest. He looked in horror through his rapidly narrowing vision as Carolyn gripped at her chest.

"I love you Carolyn," Frank Zeller pronounced then fell over as his body contorted briefly before he died. The shotgun clattered onto the metal carpet covered deck. Carolyn Rodgers lay twitching beside Frank's body until she too died.

Hangar 51, Ganymede, Jupiter orbit, Mar 2156

The plate flew across the room, Major Jonathan Archer was angry. The communications NCO on duty had handed the communiqué to Archer. Archer had read the words again and again. After all this work the project he was spearheading would be cut. The Major cursed to himself; first his father and now him, he thought bitterly. Somehow Archer knew those Vulcan bastards were at the heart of all of this. They had denied his father the chance to build a better engine and now they were doing it for him. His friend, Lt. Charles 'Trip' Tucker III joined him after seeing how his friend and superior officer had damaged the dinnerware.

"Somethin'the matter with the pork chops?" Trip asked his friend. Still in his late twenties, Trip Tucker was a medium built blonde haired man. The lieutenant had graduated at the top of his Annapolis class with a degree in high energy plasma physics. Despite his military training and education Trip sported the easy going nature of his Southern North American, Floridian heritage. He was distressed that his friend and CO Major Archer did not share his laid back attitude.

Archer was a tall handsome man on the good side of his forties. He had a full head of dark brown hair more brown than gray. A graduate of the US Air force Academy, Archer was the son of Henry Archer. That scientist had been notable for his work on new warp engine designs. Jonathan had shared his father's enthusiasm. Archer had been the first man to have his name stenciled on Lil Nel. That prototype ship had been the test bed for matter/antimatter generation. The next generation of starships would not require the frequent refueling points this generation's needed.

"It's out there Trip!" Archer exclaimed as the two officers gazed through the transparent aluminum window at the skeletal assemblage in the airless hangar beyond. A cylindrical shape was connected by skeletal structural beams to an uncompleted spherical shape. A few engineers and technicians floated in the airless chamber protected by self-propelled vacuum suits. Here and there the bright retina burning image of welding was visible. Archer turned angrily away from the window.

"This isn't the first time sir," Trip said easily. "The World Council is spendin' the exploration dividend. They look at the X for all its weapon potential. You show 'em a schematic the first thing you get asked is where are the lasers? Forget about all the deck space for labs, forget about the room for crew quarters to make 6 months in a tin can bearable. Remember the Western Allies cut the military and there come the Potentates of the Eastern Coalition? But we don't have no enemies and they still cut the budget. Look Maj ," This last Trip pronounced as one would the word Mage. "Look Maj, deep space exploration won't get any of those guys elected. We are an easy cut so some politico in France can get his vineyard funded with taxpayer money."

Archer balled his fists in frustration. How many years would they have to wait; would he have to wait? Man had enjoyed unparalleled expansion into the galaxy; but the elected officials in the World Council didn't seem to care one iota about how fast that expansion went along. Nor did they seemingly care if they seeded colonies that, should an enemy ever arise, would be too far away for today's Stellar Navy to defend. Finally he set down in frustration. Archer reached into a desk drawer, produced a bottle of amber-brownish liquor and poured some of that liquid into his coffee. Tip's eyes widened visibly as the usually tea-totaling Archer knocked back his stepped up coffee.

"You want to watch that sir," Tucker warned his friend.

"You're right Trip!" Archer exclaimed. The major was referring to Trip's previous statement about expansion and not the engineer's warning about hard liquor. "But that doesn't make it feel any better. We could re-supply our colonies in half the time we do now. We could reach out even further than we now. And if, God forbid we ever face an enemy then we can bring serious firepower to bear on them. Sorry Trip, I know you are more the explorer but there is the military aspect to it."

"I'm on your side sir," Tucker answered. "I don't know, seems like man has been tryin' to go faster ever since we got out of the chute. Maybe X is stalled for now but I can't believe it will just be forgotten. What about Brack?"

"Boeing-Teledyne you mean?" Archer answered incredulously. "You can't really believe that Micah Brack is still alive? I mean I remember when he would come to see my father's work."

"You got an invite from someone Maj," Trip answered.

The strange invitation, Trip was referring to was for Archer—and Tucker to meet with Micah Brack in St. Louis in a week. Brack had been the CEO and more importantly the design engineer behind the Boeing-Teledyne Corporation. It was said that Zefram Cochran made it possible for man to travel faster than the speed of light, but it was Micah Brack who had made it possible for man to colonize the stars. Archer remembered Brack, a dour, handsome older man with iron gray hair who had come often to his father's research facility. Jonathan Archer had been a young foolish man then chasing equally young foolish girls at his high school outside of San Francisco. Archer reflected that the chief executive officer of Boeing-Teledyne might still be alive. But he would easily be in his sixties or seventies.

"I think it is a fishing expedition for a few corporate headhunters," Archer said bitterly.

"Ya mean they want us to leave the United Earth Navy," Trip asked with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Live in luxurious houses, and make a premium salary?"

"They want us to sell out," Archer replied with a laugh. His friend's attitude was catching. Anyway it seemed better to admit defeat—for now; and to move on. Archer moved to the door.

"You aren't going to get on horn with Admiral French again?" Tucker asked Archer.

"No Trip," Major Archer replied. "I'm going to see what the shuttle schedule for St. Louis looks like for say….a week from now. Then I'm going to the galley and see if there are anymore pork chops left."

United Earth Stellar Navy Intelligence Section, Langley, Virginia, Earth, Mar 2156

The uneven chorus of 'For He is a Jolly Good Fellow' echoed again through the offices of the United Earth Stellar Navy's Xeno-investigation division. The ancient room in the non-descript building was a collection of smells of old paper, hot office equipment and stale food that had been cooped up for too long. Indeed, the windowless office was served by an air exchange machine but that device had seen its better days 20 years before. The smells were joined this day by the smell of cigarettes, cigars and various beers and liquors. It was a celebration in progress. The subject of the celebration looked embarrassed standing on a desk top as he puffed on an enormous cigar rolled in a tropical island paradise not more than a short shuttle flight away.

"Come on Al speak some French for us!" Lt. Cmdr. Erica Soames hooted from the back of the crowd. "You better know some for your new bride baby!"

"Okay, okay," Capt. Alvin Crosby of the United States Army Intelligence Division said. "Mariel speaks English perfectly, I'll have you know—and she speaks 5 other languages as well including Andorian!" At 28 Alvin Crosby cut a fine military figure at well over 180 centimeters Crosby had stayed in shape despite a deskbound career.

"So our boy here is going to retire and become a vintner!" Soames continued in a mocking voice. Erica was Crosby's commanding officer at Langley. The Lt. Commander sported the jersey style of uniform being endorsed by the Navy these days. Soames had been a flight officer in Britain's Royal Air Force until a spatial disorientation problem had crept up on her. On the good side of her forties the thin blonde native of the United Kingdom was thought to be on the fast track to captain in Naval Intelligence.

"We have here a Beaujolais with a deep bouquet accented by a striking color." Soames continued in a mocking formal voice as she held a bottle of Guiness Stout out before her in a formal stance. "By golly it is a Chateau Crosby!"

"It's not like that!" Crosby protested lamely. "Her parents want us to move into the guest house—at first. But we want to live in Paris. Mariel is going to teach mathematics and I'll--."

"Clean the apartment for her Al!" One of the Division's NCO's yelled out raucously. The members of the Stellar Nay's Intelligence Division were a close bunch such that military titles tended to be disregarded; especially during happier times. And the bachelor party of Alvin Crosby was just that.

Another of Crosby's companions yelled out: "You going to change your name to suit her Dad? Alvin Pickard?"

"It is Picard," Crosby replied with a laugh; "And no, she will be Mrs. Giselle Mariel Crosby!"

Crosby continued thanking his co-workers then stepped down off the desk to join in the celebration. The crowd broke into smaller groups as so often happens at parties. Crosby took a quiet moment away from the larger crowd to seek out the NCO who had given him a hard time about his future married life.

"Very funny Sergeant McCoy," Crosby said in mock anger. "I guess you guys have a sleazy stripper provided for me?"

"Me sir?" McCoy proclaimed with false innocence. "I would never do that. Now Lt. Cmdr. Soames on the other hand wanted you to have the whole nine yards, so anyway I had to contribute cuz you know when a superior officer makes a request…"

"Yeah I just bet she twisted your arm really hard Frank!" Crosby laughed.

McCoy held out his arm at an exaggerated and painful angle. The two men burst into laughter as they were joined by Lt. Tarang Gupta. The recent graduate of the Indian military training facility at Khadakvasla, Maharashtra was a little too enthusiastic for his own good. He walked up to Crosby and McCoy with a sheaf of papers. Gupta seemed to only now become aware that there was a party in progress around him. He pushed his glasses back setting them back squarely on the bridge of his nose. Crosby handed the lieutenant a beer.

"Why don't you drop those drop those papers and pick up one of these?" Crosby said humorously. Gupta accepted the cold beverage but he did not drop the paperwork he was holding. The two men could not help but notice the report title peeking out from underneath a SECRET coversheet.

"Sector 13 again," McCoy inquired. The NCO seemed to be joining Tarang in forgetting about the party as he picked up the report's abstract out of the lieutenant's hands. The sergeant looked intently at the details of the report.

"Sector 12 actually," Lt. Gupta replied. "That is why I forgot about," The intelligence officer held swept out his hand toward the party; "All of this." He continued. "Our friends have moved. We just got this in this morning from the long range reports."

Crosby looked with interest at the report. The information Gupta was referring to was a group of signals that had been suddenly appeared at the far reaches of the listening posts. They had been monitoring the signals since January. No one in linguistics or cryptography had come near to deciphering the strange signals. The diplomatic corps had sent their own signals toward that general direction. The government was anxious to get any new trading partners given the profitable relationships that had come about with the Andorians and Tellarites.

"Have you checked with the Vulcans again?" Crosby asked as he took another puff of his cigar. "I know they; let me quote the dance—deny all knowledge of any races beyond Sector 12. But are they sure it is not these Klingons?" The group chilled visibly at the mere mention of that warrior race's name. Few humans had seen a Klingon. The Vulcans had characterized them only as a warrior race. After mankind had broken out on their own and contacted the Andorians and Tellarites stories about the Klingons had begun to surface. Stories that portrayed that race as devilish go to hell fighters with fangs who fought with different bladed weapons. The Klingons were said to live for battle.

"No," Tarang replied. "In fact I had a talk with a Vulcan friend of mine," The emphasis Gupta put on the word friend left no doubt that he was talking about a contact in the Vulcan embassy. "My friend gave me a data wafer of Klingon language and communications. I gave that to crypto; whoever these people are they are definitely not Klingons."

"No contact this way and we know nothing about them." McCoy said. His voice betrayed his suspicion. "I know we have to be enlightened about aliens but this bothers the hell out of me."

Erica Soames joined the group. The commander of the intelligence section seized Gupta's report as soon as she saw what it was. She motioned for the group of men to head for a quiet corner. When the small group found one of those the Lt. Commander turned to them and explained what she perceived as the need for secrecy.

"Look boys, we have been looking into your work. Tara," Soames referred to Gupta by his nickname. "You've done good work. You have no idea how far up this is being sent. There is a push-pull between the admiralty and the presidium. I will tell you that Taskforce 15 is heading out to Sector 12 to look into things. Keep up the good work but keep this quiet!"

"Is this because of all the shipping traffic going missing?" Crosby asked his superior officer pointedly.

"Yes," Erica replied somberly. "The president feels there is an inordinate amount of ships missing. He doesn't want it to appear he is corralling the people—especially in light of his failed alliance offer. Task Force 15 is headed out there. They will investigate and come back with answers. In the meantime keep digging into who these people are. It is probably a group of aliens different from any we've run into before. God willing we'll be trading with them next year."

"Or in a shooting war with them," Frank McCoy added in a pessimistic tone.

Earth San Francisco, March 2156,

"Good day Admiral," Christophur Thorpe said in greeting to his naval chief of staff. Thorpe extended his hand to the man. Admiral Herbert French was a short man who, Thorpe thought, looked more like a maitre de rather than a military officer. His pressed white Canadian Defense Forces uniform only served to emphasize that impression. That the Admiral also had a regal white beard and a considerable belly did not help to improve his appearance in his position as the head of Earth's Stellar Navy. Thorpe was reminded of the elderly Christmas figure every time he saw the man.

"Mister President," The Admiral replied saluting in the old tradition and then taking the President's hand.

The admiral and Thorpe talked of small matters; French inquired after the health of Thorpe's wife as Thorpe asked French the same thing. The talk was quickly degenerating into one of how the new weather modifiers would affect the coming year's grape harvest for southern California's many wineries. Thorpe gestured for the portly admiral to be seated. Thorpe suddenly changed the subject of the conversation to the topic the President of the United Earth government was most concerned about:

"Admiral I recently had the pleasure of signing the military acquisition bill. I know this year has hit your boys—and girls hard. We have had almost a century of peace and prosperity now and it is hard to convince the populace and their representatives of the need for maintaining a fighting navy. But, believe me admiral I understand that need. So I have to wonder why monies meant for the new subspace sensor system were converted over to subspace radar."

"I felt that those funds would be better spent improving an existing system." French replied in a grand flourish. "And since I've been in space a considerable amount of my life I've had to rely on radar. It has never let me down. Also the system is new. We can detect objects a lot further off but no operator knows what he is looking at sir." The admiral continued in a tone that indicated his contempt for the new sensor. "The scientists promised us the ability to do molecular analysis—we could scan a ship and tell what race was operating the vessel. We could scan for light-years, detect a ship then tell what the ship was made of, what its alert condition was and what its power levels were. But so far we have seen none of these dubious miracles Mr. President."

"I see your point admiral," Thorpe replied. Christophur flicked his tongue around his dry lips then continued in an ominous voice. "It couldn't have anything to do with a directorship on the board of Mikoyan-Bell—could it?" That corporation was one of the leading suppliers of subspace radar sets and their components. They had contracts with the Stellar Navy as well as the freighter guild.

"I resent you tone sir—and your accusation." French replied in an angry voice. "It is public knowledge that MIG-Bell offered me a job—I retire next year. But that had nothing to do with my use of those funds. Frankly Mister President I've always questioned your military decisions; after all, your only experience, if one could call it that, is through your grandfather. You never served a day in your life!"

"Admiral French you are correct. I never served in the military. But my grandfather did; you are right about that also. And he told me about how his brigade had to fight two battles: One against the surviving Easterners the other against the politicians and military hierarchy that kept him constantly undersupplied and ill-equipped. My government has never denied the military the best equipment and hardware."

"Your government is on the way out in the next election." French proclaimed interrupting Thorpe; after a short pause he added: "Mr. President."

"Yes it is." Thorpe replied. There was obvious anger in the president's voice. "In the meantime you will divert that money back to the purpose it was designated for. I am still the President. Is that clear Admiral French?"

"Very clear sir!" French stood up as he replied to Thorpe's orders. It was obvious the man knew not to take his challenge any further. "Is that all sir?"

"No," Thorpe answered curtly. "Have you any explanations for the ships vanishing from sectors twelve and thirteen yet?"

"No sir," French said. "The Andorians and Tellarites say they have lost some as well. The Vulcans," The Admiral paused mouthing that race's name like one would an unpleasant uncle's name. "They are as tight-lipped as ever. I would remind the president that exploration is a dangerous business. We have over the last 50 years lost over two-hundred ships—those are military ships. Civilian ship losses make that number even more."

"I know admiral," Thorpe replied wistfully. "Keep at it. Perhaps if those people had something better to see with out there—that was a cheap shot. I am sorry for that. But you know and I do too that the losses are more than usual. Get back to me when you have answers admiral, good day."

The portly man saluted his commander-and-chief, turned on his heel and left. Thorpe sat down behind his large ornate desk. The president looked about him suspiciously as if someone might be watching. Then he buried his face in his hands. Thorpe was tired, another year and another election. He was glad that this would be his last term. The rejection of Thorpe's proposed planetary alliance and now a hostile military; those things weighed heavily on Thorpe's mind.

United Earth Stellar Navy Space Station Salem-One, beyond Deneva, Apr 2156

The mighty space station held a stationary position at the farthest reaches of known space. Salem-One had cost an enormous amount of money to build. Thanks to the colonies in the Wolf system and Deneva as well as favorable trade agreements with Earth's alien trading partners the cost had been met. The station was a series of concentric rings set one within another. The diameter of the largest ring came in at just over four-hundred meters. The station housed military and medical people as well as most importantly tritium and deuterium fuel. Without the station, Earth's colony at Topaz would still be a dream and Deneva would not be at the stage of development it was at now. Salem-One possessed a defense perimeter augmented with Narwhal anti-ship missiles and Remington Mark VII rail guns. A grid composed of Teledyne III lasers augmented with spider area defense missiles added to the station's firepower. Salem-One was now in its 10nth year of operation. Its weapons had never been fired in anger and in fact over the last two years had not been fired at all.

Colonel Arkady Luchenko had been assigned to Salem-One for almost two years now. The boisterous Russian army officer had just passed his 50th year. When he went home to the Urals it would be to retire. And Arkady thought happily, that would be in two months. He greeted the station's crewmen he passed as he headed to the commander's office. Arkady was a kind-hearted bear of a man with a clean-shaven head who liked to have a close working relationship with his troops. He wondered if the new admiral would approve of his command style. Arkady thought with a mental chuckle that he would soon know the answer to that question. The colonel reached the hatch to the admiral's office. Arkady hit the chime and was promptly admitted to the office of Rear Admiral Juan Lopez Arroyo.

Arkady thought the man looked like a bullfighter in a soccer outfit. The admiral was a slight but wiry man with a close-cut crop of black hair speckled with gray. The Russian judged Arroyo to be in his fifties at least. Arkady also noted that Arroyo was wearing the new, jersey style Stellar Navy uniform combination. That is where Luchenko had drawn the parallel to a soccer player from. The UE Navy had never adopted a formal uniform of its own until this last year: A jersey type top complimented by nondescript black pants bloused over black boots. Arroyo had on a gold colored jersey which Arkady recalled indicated a command or operations position.

Luchenko stood before the admiral's desk: "Col. Luchenko presenting my compliments sir." The Russian stood for some time before the admiral's desk. Arkady was about to speak again when Arroyo finally looked up at him.

"Polkovnik Luchenko," Arroyo said greeting Arkady with the rank the Russian Federation had bestowed upon him. "That is how I expect I should address you; certainly not by your rank of captain in the Stellar Navy; since you have not chosen to wear that uniform."

"The directive says that members may wear the uniform of their respective nation," Arkady replied. The Russian was dressed in a Russian Army field uniform.

"Unless the installation commander directs otherwise," Arroyo stated the regulation formally. The admiral looked at Luchenko then continued. "I know I have not so directed. But don't you think as the ranking officer, Captain, that you need to inspire our people?"

"I do not believe the wearing of a certain uniform bonds the men and women on this station." Luchenko thought he knew where this was heading. "I am aware of the regulations. People on this station are far from home. Wearing the uniform of our homelands gives each of us each a sense of individual identity and pride."

"They will get pride by being members of the Stellar Navy," Arroyo replied coldly. "I am invoking the latter half of that regulation—I expect to see station personnel in the new Stellar Navy uniforms. Is that understood?"

"Of course sir," Luchenko replied. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Arroyo continued as he took up a notepad. "The consumption of alcohol will cease. This is a military installation, not a bar. Another thing: I do not ever want to hear the personnel refer to this station as…" The admiral hesitated and finally mouthed the English word that referred to a pit where excrement was placed with a one at the end of the epitaph. The Admiral continued. "And lastly the event known as 'Hog Call' will stop."

Arkady sighed inwardly. Drinking was tolerated as it was one of the few relief mechanisms for men and women consigned to a two year tour. Some likened the assignment to Salem-One as a prison sentence. There was nothing the Russian officer could do to stop the crew from calling the station by its less than complimentary nickname. Arkady was guilty of calling Salem-One that name more than once his self. How the Deputy-Commander of Salem-One would ever tell the crew that Hog Call was canceled Arkady did not even begin to want to think about. The event held every Friday night was a dance frequented by the station's single personnel. Luchenko mused that some attached people went to Hog Call night as well. It was another of those proceedings that helped make life tolerable when one was light years from their home. As much as he hated to he agreed to Arroyo's orders. Arkady was at the heart of it a good soldier.

"Very well sir," Luchenko replied stiffly. "May I ask the Admiral about the status of my requests for gunnery drills?"

"Is the crew doing simulations?" The Commander of Salem-One asked sharply.

"That is the only recourse available Admiral," Luchenko replied. "But the Admiral must be well aware that simulations can not take the place of live fire--."

"I know what I am aware of Captain," Admiral Arroyo replied angrily. "Live fire exercises require the use of costly drones. Those are not in the Navy's budget to throw away!"

"Very well sir," Arkady said agreeably. Deep down the officer was anything but agreeable at this point.

"Please post the orders Captain," Arroyo said. "I will see you tomorrow for the morning sitrep—you do perform a sitrep?" When he saw Arkady's answering nod he continued. "Good, and when we next meet I expect to see you in your command jersey. Now if there are no questions, good day Captain Luchenko."

Task Force 15, 2 light years beyond Topaz, UES Pathfinder Apr 2156

"Sir," The communications NCO piped up. Commodore Adrian Gellar turned to the woman. "I am receiving a distress call."

"Pipe it over the speakers chief," Gellar commanded. The commodore returned to the padded center seat and strapped himself in upon sitting down. Static filled the bridge of the Pathfinder as the petty officer executed Gellar's command.

"This is the Kobayahi Maru, position Gamma Hydra, 12083 by 12015 by 12117. We have a hull breach. Losing atmosphere; does anyone read this? This is the Kobayashi Maru."

"What do the books say Number One?" Gellar asked his first officer. Commander Tariq Anwar turned to his commander and recited the requested information. The dark-skinned Arabic officer was a short plain looking man. He would see his forties in another year but his youthful looks belied his age.

"The Maru has been overdue for three weeks now. But her destination was Deneva. Why she would be at Gamma Hydra past Topaz I do not know! That would be the limit of her engines though."

"Sensors," Gellar said. Commodore Adrian Gellar was a thin but athletic man. His iron grey hair made him look much older than his 55 years.

The petty officer at the sensor station reported his findings: "Sir, I am reading a metallic mass. It would be the about the same mass as a Schneider Class freighter. It is in an asteroid field. The asteroids seem to contain a lot of heavy metals."

The petty officer caused his graphic display to be displayed on the bridge viewscreen. The crew sat on the darkened bridge and looked at the spectacle the new sensors displayed. Even at this distance the screen showed a blip, apparently the endangered ship, surrounded by several darkened objects that never seemed to be in focus. The crew intuitively grasped that these were the asteroids the chief had referred to.

"Let us move to intercept," Gellar commanded. "Number One set a course and engage at warp 2.1. Inform the rest of the ships."

Anwar did as his superior officer ordered. The commander relayed the new instructions to the ten other ships in the taskforce. The Crusader, Fearless, Victory and Firebrand were Pioneer class cruisers the same as the Pathfinder. The five Pioneers were augmented by the three destroyers Kinshasa, Bremen and Jakarta. The task force also had the company of three deuterium/tritium tankers: The Payne, St. Helens and the Comfort. After he had finished his task Tariq turned to Commodore Gellar.

"The taskforce is responding sir," Anwar stated. Then he continued in a more strident tone. "If I might suggest sir we should hold back some of the taskforce."

"Why would that be?" Gellar asked his first officer pointedly.

"If the commodore will observe," Anwar continued as he indicated the viewscreen. "This puts us warping into a group of asteroids. There could be hostile contacts hiding among the asteroids."

"What hostile contacts Number One?" Gellar asked. The commodore was clearly dubious of his first officer's notions. "We haven't had a hostile contact in ninety years. What makes you think we will now?"

"Sir, you have read the dispatches concerning missing ships," Tariq responded. "And naval tactics do not dictate assembling in a confined area like this. Besides we need only a few ships to rescue a freighter."

"I'll determine how many ships we need Mr. Anwar!" Gellar announced angrily. "And you do not have a crystal ball such that you know how many ships we will need for a rescue."

"No sir," Commander Anwar replied defensibly. "If I might be excused; we are still an hour from Gamma Hydra."

Gellar granted the request. The commodore seemed glad that Anwar was leaving the bridge. The discussion between the two officers had been quite public.


	2. Chapter 2

Taskforce 15, UES Fearless

"Incoming transmission," MSgt David Guerrero announced from his position at communications. Normally the olive-skinned southern California native occupied a gunnery position. But working for Captain Pierre 'Grizzly' Oulette carried the additional responsibilities of learning every phase of the Pioneer class cruiser's operation. That meant learning almost every job a navy officer or enlisted man was qualified for. "It is Commander Anwar. He is requesting a private with you."

The commander of the Fearless got up out of his command chair and stretched. At 183 centimeters the French-Canadian captain of the starship was thought of to be almost as broad as he was tall. At almost 40 years old Pierre 'Grizzly' Oulette had earned his nickname based on his appearance: A large menacing looking moustache complimented a thick shag of brown hair cut in the short military style. The sight of Grizzly Oulette stretching brought to the minds of some the attack posture of a polar bear. Grizz walked over to David's station's to verify the message as well as to inquire why Tariq was being so covert. The commander of the Fearless agreed to receive the rest of his friend's message in the privacy of his cabin. Oulette turned the bridge of the Fearless over to his first officer and left via a narrow companionway for his quarters.

Grizz arrived at his cabin less than a minute later. At just over 190 meters long the Fearless' crew section was in a relatively small area toward the interior of the Pioneer class cruiser. The captain's quarters were a little over 20 meters from the bridge. Oulette pulled down the surface that constituted his desk and activated the viewscreen tucked away there into the wall of the ship. The big Canadian officer punched up the bridge comm.-interlink and was soon greeted by the concerned face of his friend Commander Tariq Anwar.

"What is so damn important that I must talk to you in secret?" Oulette inquired playfully to the first officer of the Pathfinder.

"Check your buildup coils my friend," Tariq said with conviction. The buildup coils allowed the limited power from the ship's fusion reactors to be stored for rapid use by the ship's warp nacelles. It was one of the features that delineated a warship from a freighter. Without a buildup coil ships had to build sufficient speed in Einsteinian space before they could initiate a warp field.

"There is nothing wrong with the bloody things!" Grizz shot back spastically. "You know I have the engineer run routine diagnostics!"

"I know, I know," Tariq said sadly. The Egyptian commander sighed then launched into the tale of what had just transpired on the bridge of the Pathfinder. Oulette had seen the same data when the orders had been transmitted so the news, though new was not surprising to Grizzly.

"He is right Tariq," Oulette replied soberly. "We are not at war. I see your point about not deploying the entire taskforce. But Gellar may have a point as well."

"Do you think the entire taskforce is needed to rescue one freighter?" Anwar asked his friend.

"No," Oulette replied after a moment's thought. "I guess you are right. So you want me to stay back is what you are saying?"

"Exactly," Tariq answered in an agreeable tone. "You have the new sensors and Guerrero is supposed to be an ace on those things. What is wrong? If I am wrong then I look stupid and I'm in your debt."

"You mean like allowing me to date your sister?" Oulette replied mischievously.

"I would rather it didn't come to that Grizzly," Anwar said with a chuckle. "Surely you can meet a girl more to your liking in the woods of North America?"

"They are all afraid of me and most have more hair on their bodies than me!" Oulette replied humorously. Then the commander of the Fearless grew serious. "I will grant your request Tariq. You will look silly in a few hours my friend!"

"Insha'Allah my friend," Tariq answered then severed the connection.

Oulette considered his friends warning briefly then called over to the engine room. Ten minutes later Pierre notified Commodore Gellar that he had to drop out of warp due to an overheating coil. The Canadian officer returned to the bridge to see the video transmission of his ship dropping out of subspace. Grizzly spoke to Guerrero and had the sergeant back on sensors. The commander of the Fearless thought his friend was overreacting; nonetheless Grizzly ordered a general power reduction throughout the Fearless. The old trick of reducing the electromagnetic output of a vessel still held true since the days when vessel's of war started emitting radiation.

Deneva Apr 2156

She was smiling at Billy. The blonde was wearing some of the strange flowers that Deneva's soil produced in her hair—and nothing else. Billy walked over to the girl. He had seen her before; working at the colonists' general store. Right now Walters thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The sun shone down in the Deneva field with its characteristic whitish light; so different from Walter's native Kansas. Pleasing in a lot of ways disturbing in some others. The girl's name was Misty. Walters liked it because he thought it was an ancient romantic name. He had always hoped that Misty wanted him in that fashion; now he was realizing his dreams. Misty looked odd in the light of Deneva's blue white star. The light of which seemed to grow brighter. The brightening light seemed to be followed by a horrendous booming noise.

"Wake up you slime devil!" Gunnery Sergeant Vernon 'Doc' Gibbs screamed at the top of his lungs. That was especially loud considering that his mouth was only 4 centimeters from Private William Walter's ear. His platoon Gunnery sergeant had turned on the barracks light exposing Walter's sleeping platoon to a harsh glare. "What are you doing sleeping in my Corps?" Gibbs asked rhetorically. Of course, Billy thought Sgt. Gibbs lived to wake up others. "Get your maggot infested carcass on the deck and dressed! Fall out for shield drills!"

Private Walters fairly leapt from his small bunk to his locker. The United Earth Colonial Marine private put his battle dress uniform on in less than a minute. Walters was dressed to parade ground specifications. That he had done so in mere seconds no longer even occurred to the private. Such was the life of a marine attached to the Colonial Corps. Walter's, dressed at last ran out of the door to the parade ground. His platoon quickly formed into a line formation. Sgt. Gibbs walked up and down in front of them checking their uniform and weapons status. As he did his inspection the gunnery sergeant also worked in comments on his low opinion of the platoon member's; ancestry, intelligence, ability and some choice comments concerning parents who were inter-related.

The inspection lasted until Lt. Amardeep Singh ran out of the headquarters building. The entire base sat under a metal dome. The metal walls, when polarized could provide defense against laser and radiation weapons. This was the signal Walters was familiar with. The lieutenant would run up to the formation, declare an emergency; then they would go to their bunkers to wait out the simulated attack. True to form Singh informed Gibbs of the situation which caused an immediate reaction from Gunney Gibbs.

"This is an attack!" Gibbs bellowed at the group of marines. "Get your lazy no account butts to your action stations. Get the dome plating polarized and get into your bunkers!" Gibbs started to literally chase the slower members of the group. The gunnery sergeant was barking orders at them like a vicious dog: "Move, move move! We don't have all goddamned day! This isn't your goddamned prom and I'm not your date—get moving!"

Billy got into his armored shelter, or coffin as the marines referred to the small armored compartment. He was surprised to see Corporal April Martinez sitting opposite him. Each small chamber, no more than 3 meters by 2 meters with barely enough room for a short man to stand erect was built for two marines. The marines would wait out an attack then emerge ready to fight. Walters checked the final readings per his training then dogged the heavy metal hatch closed. He sat down and took a deep breath.

"About time you got here Sluggo!" Martinez chided him. Sluggo had become Walter's less than complimentary nickname among the members of his platoon.

"Good thing this is a simulation, your ass woulda been fried."

"Okay, okay," Walters replied. "I'm here. If I climbed in this hole any faster Gunney would just set that as the new baseline. We gotta move slower next time."

"No one moves slower than you," Martizez replied. She was about to continue when the tiny control panel that regulated the survival capsule's environmental systems erupted in a shower of sparks. Both marines jumped up to check the damage.

"What the hell did you do Sluggo?" The corporal asked Walters angrily.

"Nothing, I sealed us according to the manual!" Walters protested. Both of the marines were examining the panel. It was still hot and there was evidence of melting electrical components. The two looked at each other wondering what to do when the ground shook nearly knocking the pair off of their feet. The single loudspeaker in the chamber rang out with the clear tones of Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs:

"This is it platoon! We are in the shit! Deneva is under attack by a group of hostile unknowns—this is no drill! The surface has been irradiated by what we think are enhanced neutron bombs. Get your NBC gear on and get the hell out of shelter!"

NBC gear meant that the marine platoon would be in full protective gear against nuclear, chemical and biological attacks. Walters sighed inwardly. The temperature on the surface was in the upper twenties. That would make the cumbersome NBC protection suits even harder to bear. Walters got up as he saw Martinez already grabbing her gear out of a storage locker.

Soon both marines faced each other checking the fit of the other's gear. Both of them looked like a cross between an ancient knight and a gargoyle in their breathing masks and battle armor. Martinez cinched up Walter's flak jacket. The torso covering still had that ancient name referring to anti-aircraft gun discharges. Martinez checked in on the platoon's common communication circuit. Walter's checked in as he had done in so many drills before. Was this another drill he wondered? The marines checked the external readings before exiting the capsule. Walter's shivered at what he saw. The radiation level was high enough to kill an unprotected in less than a minute. Their commanders had never rigged the readings on the external detectors in any of the other drills.

Walter's undogged the hatch. An uncharacteristic light showed in the dome. The reason became apparent as the pair ran to form up with the rest of the platoon: One-quarter of the dome was gone. Torn smoking metal lay under the ruin of the blasted piece of the dome. The lieutenant instructed the platoon to form into a skirmish line and make their way into the small colonial town to repel any attackers.

"What happened sir?" A marine asked over the commlink. "How could this happen? Maybe a ship blew up. We ain't fighting nobody; I mean no one even declared war."

"Shutup Carson!" Gibbs exclaimed.

"We have to face the fact that we could be dealing with a species with an entirely different values system." Lt. Singh said breaking into the commlink. "If we hadn't been having a drill when they hit you would all be dead. The radiation levels are too high to tell what is going on but we had radar on ships heading for the settlement. That seems the most likely place for an invading force to set up. Depending on the size of the force we either counter-attack or…" The lieutenant trailed off into silence for a moment. Then he continued in a grim voice. "Or we return and two of us will try to take the Armadillo off-planet and report what has happened."

The Armadillo was one of the small Minotaur class craft that the Marines had been budgeted for. The two-man thirty meter long ship had a disposable matter/anti-matter packet that powered its warp engine. The ship also boasted a small fusion reactor made the ship highly maneuverable on impulse power. Two Teledyne I pulse lasers rested in the nose of the craft. Marine generals had commented that the craft would make an effective fighter ship. It was thought by many in the Corps and the upper echelons of the Navy that that particular comment was what had led to the cancellation of the Minotaur program. Politicians were more than willing to spend taxpayer's money in their districts on Earth but the military had become a secondary consideration since the decades' long peace. But a few of the hearty craft had nonetheless made it to the field. Those few being used by the marines and navy saw primary duty as search and rescue vehicles.

Great, Walters thought as the platoon made its way out of the dome and onto the surface of Deneva; he would doubtless be one of those left behind. Billy had joined the Marines with the idea of getting pilot training. Walters groused internally that he had received training on the Minotaur. The young marine had to admit it was his own foot-dragging that has caused him not to become fully flight qualified. Walter's had pleaded sick so that he could go into the settlement and look at Misty Johannsen during his last opportunity to become warp qualified. Gibbs had cast a weather eye at Billy but had excused the marine from training for that day. There was no time to learn now Billy thought bitterly as his boots made a crunching noise on the dead grass.

One of the troopers had asked about riding into the settlement. This had drawn a hostile reply from Sergeant Gibbs. The Gunney went on to explain that the radiation had burned out the electronic systems on their vehicles. That and most likely this enemy would have ground radar to see oncoming land vehicles. The platoon sergeant had concluded by telling the marine that his fool action would most likely get them all killed at once.

Deneva was a Minshara class world. That word was a Vulcan word that designated terran type worlds. When man had first reached for the stars they had accepted as much advice from the Vulcans as those somber beings were willing to give. Early human starfarers had adopted the Vulcan language planetary classification system. Most spacers now merely said M-class. Humanity always seemed to be able to translate the most majestic concepts into a verbal shorthand.

Normally the two continents of Deneva that man had settled were a lush forested land. But rather than the odd greens and blues perceived by human vision because of the blue-white star's ultra-violet radiation the landscape had a brownish cast, much like an old sepia tone photograph. As Billy pushed past a bush he noted with horror how its branches and leaves withered to dust upon his touch; just like a leaf consumed by fire. Walters looked behind him to see that he was leaving a trail from his walk through the dead plant matter. None of the planet's native birds or insects were in evidence either. The marines had been walking for over half an hour now. The lieutenant and the sergeant had led them through the lifeless forest instead of along the vehicle road that ran from the small marine base to the settlement. The platoon was strung out in a line with at least thirty meters between each marine. Billy walked up a small rise; emerged through some radiation drenched vegetation and stopped. The marine threw himself onto the ground.

Billy was glad that training had kicked in as the strange aircraft went roaring overhead. The settlement set in the bottom of a small bowl-shaped depression. There was life in the settlement but it was not that of the colonists. Armored bipedal figures scurried out of what had to be some sort of shuttlecraft. Some of the craft were large and boxy; that implied to Walters that they must be transports. The armored aliens marching down the ramp of these ships seemed to confirm Walter's suspicions. The other craft were more dangerous looking: These were obviously warplanes of some sort. Each of these ships had large wings and a drooping nose that gave the impression of a large metal bird. Pods hanging on the lower wings had a variety of devices attached to them. None of them Billy thought looked like devices to be used for peaceful exploration. Walter's watched as one of the warplanes took off and quickly accelerated over where he was observing the former human settlement. Billy noted a garish looking bird painted on the bottom of the craft as it thundered overhead and skyward.

"Okay that is enough," Gibbs said over the combat network. "Looks like there is nothing left to defend. We need to head bac--."

That was the last time Private Billy Walters ever heard Doc Gibb's voice. There were muffled exclamations over the net. Then someone screamed over the radio. The screaming went on and on for what seemed indefinitely. Billy wanted the sound to stop like he had never wanted anything so badly in his life. Yet he felt a twinge of guilt knowing that most likely one of his comrades lay wounded somewhere. Walter's looked about in confusion. Another marine was scurrying toward his position. Judging by the person's size it could be Cpl. April Martinez or Lieutenant Singh. Whoever it was their entire body exploded in a huge expulsion of red blood. Billy caught sight of some of the armored invaders coming out of the undergrowth beneath his position. The private pointed his Beretta Mark XI at the group. His first squeeze of the trigger locked the targets into the gun's sighting system. The second squeeze let loose a stream of 9.9mm explosive ordinance in the direction of the enemy.

Billy took off running. The screams of his unknown wounded companion faded to nothing. He briefly heard someone—unmasked Walter's realized in horror; he could tell from the sound of the person's voice as they begged for their life. Then he heard a moist explosion for a brief second. Walters plunged through the undergrowth with his right arm out behind him firing away with the Beretta. Walters looked up in time to see Stuart Carson. The Marine was bent limping through the forest. Billy looked briefly at Stu's wounded leg—and almost threw up. How the marine was walking on what was left of the bloodied limb Billy couldn't even begin to guess. Walters was going to help his fellow marine when Stuart Carson's torso separated from the rest of his body. The dead marine's legs walked two more steps before crumbling into a heap.

Walters was running as fast as he could. His lungs burned as he tried to take in air through the mask's restrictive filter system. Billy stopped briefly to catch his breath. The marine looked behind him as he tumbled to the ground to rest; just a second he thought. Walters hit his reserve oxygen system sending a short burst of fresh oxygen into his mask along with the filtered air of Deneva. The burst of fresh air seemed to clear his head. As Walter's vision cleared somewhat he looked up to see one of the armored aliens burst out of the dead forest. The being leveled its weapon at Billy. Billy brought the Berretta up and fired at full automatic. Walters finally noticed as the gun barked one last time—out of ammunition. He looked to where his potential executioner had been only to see a heap of something on the ground. Billy got up and lunged for the dome.

The marine base was in sight. Billy was sure everything from their arrival at the settlement to his return to the base had taken less then a minute; so hyped up on adrenaline he was. Billy headed to the Minotaur's launching area. He hoped he was not the only one. The marine turned the corner in front of the small building where launch operations were carried out. He tripped and fell into a heap of garbage that someone had left on the walk way. Billy thought angrily that the area was usually policed for trash. Then he realized sickly that he had fallen into the remains of April Martinez. Billy could see the half of her face that remained. Walter's had once went hunting with his father. Father and son had come upon the carcass of a deer that had been wounded by some other hunter perhaps. Wild dogs had been chewing on the fresh body. That is what Billy thought of when he looked at April's remains. It was too much.

Walter's mask filled with vomit. Billy had no choice but to lift the protective mask off of his face. The private spewed forth the remaining contents of his stomach then heaved in great amounts of the poisonous air of Deneva. He heard a sound like the wind and somehow realized another of those wicked looking aircraft was in the air. The marine sprinted for the Minotaur's launch silo. He opened the old style hinged door just in time: Half of the metal door was severed midway down its length in a shower of sparks and molten metal. He descended into the launch bay and got to the small marine craft. The entrance hatch was shut. Billy shuddered inwardly as the thought occurred to him that he was the only one of his platoon left. He called out on his headset for any survivors. Silence answered his desperate call.

Walter's entered the small ship. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind the marine realized he was breathing in poison. Walters hoped that hyronaline was all that it was made out to be. Walters sat himself in the pilot's seat. Billy had been checked off in atmospheric and orbital operations. He initiated the launch sequence. Billy knew he was skipping steps but he had to get out of here. Walters tripped the navigational shielding to the on position. That was stupid he thought, that was not needed for atmospheric operations. Then Walters thought how lucky he was when a calm mechanical female voice informed him that radiation levels were dangerously high. Billy checked the threat warning system. It looked like their enemies had exploded another neutron bomb over his position. Had the Minotaur been unshielded—Walters trembled as he thought about that outcome. Billy opened the launch bay doors. The marine hit the primary impulse causing the small metal tubular craft to launch out of its protective berth.

The miniature search and rescue/starship climbed out on the 45 degree angle in had been parked at. Billy was punching buttons on the warp computer frantically trying to remember his warp flights with those who were qualified in faster-than-light operations. The small ship rocked; Walters surmised that the shaking was from weapons fire. The marine had felt nothing like that in any of his other flights or simulations. Finally a set of coordinates showed on the navigation computer. According the ship's electronic brains the Minotaur had enough power in its matter/anti-matter packet to make the destination. Walters accepted the coordinates then waited. The marine new he couldn't engage the star drive while the ship was this deep in a gravity well. Walters looked at the viewscreens showing him the surrounding space.

He was surrounded by greenish ships of many kinds. Walters surmised that he must have flown into a formation of the invaders. The marine was surprised that he was still alive; then the words of Lt. Singh came back to him. The Minotaur was too close for them to shoot at without them risking shooting at themselves. Billy realized the cover would not last for long. Walter's checked the warp critical display. The shifting graph showed an increasing line that represented the tiny Minotaur's speed displayed along with a shifting sine wave looking line that represented prime warp entry; a third line was a gradually curving line that grew smoother as the ship climbed further out of Deneva's gravity.

Walters couldn't believe it; according to the little ship's radar he was out of the group of hostile newcomers. He was still alive. Walter's looked at the unknown traffic being displayed by the radar. There was the answer; that was why he was still alive. The IFF system showed the green numerals of friendly contacts. Somehow maybe some ships had survived; if not on the continent Billy had been assigned to then perhaps the other settlement an ocean away. These invaders had other things to take care of so perhaps that had spared Billy. An alarm sounded over Billy's headset. The curves were at optimal position. Walter's engaged the Minotaur's small warp drive. The marine spaceship was enroute to the nearest Earth outpost in range—Station Salem One.

Earth Saint Louis, Missouri, Apr 2156

"Ain't this grand!" Trip tucker exclaimed to his commanding officer. The navy lieutenant made a sweeping gesture around the suite that the Boeing-Teledyne Corporation had provided to the two officers. As much as exploration was in the blood of the starfarers being back home on Earth was always a treat.

"I don't know about you Maj," Tucker said humorously. "But I cain't get over bein' in a bedroom bigger than a lot of ships I've been on! And the room service was great! If I stayed here for a week I'd gain 10 kilos easy."

"Don't let it get to your head Trip," Major Jonathan Archer chided his friend. "This is the sales pitch from Brack's people. You can bet your ass that is what this is about; now that X has been officially shutdown."

The project the officers had been assigned too had indeed been officially terminated two weeks earlier. Archer's advanced starship was in all likelihood waiting to be scrapped. The ship's skeleton would probably be part of an ore freighter by next year. Archer had not taken the news well. The officers along with the military technicians and MIG-Bell contractors had left Hangar 51 amid a general feeling of betrayal. No one who had been assigned to the secret installation on Ganymede was happy to leave. The staff, construction gang and the contractors had all adopted an abiding faith in the success of X. Now their dreams were gone; like those of a man hastily awoken from a pleasant slumber.

The two men's banter was interrupted by the door chime. Archer got up from the suite's table and went to the ornate double doors and opened them up. The major was most surprised when a dour looking man and woman in elegant black suits greeted him. They appraised Archer coolly. The pair also did a thorough job of examining the suite from where they stood. Archer was about to ask what the hell was going on when another individual joined the group of the door. Archer's jaw almost hit the floor then he snapped to immediate attention and made sure that Trip did too.

"It is good to meet you in person Major Archer," President Christophur Thorpe proclaimed as he stuck out his hand to Archer. "And you too Lt. Tucker. The future belongs to men such as you." Thorpe stopped and chuckled out loud as his security contingent swept the rooms. "There—still too much of the politician in me!" The president introduced another man as he entered the room. Archer recognized this person as well. "Major you know Mr. Micah Brack but I believe Lt. Tucker does not?"

"Everyone star ship and powerplant engineer knows Mister Brack's work sir," Tucker said happily as he crossed the room to shake the president's hand. He then went to Brack who it seemed, Trip was much more of awe in than the president of the United Earth government. "It is so good to meet you sir! I've read through the all the articles you ever published in engineering journals!" Trip said as he pumped Brack's hand.

Archer was a little surprised at the industrialist's appearance. It was exactly as he recalled the man from his memories of meeting Brack with his father. Brack still had the same compact athletic physique and iron gray hair that Archer remembered. Brack noticed Archer's appraising gaze as he broke the handshake with Trip.

"I remember you too Major Archer," Brack said. "You didn't marry that lovely olive-skinned girl from Barstow did you?"

"Uh no sir I'm afraid the marriage ship passed me by." Archer replied.

"Ah well there is time for that," Brack replied with a distant look in his eye. "You should make time for someone else in your life. But I'm not here to advise you on your love life major—and as far as my appearance goes; vitamins do work wonders as does plastic surgery. Begrudge an old man his vanity sir?"

"I know this must seem strange to you major, lieutenant," President Thorpe interjected. "After all I am the enemy as far as you are concerned major?"

Archer fell silent. Yes, the Air Force officer had been openly vocal; as vocal as a military officer could be, of the government's military budget. The president as titular head of that government had borne much of Archer's criticism. Now here Archer was face-to-face with his apparent nemesis.

"Mr. President," Archer began clumsily. He was interrupted when the president spoke up:

"Forget it about major," Thorpe said, and then turned to his protective staff: "You two may go. If I'm not safe with two of our military officers where would I be safe." Worded as a question it was a statement. The two guards departed grudgingly.

"Let's all be seated," Thorpe said invitingly. When everyone but the president had found a seat Thorpe, launched into his statement:

"While it is true that I've never been in the military I do appreciate the job of the military. It is for that reason that I allowed X to be cancelled—as far as was publicly known. What you may not realize gentleman—although I know Micah knows it; is that there has been an enormous effort to do away with our armed forces. The Earth Council in league with some of the companies that are receiving taxpayer money would like nothing better than to see the military dismantled in favor of a mercantile fleet."

"Why tell us all of this?" Trip Tucker asked flatly.

"Because we need a viable military," Thorpe replied grimly. "You've heard about the ships disappearing in sectors 12 and 13?"

Both officers nodded Archer chimed in: "I thought that the disappearances were confined to sector 13?"

"We have gotten reports of missing ships from sector 12 this month," Thorpe said sadly. The United Earth President continued. "You two have the highest clearances—almost. What I am about to tell you is beyond Top Secret. The installation on Ganymede is named Hangar 51, you of course no the history of that particular numbered area?"

"You mean that," Trip Tucker answered; "That UO thing?"

"UFO," Thorpe replied. "And yes, Hangar 51 was given its name in homage to the old Area 51 out in the Nevada desert—not far from here as a matter of fact. I know you've heard the stories. Funny aren't they? But in the most incredible stories there lurks a grain of truth."

"Now wait a minute," Jonathan Archer said. "You expect us to believe that an alien ship landed on Earth in the 20th century?"

"Yes I do major," Thorpe deadpanned. "In 1947 a ship from a race called Ferengis landed outside of the United States Army Air Force base near Roswell, New Mexico."

Archer and Tucker looked at the president as if the man had just winked at them with a third eye. Their disbelief was apparent. But it was obvious the president had the floor. The executive continued:

"It has been a closely kept secret. I will tell you that the Americans of that time got very little technology from the ship. What was found out; or at least hinted at was that Earth would become part of some greater stellar organization. The point is gentleman; we know there are more races out there. There was no hint on when we would become part of this…alliance. But since there are more aliens out there we can't assume just because the Vulcans, Denobulans, Andorians and Tellarites are friendly that every race we encounter will follow suit. We need a strong fighting navy. Earth needs an exploratory force. Earth needs the X—the alliance needs the X."

Archer and Tucker were aware of the president's failed overtures for a multi-planetary alliance. The news of the Ferengi's visit to ancient earth made the reason for Thorpe's candor in his diplomatic adventures apparent. With the news of the landing of aliens on old earth still sinking in a question occurred to Archer:

"But with all do respect sir, your alliance idea failed. I'm not sure where you are going with all of this."

"Do either of you know the names Vanor or Mavik Dis?" This time Micah Brack chimed in the conversation.

"Vanor," Trip replied quickly. "You mean the Andorian engineer Vanor?"

"The same," Brack declared agreeably. "Mavik Dis is his Tellarite counterpart—your counterpart lieutenant." Brack said indicating Trip. "Through the efforts of the president, Andor and Tellar are lending us their top engineers—and other resources."

"My term of office is almost over gentleman," Thorpe added. "I won't see the alliance. But it is my fervent hope that from the seeds of a joint effort to build a new class of starship that a melding of the races will take place. When our people, and the Andorians and Tellarites find out what was accomplished—together; then I hope then that will be the start of the alliance."

"So this is a secret venture," Archer declared. The major had listened to the president's words. They left only one conclusion: Whatever was going on here was to be cloaked under the cover of secrecy.

"You see very well major," The president replied ruefully. "Have you ever considered a career in politics?" Thorpe continued in a more serious manner. "Yes, if you accept, you Major Archer and you Lieutenant Tucker will in one week receive orders to different assignments. Officially you will be going to those places; unofficially you will return to Hangar 51 where you oversee a team of humans and aliens. Mr. Brack here is providing the industrial help that you will need."

"And we will report to," Archer left the question open-ended.

"My office through secure channels," Thorpe replied. "Do not speak with any of the admiralty."

"What about the Vulcans?" Archer asked sourly. The Air Force officer thought he knew the answer already.

"Our logical friends are not interested in helping us." The United Earth President replied. "You know their directives on the sharing of technology."

"I sure as hell do!" Archer exclaimed. The major was about to say more when he felt his friend Trip's warning grasp on his arm.

Archer looked at Tucker. Both men had that unspoken connection that said that they were of one mind. Trip nodded to his superior officer and friend. Archer took a deep breath:

"We'll do whatever we can for you Mr. President."

Task Force 15 Gamma Hydra UES Pathfinder Apr 2156

"Nearing the coordinates of the freighter sir," The CPO said from his position at radar. "Returns are scrambled all over the place with all these asteroids around us. There is also a good bit of debris—probably asteroidal material. But it is playing hell with the radar."

Another technician manning the new sensors had much the same news. The one exception seemed to be that the sensors were not getting a good return on the freighter. The officer remarked casually that it was almost like it wasn't there.

"Commodore, if I may order a call to general quarters?" Tariq Anwar said from his position at the first officer's panel. Commodore Adrian Gellar nodded to his number one. Warning klaxons sounded throughout the Pioneer class cruiser.

"Sensors do you have better resolution on the Maru?" Gellar asked bluntly.

"No sir," The NCO's voice rose in pitch and volume. "Sir, it isn't there! Wait…I'm reading multiple contacts."

"Can we see them?" Gellar asked.

"Sir we need to get a targeting solution on these bogies!" Anwar exclaimed.

"And start an interstellar war?" Gellar replied bitterly.

Anwar had heard enough: "Sir, the freighter we were sent to rescue suddenly vanishes and now we have multiple inbound contacts!" The first officer of the Pathfinder turned his attention to the gunnery officer. "Prescott, get a firing solution on these unknowns; uncap the safeties on the Narwhals and power up the laser turrets."

The Narwhal antiship missile was a high velocity ship-to-ship missile that mounted one 50 kiloton enhanced fusion warhead. The missile could obtain one-quarter light speed in under 5 seconds. It was the missile's high velocity that gave the device its lethal punch. In the five years since its installation on Stellar Navy ships it had only been fired at drones. The missile had a hundred percent kill ratio against those, of course.

"Sir," The NCO at the sensor console yelled out in alarm. "They are firing something!"

The video display on the viewscreen showed the majestic sight of the Kinshasa and one of their sister ships: The Victory. The bridge crew watched in horror as a white beam struck both vessels cutting the Stellar Navy ships in half. The spinning fragments of the starships had a shorter life as the powerplant of the Kinshasa exploded into a glowing ball of nuclear fire. The bridge crew of the Pathfinder had only seconds to consider the fact that the enemy beam had been visible. The light from lasers was invisible in the vacuum of space. The gunnery crews had managed to obtain a firing solution. The Crusader and the Comfort both fell to the unknown beam weapon of the hostiles in the meantime. The Jakarta and Bremen narrowly avoided being destroyed.

"Evasive action!" Gellar ordered. "Number One fire the Narwhals! Target the closest attacker with both laser turrets and fire at will! Order the fleet to engage and fire."

Anwar had already given those orders. The commander of the Pathfinder lamented that it might be too late as the St. Helens blew apart in a spectacular explosive display. Tariq looked at the viewscreen as one of the attackers came into focus. A large green ship that looked like an inverted bowl on stilts faded in and out of focus. Anwar thought there was some sort of marking on the craft. Tactical said there were eleven such craft confronting them. The Egyptian watched the tactical display as the Narwhals headed for their targets. Two of the bowls ships were disintegrated by the nuclear missiles. The rest of the missiles seemed to be exploding short of their targets.

"It is like they are throwing some kind of stuff out at the missiles!" The nervous sensor operator exclaimed. "Christ it reads as really dense—neutronium maybe."

Anwar briefly remembered reading an article about the use of neutronium pellets to defeat inbound missiles. His revelries were interrupted when the Pathfinder's artificial gravity lost hold. The lights went out; the only illumination besides the emergency lights was provided by the shower of sparks and flames erupting out of control panels. The Pathfinder had been hit. The first officer turned to the commodore.

"Sir, I suggest we withdraw! We are over matched here. We are down to six vessels and two of those are tankers."

The reports were rolling in. Some of the taskforce might escape but the Pathfinder would not. Anwar's ship had been hulled near the tail section. The fusion reactor was shutdown lest it overheat. The build up coils for the warp drive were destroyed. The Pathfinder's first officer realized that his ship would go no where without a miracle from Allah. Another of the bowl ships was destroyed. But so was the Paine and Jakarta.

"Number One," Adrian Gellar said distractedly. "Give the order…get…get us out of here."

"I am afraid it is too late for that sir," Anwar informed his superior. The Egyptian watched as the threat warning system showed inbound high speed contacts—missiles.

United Earth Stellar Navy Ship Fearless, near Gamma Hydra Apr 2156

Grizzly Oulette crossed himself in the ancient way. The sensor readings were horrible. His friend Anwar's worst fears had been confirmed. Oulette watched the graphic displayed on the viewscreen less than 3 meters from where he sat. Ship after ship of Gellar's taskforce vanished with only a momentary surge in energy readings marking the locations of the UE ships as they exploded. A subspace distress call came over the speakers. It was the last word anyone would ever hear from those ships that had been part of Taskforce 15.

"Tabernac," Oulette muttered under his breath. "Is there any possibility that they can see us Leonard?"

Leonard Zimmermann was a medium thinly built American navy officer. The commander was one of those unfortunate people to whom baldness had come too early. At only thirty-three Zimmermann's black hair was mostly gone.

"Guerrero," Zimmermann inquired of the sensor operator. "What do you think?"

"I'm still running these readings through the computer," The southern Californian native replied. "I think, based on what the spectra showed that those guys are using some kind of subspace radar like ours. I'm not showing any interference like we get from another subspace scanning rig."

"What about that weapon?" Oulette asked the sergeant directly. The commander of the Fearless was referring to the visible beam weapon the unknown hostiles had used.

"The computer is running an analysis," Guerrero answered. "But it's just me, but that sure as hell read like plasma; like the expulsion of a solar flare. Only that stuff was moving at .99c."

"How do we fight something like that?" Zimmermann said thinking aloud.

"The only thing good—maybe," Guerrero added; "Is that they didn't fire that thing till they got within 4000 meters. And they mostly fired just once then there was a three minute pause; also the power curve was dropping off just before it hit—like it has a range."

Oulette sat grief stricken for a moment. He recalled his friend Anwar among others from the taskforce that was no more. But Oulette knew that there was no time for grief; the commander of the last surviving ship of Taskforce 15 came to an abrupt decision.

"Len," Pierre said to his first officer. "Set a course for Station Salem One. Engage at warp 2.4 for one hour." Oulette was ordering the maximum warp speed for his 1100 man cruiser; "Then inquire of the engineer what our best fuel consumption curve is and slow to that speed."

"Sgt. Guerrero, I know it is past time for your duty tour to end; but I need your experience on the sensors. Perform a max scan behind us. Make sure we are not being followed Dave."

Talhava, Capital City of Andor, The Season of Thaw, Earth time Apr 2156

Rastan looked out over the gleaming landscape. The sun was setting causing the icebergs to light up like they were on fire. Light reflected in odd and beautiful patterns off of the melted water that gathered into pools beneath the bergs. The venting steam from Andor's many geothermal power plants broke the rays of the setting sun into a cascading rainbow of colors. It was against this horizon that Rastan, Shahar of the Andorian people stood peering out over the landscape.

At well over 150 Earth years old the Andorian leader was at the twilight of his life. But despite his age Rastan stood tall and straight. The Shahar had been selected from Andor's military. Rastan had maintained the physique of a Guardsman's as well as he could. That appeared to be successful as the symbolic head of the Andorian people stood at just under 196 centimeters while massing over 122 kilograms. The ruler of Andor had a long thick mane of white hair. Rastan drew his cloak tighter about him as an evening wind blew across the surface. His antennae perked up as the gigantic ornate poly-crystalline doors opened onto the balcony.

"Shran," Rastan declared with his back still turned away from the individual who had come out in the cold to join him. "I thought that I would be seeing you."

"Shahar," Shran said in greeting as his leader turned to the ambassador. Shran had his hands out to his sides, palms outward; his antennae were dipped to their lowest position. It was the traditional greeting when an Andorian greeted their Shahar. Rastan dipped his head in acknowledgment of Shran's humility.

"I expected you," Rastan said quietly. "I can even guess upon the nature of your calling—the humans." When Shran dipped his antennae in agreement the Shahar continued with a sigh. "I cannot go before the Caldonè with what you and Thorpe seek." When he saw Shran's look of disappointment Rastan continued:

"Look out at the sky," The Shahar said making a sweeping gesture of the night sky. The curtain of black night with its accompanying swath of stars was descending onto the Andorian horizon. "How long can we stand against that and not fail to see we are one lone species in the universe among many others?" He continued:

"I can see that and so can you Shran. But many still do not. They think were we to ally ourselves that deeply with the humans then we would stop being Andorians. But how could that be? We could never lose the warming fires of our souls. We would always be Andorians—Andorians who are part of a greater unity. I support your gesture Shran. No one feels as passionately towards the humans as I do."

The Shahar was a childless ruler. His older son had been a member of the Imperial Guard. Caszak's ship had been on a routine training mission when a malfunctioning warp nacelle had caused large areas of the Andorian military ship to become lethally irradiated. A passing United Earth Stellar Navy cruiser had picked up his son's ship's distress beacon. The humans had boarded the Andorian cruiser; they had rescued well over half of the survivors at the cost of twenty dead humans. The humans had searched every corridor of the Cehavla incurring lethal doses of radiation in the process. The Shahar's son had not been among the survivors. But Rastan never forgot the courage of the rescuers.

"I know they are not all a good and noble people," Rastan continued. "But neither are we. One need only spend an hour in the Caldonè to see the dregs of our society. I don't know Shran, were it a choice between a politician and an ice worm…"

"I would choose the worm," Shran replied with a chuckle.

The Shahar laughed as well: "As would I Shran. One day we may throw off this sense of self importance. But it is not today. I could not move the Caldonè unless there was some sort of reason."

"Ships are disappearing," Shran declared; "The humans mostly but some of ours as well. Have you spoken to the Vulcans?"

"They of course know nothing," Rastan declared bitterly. "It almost makes me wish the humans had not brokered a peace between us. How ironic that we of a frigid planet have such warm hearts and those from the desert possess hearts colder than the ice of our poles."

"Christophur's people have had the same results with the pointies." Shran said.

"I have endorsed a military exchange program between the 2nd Guardsmen and the Stellar Navy's Taskforce 12." Rastan said in an apparent change of subject. The import of his emperor's words were not lost on Shran.

"Would this combined force perhaps be going to the area of space the humans identify as sector 12?" Shran asked slyly.

"It would indeed," Rastan exclaimed. "Perhaps I was premature in removing you from the Guard Ambassador!"

"I serve our people in whatever capacity I may," Shran declared in a serious tone.

"Too few of us do these days," Rastan said with conviction; "If there is anything else Ambassador Shran?"

When Shran replied in the negative the two Andorians bid each other a good evening. Shran left the emperor of his world as he had found him: Looking out over the balcony of the Imperial Palace. The frigid wind picked up in speed giving a bitter bite to exposed flesh. Rastan thought that it was unusually cold for the Season of the Thaw. The ruler of Andor wondered if that signified the coming of a stormy year to the continent.

Earth Station Salem One, Apr 2156

"Well, well," Commander Sharon Sileski declared humorously from behind her desk. "Are we having another indoor soccer match Arkady?"

"This is the required duty uniform Comrade Commander," Captain Luchenko said in a detached manner. "So it has been told to me by Satan."

The 35 year old commander was the Director of Operations for Salem One. The short browned haired American Army officer was often chided for her diminutive size. Unfortunately the small size did not follow through on her more than ample hips, despite numerous trips to the gym. Her laughter at the station's Deputy Commander died on her lips.

"I've been reading the directives." Sharon said morosely. "Christ, I can't even remember if I packed mine—gold right?" The DO ran her fingers through her short hair. "I keep thinking the supply noncom gave me a red one; guess that makes me dead as far as our new commander is concerned?"

"There is a stock of them on hand." Luchenko replied helpfully. "Are you going to wear the skirt combination—I rather like that!"

"Then why don't you wear one Captain?" Sileski retorted.

Alright, alright comrade," Luchenko said. "And please forget my Satan comment. That was unprofessional." The captain changed the subject and continued: "I was interested in who is going out to Gilligan's Island?"

The Deputy Commander of Salem One was referring to the station's sensor pod. The Navy budget hadn't allowed for integrating the new subspace sensors into the station's system so in lieu of that they had converted an old way station capsule for the installation of the sensor. That also allowed the new technology to be employed at its maximum capacity. The small capsule had no artificial gravity and barely enough room for its two man crew. Teams were sent out for five day rotations in the sensor pod. It had earned its nickname when an American officer who had seen a particular Broadway show before being assigned to Salem One was humming a tune about a three hour cruise. Three hours being the time it took a shuttle to make a one-way trip to the pod. The nickname had caught on and stuck.

Sileski brought the duty roster up on her computer terminal. One of her duties as Director of Operations was to ensure that the various duty positions were manned on a day-to-day basis. She perused her lists until she found what she was looking for:

"It looks like Lieutenant j.g. Hudson, and Ser— excuse me—guess we are using these fleet ranks; Petty Officer Subtrahama. They are next up on the duty roster Captain."

"Wait a minute!" Captain Luchenko exclaimed. There was suspicion in his voice. "Those are two new people are they not? What about—ah, Mr. Kobayashi and his partner Sergeant Custis?"

Luchenko had a feeling where these two particular men were involved something was as the British would say, afoot. Sharon ran through her records and it did appear that somehow the two crewmen in question had moved further down the duty roster. It did not surprise Luchenko. The Russian captain had a feeling that those two would go far; unless they were hung first. But Arkady had no desire to see two new people's introduction to their station being a five day stay at Gilligan's Island. He could imagine the conversation already. 'I hope you gentlemen are familiar with zero-gee toilet operations?'

"I'll inform the lieutenant and his friend about the duty change myself commander," Luchenko said adding a twisted laugh. "I'm sorry Sharon but Petty Officer Custis will not be able to make Friday's dance; moot now since our commander has cancelled that event."

Sharon's face turned beet red. "You know me and Peter aren't…" The Director of Operations seemed to be struggling for words. "That would compromise the chain of command!"

"дерьmо!" Arkady cursed in his native Russian. "Look Sharon I know you are an American—loosen up! There is life out of a uniform. Sure you two are an item. The crew has nothing else to talk about out here but the romances of others!"

Luchenko knew the American officer was embarrassed. The Russian couldn't for the life of him understand the rank structure of the supposed egalitarian Americans. Thank God he was Russian Luchenko thought. He took his leave of his DO after ensuring she made the necessary notations into the duty roster.

Sensor Pod 1, 50 Trillion kilometers from Station Salem One, nickname: Gilligan's Island Apr 2156

"I thought you had this sewed up sir!" Petty officer Peter Custis asked his superior officer. At 42 the tall lanky NCO was near the end of his career in the Stellar Navy. Custis was getting tired of being referred to as 'pops'; in reference to his thick pate of prematurely graying hair.

"I did," Lieutenant Genji Kobayashi answered defensively. "I had us moved down. I talked to one of your scheduling NCO buddies. He made the swap in exchange for some hooch." The short, slim oriental officer was at the door of his thirties. Hooch was the name given to liquor that was distilled in the unofficial officer's mess; otherwise known as the Auger Inn.

"I would've thought you had more pull Serge—Chief," Kobayashi replied slyly. "I mean after all you are sharing the DO's bed."

"It ain't like that sir," Peter replied without humor. "I mean maybe it started out being sex but…"

"You see," Genji replied triumphantly. "I knew some of my attributes would rub off on you. That is a very noble sentiment Pete. You would not have had that nobility had you never shared my company. I will make an officer of you yet; in my image!"

"If by that you mean being short and obnoxious," Custis answered with a grin. "No thanks sir!"

Kobayashi laughed heartily, and then became serious. "Peter, if you love her don't let her slip through your fingers. You are not getting any younger—or any better looking!"

Chief Custis was about to make a snapping retort when a reading on the sensors got his attention. The new subspace sensors were an art form unto themselves to use. Lt. Kobayashi and he were considered the station's experts on the new scanning device. Hence their mutual dislike for the repeated tours at Gilligan's Island. They had served many rotations there training others in the use of the new sensors.

"Sir, take a look at this," Custis said as he transferred the graphics onto Kobayashi's display. "It looks like a group of ships."

Genji examined the readings, stopped, went back and examined them again. The lieutenant unstrapped from his chair, fishtailed over and pushed himself over to the station's inbound roster.

"It has to be Taskforce 15," The officer said. Kobayashi's tone was one of a man trying to convince himself as well as someone else of the validity of an untruth.

"Genji," Custis replied. "I read the dispatches after Col. Luchenko rousted us for this gig. Shouldn't Taskforce 15 be coming in along this axis?" Peter caused a line to be illuminated on the viewscreen. It was offset from the group of unknowns by at least 45 degrees.

The officer seemed to be thinking for several tense minutes. Finally he seemed to have arrived at a resolution: He announced his intention to radio the station about the anomalous readings. Custis set up the link to Salem One. Things seemed to go normally until an angry Admiral Arroyo burst onto the viewscreen:

"Are you gentleman aware of the new standing orders for the use of scrambler codes for ship-to-shore ops? Why do I even ask—of course you are not. Refer to your code wafers and call back using the proper channels. Consider yourselves both on report upon your return. I will see you both—in the proper uniform."

The admiral abruptly cut the channel. Lt. Kobayashi's Japanese Defense Force fatigues and Peter Custis' US Army flight suit hadn't escaped the admiral's attention. The two men looked at each other in puzzlement and anger. Both wished they had initiated a voice only contact. But they both knew that it was too late for that. Peter floated out of his seat and went through the equipment they had signed out prior to their departure. The lieutenant had signed for the Top Secret code wafers; that was standard operations. But no one on Gilligan's Island had, to date used the code key for communications.

"Christ sir," Custis exclaimed. "These wafers are out of date!"

"Plug them into the computer anyway Pete," Kobayashi said morosely. "How much more worse can this get?"

UE Stellar Navy Bison class Beagle, near Tarod

"I hate these EVA's," Petty officer Mary Vong remarked to Lt. Jocelyn Stiles. "I hate hearing my breathing like this!"

"Would you rather not be breathing Mary?" Stiles chided her EVA partner. "Anyway we'll patch the hole in the radar emitter and get the hell back in the ship. I ain't crazy about being out in this radiation."

The Beagle was in far orbit of Tarod's sun. Stile's wondered why she was complaining about radiation. She had just finished working with the ship's armory officer replacing the modified Narwhal's warheads for sounding work. They had taken down the heavier ship-to-ship fusion warheads in exchange for a smaller yield nuclear warhead. Part of the Beagle's mission involved shooting small shielded nuclear bombs into the sun's surface in an attempt to cause a solar eruption. Some of the expelled matter then could be hopefully trapped by a specially designed probe flying close to the sun.

The two women preceded along their safety lines until they arrived at the radar emitter cone. It chilled Jocelyn's insides some when she thought that the small hole in the emitter cone had probably been caused by a meteor no larger than a sliver of her fingernail. The navigational deflectors were not always up to par. Jo-jo reflected that it was better than no shielding at all. The officer and NCO took out their tool kits and started their repairs.

"How are you getting along ma'am?" Vong asked Stiles.

"Fine this is a good ship," Stiles replied quietly. "Captain Huang seems like a good commander."

"No I mean about you and your man?" Mary asked. "It is a closed circuit ma'am—no worries there. Sorry, the Beagle is a small ship; news travels."

The Beagle had a crew of almost 200 people. Coming in at just under 250 meters the Bison was a converted commercial freighter. The UE Navy had equipped the Beagle with a single Teledyne pulse laser and 20 Narwhal anti-ship missiles with just one launch tube. A single rack of spider area defense missiles completed the ship's layout. The Beagle was carrying an additional 10 Narwhals for use as solar probes during this mission. But Mary was right: News traveled fast on a small ship like the Beagle. So it was that the majority of the crew knew about Jocelyn's impending marriage.

Stiles thought back to the couple's last day. It had been a sad time at the home of Jocelyn's parents. Everyone had of course had tried to put on a façade of happiness. That had not succeeded. The remainder of the family had made excuses to allow Stiles and David Hudson to have a little time alone before the couple went their separate ways. It had been a hard separation. David and Jocelyn had talked about how short the time would be and how quickly it would go by. But now that the time was at hand the sadness had sunk into both of them like icy fingers grabbing at their hearts.

"We have a year," Jocelyn told the NCO as they opened the cone and surveyed the damage. "David can apply for a hardship after we get married; same with me. That way he won't have to do the whole two years at Salem One."

"A year is a long time," Mary said. The pair replaced the shattered electronics and was in the process of applying the gooey repair patch to the hole. "I know it is tough. I met my first husband before I shipped out. You see what the Navy did for that marriage. Anyway number two didn't work out much better." Vong said in reference to her second husband. "I have high hopes for number three though!"

"Well we aren't making a career of it!" Stiles exclaimed indicating her and David Hudson. "I thought for a while when I was at the Zoo that I would go career; General Stiles!" This last she added with a chuckle. The Zoo was the time honored nickname given to the US Air Force Academy by its luckless graduates.

"How about your man l-t?" Vong asked spelling out Stile's rank.

"Same with him," Stiles said. "His dad is a lawyer in Virginia; he wants David to join his practice. Dave would have to go back to complete law school but with full employment that is not going to be a problem."

"Let me guess; you are just going to stay home and have babies?" Vong asked bluntly.

"Women don't have to prove themselves anymore," Jocelyn replied as the two women gathered their tools; satisfied that the repair was complete. "I suppose I could get a corporate engineering job; they are always snatchin' up the military. But yeah; staying home and having babies sounds good to me. I sort of want what my parents have."

"If you two are through getting a tan," The Beagle's first officer Commander Jan Wislicki said breaking into the command circuit. "The captain would like to see Lt. Stiles on the bridge."

Stiles was not a happy woman. Capt. Huang had so far had her working with the armory officer and then completing the repair to the ship's radar. Jocelyn was more in the mood for hot shower. She would rather it would be a bath in hot scented water but that luxury would be denied her until their return to a base. Stiles arrived on the bridge fifteen minutes after Cdmr. Wislicki had notified her. Jocelyn was a little embarrassed by her appearance. The EVA had been hot work. Her Air force flight suit was drenched with sweat. Stiles wished that she could have taken her long hair down; but that would have to wait until she was off of duty.

The Beagle's crew consisted of 196 people. But the command staff was made up of only 7 officers. Many of those on the survey wore officers' ranks but they were out of the sciences division. Those officers were considered much the same as medical officers were or chaplains had been when those holy people were assigned to military units of the past. That is to say that science division officers held a nominal rank but were not part of the command structure. Besides Captain Huang and Cmdr. Wislicki the command staff consisted of Lt. Marcus Corrigan in navigation, Ensign Terrell Owen in the armory officer position, Lt. Devon Foster in charge of the Beagle's small marine detachment, Ensign Marilyn Peaks in operations and herself. Stiles was surprised to find that through a variety of administrative errors Jocelyn was actually quite high up in the command structure.

Foster had just completed Annapolis so the Beagle was his first assignment. Owen and Peaks were both newly minted graduates of the Starfleet Academy. They suffered endless haranguing from the other officers for that. Mostly the questions pertained to their majors at the San Francisco school. The Starfleeters were often asked if they had 'taken up space' with regards to their chosen professions. The rank arrangement made Lt. Corrigan, Jocelyn's immediate superior. That was fortunate as Stiles had been assigned as the relief navigator. Her Air force Academy instructors had always remarked about her exceptional abilities to operate in a three dimensional environment. The entire arrangement made Stiles the defacto third officer of the Beagle.

Capt. Huang Yi was a short pleasant faced man in his mid forties. His black hair had been seeing streaks of gray in it during the last two years. The Chinese Space Force captain had been in command of the refitted freighter ever since its first cruise. Huang was publicly declaring his intention to retire after this mission. The oriental officer had been in the space service since his early twenties. Huang looked comfortable strapped into the captain's chair.

"Ah, lieutenant," Huang said in greeting to Jocelyn. "I'm sorry; I know you have had a long day. But if you will check the sensors I think you will see we have company."

"Yes sir," Stiles said as she moved to the abandoned sensor console. Sure enough radar showed three contacts. There was no IFF return from any of them. "Could they be Tellarites sir?" That race, although friendly with Earth was not always good about sharing shipping information.

"We have been listening in to their communications," Huang replied. "No they are not Tellarites. They are using scrambled signals; it is nothing we are familiar with."

"Could be explorers such as ourselves," Wislicki said expectantly. First contact with new species was always high on the list of Stellar Navy commanders' goals.

"I have them sir," A petty officer operating the Beagle's external video pickup exclaimed.

The three vessels were making their closest pass to Tarod's star thus far. That put the visitors less than two thousand kilometers from the Beagle. The exploratory ship's fine Zeiss telescopic lenses were able to get good imagery on the unknowns. The video feed was fed into the ship's computer and enhanced for clarity. The Beagle's bridge crew was greeted by the sight of three greenish looking ships. Pods of some sort were laid out behind the mystery ships. Almost everyone surmised that those pods must be warp nacelles. A yellow and green marking seemed to dominate one side of the ships' bowl-like crew compartment. The picture was not clear enough to see what that marking was. Man had so far encountered only humanoid type species. Stiles supposed the ships could be manned by intelligent plants. Perhaps in that case the pods were the living section and the saucer top was a drive section.

"Looks like a big cabbage," Corrigan exclaimed humorously. "I wonder if they see us in all this electromagnetic soup?"

"I'm guessing not," Huang said as he reviewed the strangers' flight path. "I think we should say hello!" The captain declared excitedly. It was apparent to everyone that a first contact would be a jewel in the crown of the captain's retirement. The crew too was anxious to learn more. It was after all the lure of discovery that had led them all out into deep space.

"Sorry again Lt. Stiles," Huang remarked. "I know you must want to hit the shower after your day. I know—did I tell you I have twelve daughters? I know about girls lieutenant." Huang asked Jocelyn with a smile on his lips. The Chinese captain also had a known propensity to exaggerate.

"Yes sir," Stiles replied in a serious tone. "You told me about your daughters during my inbrief."

"Well cleanliness will have to wait!" Huang exclaimed. Huang turned to his first officer. "Jan, contact Marquez in communications and tell him to get the liguacode online. We might be having friends over for dinner!"

Earth San Francisco, Apr 2156

"Ambassador Karzai," Thorpe said as he bowed his head to the Vulcan ambassador. Thorpe was aware of the telepathic Vulcan's disdain for random physical contact so he did not offer his hand to the ambassador.

The Vulcan was tall and nearly olive-skinned. Karzai was entering the twilight years of his people. The diplomat had just passed his 225th earth year this last summer. He was of average height and thin for a humanoid. The ambassador's face was so sharp as to appear almost hawkish. This look was accented by piercing grey eyes.

"President Thorpe," Karzai replied in his characteristically emotionless voice. Without ceremony the Vulcan diplomat made the reason for his visit clear.

"President Thorpe, we have great respect for your people. But remember that just over one of your centuries ago you had nearly annihilated one another. Now you have colonies far from Earth. We have counseled you in the past about this unprecedented expansion of yours."

"Yes Ambassador," Thorpe answered dryly. "But we have no ill will toward anybody. We have not encountered a hostile species since our trek to the stars began—unless you know of any sir?"

"We have shared our star maps and some of our linguistic database with you." Karzai replied. "We think that is enough in your stage of development; which leads me to my government's current concern: That you and the Andorians and Tellarites are sharing technology in a joint venture of some sort."

"And if we were?" Thorpe replied sharply.

"You are moving ahead too fast," Karzai replied. "Were you to be found doing this then your world could find itself without the goodwill of the Vulcan people."

"That goodwill seems to be lacking lately," Thorpe sighed. "Sir the people of Earth are in your debt for the supplies you delivered after First Contact for those stricken by radiation sickness. But beyond that; I am sorry ambassador, but beyond that man has done much of the work in saving ourselves. The knowledge that we were not alone in the universe and our own near self-destruction woke us out of a dangerous slumber."

"While that is true Mr. President we of Vulcan have stood by and advised you. We want man to join the community of the stars—but not at the pace you are following. If you are consorting with the Andorians and Tellarites we beg of you to stop. The Andorians cannot be trusted."

"Your people fought with the Andorians," Thorpe said bluntly. "We have found them to be a people much like ourselves. We worked with your race and the Andorians to bring about peace. We humans have no wish to harm or conquer others."

"Yes you humans," This last word, despite Karzai's professed lack of emotion seemed to be expressed with a distasteful sound to it. "You humans are full of good intentions. But those noble intentions are the very thing that could invite disaster. Not everyone is as desirous of peace as you claim to be President Thorpe."

"Like the people in sector 12?" This last Thorpe added quickly.

"We know of no races in sector 12 or 13," Karzai stated sharply. "We have told you that before. No doubt when you go out that far in your relatively primitive ships you invite disaster. I would not seek answers for your losses in unknown hostile races—or joint ventures with dubious partners sir."

That said the thin Vulcan bid Thorpe a good day and left. Thorpe sat back in his seat and contemplated what hadn't been said: That there could be other races out there that were hostile. That notion had been gnawing at Thorpe's mind as the losses in ships mounted. Admiral French still had no answers and today the executive's first dispatch had concerned the loss of communications with their colony on Topaz. Subspace radio repeaters were known to frequently malfunction; that was true. But added to the missing ships it made for troubling news. Thorpe again looked ahead to his retirement.

Christophur, despite a shining record of domestic improvements had not gotten the alliance he wanted. Thorpe had so wanted his legacy to include that. It was not for his own personal aggrandizement but rather that the president saw that the races were at a point where they could no longer go it alone. Even without the Ferengi's foreknowledge of the future Thorpe realized that humanity would grow stronger by melding with others. But, alas Thorpe thought it was not to be during his term; probably not during his lifetime. A federation the little Ferengi was reported to have called it.

Station Salem One, Apr 2156

"When did this message come in?" Commander Sharon Sileski asked the communications operator. The Director of Operations was clearly agitated.

"It came in two hours ago ma'am," The young enlisted woman replied. "Admiral Arroyo cut communications with Gilligan's Island because they weren't using the proper codes. When they called us back the codes they used were out of date. The admiral wanted the messages trashed but Lt. Parsons decoded them anyway."

The DO looked at the message again and again. The inbound unknowns could not belong to Taskforce 15. They were coming in on a different tangent than that force would use. And there were over three times as many ships as Taskforce 15 had. Now Lt. Kobayashi and Petty Officer Custis' last message had indicated that the inbounds were not squawking an IFF code. Sileski had no idea who these strangers were but they seemed to be trying to make a covert advance on a military station. Sharon arrived at a decision:

"Call Capt. Luchenko to ops," Sileski ordered the comm NCO. "Damnit, call the station to general quarters."

Klaxons sounded throughout station Salem One. There had not been a general quarter's drill in over two months. The station personnel made their way to their defensive positions. Sileski hoped that this would all be some sort of stupid mistake. The strange ships were now entering radar range. Thirty-two of the ships approached Salem One. The small fleet was still over 20,000 kilometers away. But they were showing no signs of slowing. They were still too far away for video.

"What the hell is going on here?" An angry Admiral Arroyo exclaimed as he entered the station's operations center. "Who ordered general quarters?" He turned his attention to Sileski. "You? Who gave you that auth--"

Sharon interrupted the admiral and explained the situation. The couple was joined by Capt. Arkady Luchenko who caught the majority of the information that his DO was passing on to the station commander. The conversation was stifled when several of the intruders cut loose with a visible white beam weapon.

The station shook as the artificial gravity tried to keep up with the impact of the beam weapons. Damage reports came pouring in: One-third of the outer ring had been destroyed.

"Target those unknowns with Narwhals!" Luchenko shouted to the gunnery officer. "Where in the hell are our point-defense batteries?"

"High speed inbounds!" A radar technician exclaimed from his station.

"Point-defense batteries manned and ready!" The gunnery officer declared from his position.

"Get our rail guns and lasers on those missiles!" Arroyo squawked in a high-pitched voice. The admiral continued in a calmer voice. "Try to raise them, we must see what their intention are."

"I think their intentions are to kill us!" Luchenko declared. "Guns, launch a spread of spiders!"

The space between the unknown ships and Salem One filled with glaring light as some of the inbound missiles were hit by the high velocity depleted uranium slugs expelled from the rail guns. The only indication of the invisible lasers' effectiveness was evidenced by enemy missiles that seemed to explode of their own volition. White beams were expelled from the ships of the approaching intruders again. The devastating fire raked across several of the station's clusters of defensive weapons this time.

Somewhere on the station someone had left an intercom switch open. The ops crew listened in horror as an unknown person screamed. The screaming went on for what seemed like an eternity until it was silenced by the final sound of an explosive decompression. Other voices calling over the station's circuit were not as panic stricken but the information they conveyed was not good.

Over half of the station's rail guns had been destroyed. The laser turrets had not fared much better. There was a little over half of the concentrated light beam weapons left. The spider missile racks had been totally destroyed. Half of the outer ring had been destroyed and the inner ring had taken severe damage. Arroyo seemed to have finally picked up his stride as the ordered a flight of Narwhals to be dispatched. The high-speed anti-ship missiles leapt out of their tubes seemed to hang motionless for a split second then accelerated away.

"The first wave of inbounds are destroyed!" The radar operator declared happily. His happiness would only last briefly though: "Oh hell…more high-speed inbounds! And…our missiles, they are exploding short—no wait, three have hit their targets!"

The video display was finally able to resolve the hostile alien ships into solid images. The ops crew looked on as three of the ships were consumed in the nuclear fire of the exploding Narwhals. The video display also showed the pinpoint track of incoming enemy missiles.

"Communications," Arkady Luchenko bellowed. "Max boost a subspace general distress; include the recordings of this attack. Do it now!"

The communications NCO had already programmed that sequence in. Her military training had taken over. It was the last message she would ever send.

"Two missiles have gotten through!" The sensor operator exclaimed.

The nuclear devices hit the station almost simultaneously. The station went up in a hellish blast of nuclear release. The station's stored fuel added to the pyre creating an intense but brief fireball in the blackness of space. The light winked out as abruptly as the energy release was complete. A few torn fragments of metal were all that marked what had been man's furthest outpost. The victorious ships stayed in the area for a few minutes after the complete destruction of the station; then their hulls elongated and vanished with a flash into subspace.

Savannah, Georgia Earth, Apr 2156

Henry Aaron Stiles was using the farm's old pickup truck for his trip into town. The old antique burned alcohol distilled from the mash of some of Henry's last corn crop. It was a mark of pride in the Stile's male side of the family that the old vehicle still ran. Last year had been a good year. Despite organics and the advent of synthetic foods people still craved garden raised vegetables. Henry thought more so now than ever since the tasteless artificials had come onto the market. Today Henry was going to the Co-op to see about buying seeds and fertilizers for this year's planting season. The old truck clattered around a corner when Henry saw something that made him stop and shut the truck off.

Normally most people looked around when they heard the noise of the 2008 Ford truck's antique internal combustion engine. But the group of people Henry had spied had not done so. The small pack of three local youths was intent on their work. The group of young boys ranging from 10 to 12 was so absorbed in what they were doing that Henry was able to get out of truck and creep up on the children. Stiles knew all of them: He had seen two of them in church and one was the son of an ex employee of Stiles. He grabbed that white youth and one of his dark-skinned accomplices by their ears invoking an immediate shriek of pain from both. The other youth was about to run when a commanding shout from Henry made him hold his place.

"Frank Hawkins," Stiles declared to the white child. He turned to the other boy; "And his good friend Terry Devereaux! How nice to see you here! Doing some fine art work I see; and Kevin Alexander, nice to see you have an interest in art too." Stiles said to the frightened boy who he did not have a hold of.

The work to which the farmer was referring to was a rendering of a greenish person drawn against on a stone wall bordering one of the small town's public parks. The horribly drawn figure was hardly distinguishable. The one feature that was prominent was that of two incredibly exaggerated pointed ears. The picture of the being also seemed to indicate that its genatalia was lacking. An ugly word was scrawled under the figure. The farmer had read about varieties of those words in his history classes.

"Now what do we have here from you Picassos?" Henry asked sternly. He gripped the boys' ears tighter. "Now which one of you came up with this? I know it wasn't Kevin here now was it? Which one of you did it?"

"Frank said we should do it 'cause of how the pointies are!" Alexander blurted out.

"Shutup!" Hawkins and Devereaux exclaimed together.

"And have any of you ever seen a Vulcan?" Stiles asked the children sharply.

"No Mr. Stiles, but Frank's dad says he knows all about them pointies!" Devereaux said in an accusatory voice.

The only thing that Henry was sure Frank Hawkins' father knew about was how to get out of work. Despite full employment the man seemed to perpetually languish at home. Henry had once tried to employ young Hawkins' father. The man had some talent with numbers. But after a month Stiles had discovered that the files for his accounts had remained relatively untouched. It had taken Henry two solid days of work to catch up on his farm's accounts. Hawkins had been summarily dismissed after the discovery.

"When did your father ever meet a Vulcan Frankie?" Stiles asked the boy.

"Well he," The boy stumbled for words, finally he said in a quiet voice. "I guess he ain't seen no pointies sir."

"They are called Vulcans," Stiles corrected the boy in a harsh voice. "I don't want to ever hear you say the word 'pointie' again—got it? And no, I didn't think your father ever had seen one. So you really don't know much about them to be doin' any artwork showing what they look like do you? I'll have to report you defacing public property to the constable."

All three children piped up loudly in protest and apology. Stiles let the three youths sweat for another minute before he changed his tone to a kinder one.

"Well then boys," Stiles proclaimed grandly. "Today is your lucky day. I know Frank lives just around the corner. And you Terry live just up the street. Between the three of you, you should be able to scrape up some soap and brushes to wash this wall off. Now I'm heading to Barley's for some seeds and chemicals—should take me two hours; me and old Barley love to talk. So when I ride past here at 11 I expect this wall to be clean—got it?"

The frightened children shook their heads vigorously in agreement. There was fear of the local constable; and fear of what some of their fathers would do if they discovered that their sons were involved in vandalism. Henry left the children as they bolted off towards their homes. Stiles sincerely hoped they would do as he said. The farmer was serious about turning them in to the local law if the children did not follow through. It seemed to Henry that no matter how far man had come along some things just reared their ugly heads from time to time.

United Earth Stellar Navy Cruiser Beagle near the Tarod sun Apr 2156

"They are turning to captain," The red-haired freckled face petty officer manning the sensor console reported.

Huang had been about to move the Beagle out of the radiation of Tarod's sun and send the strangers a communication when the mysterious ships turned on the Beagle. The green craft picked up speed as they headed for the small Earth ship. Huang's face betrayed his concern at this sudden change in the state of affairs.

"Recall Cmdr. Wislicki to--," Huang started to say when the sensor operator spoke up loudly.

"High speed objects inbound! I'm…I think I'm reading a heavy metal core."

Huang was speechless for what seemed like forever although it was really only a few seconds. During that brief period the missiles drew closer.

"Helm!" Huang declared loudly. "Hard about, try to get us back in the sun's radiation!"

The crew felt a brief stomach churning loss of balance as the artificial gravity tried to compensate for the lumbering Beagle's sudden course change.

"Contacts inbound!" The NCO was almost shrieking; "Two missiles; 6 seconds until contact!"

"Deploy spiders!" Huang ordered sternly. Ensign Owen had already programmed the sequence in. The rack of fast interceptors left the belly of the Beagle and sped toward the incoming missiles. There appeared to be a small explosion as one of the spiders defeated one of the incoming spears of death.

"Missile is inside 1000 kilometers!" The sensor operator said; "Seven-hundred, five-hundred, three-hund—."

The Beagle lurched sickeningly. The sensor panel exploded outward in a shower of shrapnel instantly killing the NCO in her seat. Smoke and flames erupted from several stations on the Beagle's small bridge. Jocelyn went to the sensor position to check on Petty Officer McSwain. That probably saved her life as a primary power conduit running across the ceiling broke in half. The live conduit fell onto Capt. Huang's seat.

The result was horrible. The captain was killed instantly as thousands of volts coursed through his body. His hair burst into flames as the voltage heated his body. Mercifully the electrocution stopped. Power had either been cut to the bridge by engineering or by accident. In either event it was too late to help the former captain of the Beagle. Jocelyn retched as the smell of burning flesh reached her nostrils.

Jocelyn Stile's father had kept a few pigs on the farm. One summer their small pen had caught fire during a particularly dry year in Georgia. Jocelyn had been all of ten years old. But the young girl and the now young lady she had grown into had never forgotten the smell of the burnt animals. That was what Jocelyn thought as the putrid smell of their deceased captain hit her nose.

There was no hope for Petty Officer McSwain. Stiles started to lift her up by the back of her flight suit when she noticed that there was nothing where her face should be; nothing but a bloodied scorched mess. Jocelyn surveyed the remainder of the bridge. Terrell Owen was visibly shaken but he seemed to be functioning. Lt. Corrigan appeared to be alright as well. The navigator was sitting straight up in his seat. Too straight Stiles thought. Stiles left the sensor position and the body of Karen McSwain behind to walk over to the navigator's position.

Marcus Corrigan's eyes were wide open; but Stiles realized they would never see anything again. A sliver of metal passed through the back of the navigator's seat and ended in a protrusion sticking out of Corrigan's chest. His ochre navy jersey was darkening as blood from the wound seeped out of the navigator's body. Jocelyn looked down at the lieutenant's console. Stile's realized that the Beagle was still under power. Jocelyn stabilized the ship's orbit. Without consciously thinking about why; she programmed the Beagle's course for the sun's magnetic pole.

It was like a dream, Stiles thought. Everything looked and felt so unreal. From somewhere in her mind she realized she was moving the ship to a point where their radar and sensors hadn't been able to penetrate. She heard her father's voice ensuring her it was going to be alright. The pigs hadn't suffered in the fire he told his little girl. Nothing felt real to the touch as she entered commands into the navigation computer. Wisicki the lieutenant thought. She had to recall him to the bridge. Wislicki would know what to do. The first officer would take care of things. She toggled the control for the Beagle's PA system. Jocelyn called the Polish first officer to the bridge.

"Medical officer to bridge," Dr. Gertrude Schultheiss voice came out of the small bridge speaker. The tall German woman was another person who had been with the Beagle since its launch under the Stellar Navy's flag. Jocelyn had been a little frightened by Dr. Schultheiss' appearance when they had first met: Besides being taller than most men the woman had her jet black hair cut in a severely short style. Stiles was only lately becoming aware of how practical that was for a woman on a spaceship. "Cmdr. Wislicki was just brought into the sick bay. If you need him you will have to come over here. You should do it soon I think."

Jocelyn replied that she would soon be on the way then asked for a medical team and damage control party for the bridge. She explained her plan to Terrell Owen to hide the Beagle over the magnetic pole of Tarod's sun. Stiles turned command over to the Starfleet ensign and departed the bridge for sickbay. She made a few steps down the passageway then lunged for one of the ship's disposal units. Stiles made it in time to empty the contents of her stomach into the Beagle's reclamation system. Jocelyn was crudely wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her flightsuit when Lt. Devon Foster emerged from one of the Beagle's maintenance crawlspaces.

"What the hell just happened?" The Marine asked emphatically. Stiles filled him in on the Beagle's contact with the unknown vessels and those ships hostile actions. Stiles also told Foster about the death of Capt Huang.

"Bloody hell!" Foster exclaimed. "We survived a nuke hit?"

"No," Jocelyn replied seeming to finally collect her wits. "I think it went off prematurely. Either it was fused for proximity or it detonated by accident. If it had hit us we wouldn't be here."

"Any idea who shot at us—or why?" Foster asked angrily.

"No," Stiles replied simply. Then she recounted their talk of communicating with the hostiles and the mysterious ships sudden attack on them. "I think it was an ambush. It was like they spotted us and just jumped on us like a pack of dogs; no warning, no nothing." The couple headed for sickbay as they spoke.

"How did we get away?" Foster asked.

"I moved us into the sun's magnetic poles," Stiles answered. "Capt. Huang had us heading back into low orbit before he died. I took a sensor and radar shot before I left the bridge: Can't tell much but I'm hoping those guys can't either. Only thing is we can't stay here too long. The hull polarization will only protect us from the radiation for so long."

"Goddamnit, are they still out there?" Foster asked.

"I think," Stiles answered wistfully. "I read three solids. That is the best return I could get. But there was nothing where these returns were coming from before. So I'm betting it is them."

They arrived in the small cramped sickbay of the Beagle. The bay was really nothing more than three large rooms and a small office for the chief medical officer. Today it was packed with people. Most of those reporting to the sick bay were burned over various parts of their bodies. There appeared to be a few people with broken bones as evidenced by three crewmen walking zombie like out of the sick bay with bandaged and splinted arms. There was a smell of vomit and a slight undercurrent of that burnt meat smell that had been so pungent on the bridge. Dr. Schultheiss was administering an injection to a screaming man while her technicians held him in a sitting position. Where his right arm should have been there was a blackened stump instead. She completed her task and turned to Stiles after giving her techs instructions for the man's care.

"Where is Captain Huang?" The doctor asked in the clipped neat tones of German accented English.

Stiles recounted to the doctor the story of the attack and the death of the Beagle's captain. All the while Schultheiss walked Jocelyn and Devon foster back to the last room of the sick bay. A thick glass partition divided over two-thirds of the room off. Behind the partition three people lay in beds. A medical technician in a protective mask and anti-radiation suit ministered to the three in the bed. One of those people was the Beagle's first officer.

"They cannot hear us from behind the glass," The doctor stated sadly. "And we are protected out here as well. They were near the outer hull in delta section when the bomb hit. Two of them have incurred lethal doses—Commander Wislicki is one of those. I can make him comfortable; if one could ever be comfortable being burned up from the inside out."

"Can I talk to him?" Stiles asked. Schultheiss replied that the commander was still lucid. The doctor toggled a switch allowing communication with the rest of the room.

"Cmdr. Wislicki," Jocelyn said. The Air Force officer told the Beagle's first officer what had just transpired. The dying man turned his head toward the glass. He coughed up a great gout of blood then replied in a thin reedy voice.

"Fight the ship," Wislicki stated with as much force as the man could muster. The commander mumbled in his native Polish then continued in English. "Don't…don't give us up. Fight, you must fight." A coughing spasm racked the commander's body. The medical technician moved to put an oxygen mask on him. But that would not be necessary as the commander's physical readings, displayed graphically above the bed flattened out to a straight line. The technician looked back at Dr. Schultheiss. The CMO nodded. The technician pulled the former commander's blanket up covering the man's head.

"Der Scheißkerl!" The doctor cursed.

Foster turned to Stiles: "Guess that leaves you in command."

Jocelyn considered the implication of that statement for a moment. The next thing she knew the doctor and Foster were standing over her. Stiles had collapsed in a heap. From a long distance away she heard Commander Schultheiss telling her it was a natural reaction. From a different direction many miles away Foster's voice was calling to her seeking instructions.

"You…you take over Devon," Stiles proclaimed weakly. "You, you are a marine. Get us out of here."

Salintac: Capital city of the Tellarite Union, Tellar

"Why are you here you disgusting sack of excrement?" Creel Zarn asked the human ambassador to Tellar for the United Earth government.

"Not to observe what a handsome creature you are Zarn," Kelly O'Donnell replied. "You have to be the ugliest bastard I've ever seen. You know I have pictures of you that I put in dark places to scare the rodents off?"

Earth's ambassador to Tellar had just passed his 50th year. O'Donnell was a short portly man who obviously liked to eat. He had a long mane of black hair that had only recently saw some addition of gray.

"Then you must scare yourself with it," Zarn replied with a laugh. "You humans are nothing but rodents! So what are you here for friend?"

Creel Zarn was the chief administrative officer to the Tellarite congress. He was just seeing his 60th year in terrestrial terms. That made him old since Tellarites aged at roughly the same rate as humans. Zarn's thick pate of hair was graying for the most part. As far as the Tellarite's slightly anarchistic government was run Zarn represented his people in the same capacity as a president. The difference lay in the fact that Zarn held no real power.

"You know my mission Zarn," O'Donnell replied.

"Usually your mission is to get invited to my family's feeding hav'a," The Tellarite answered bluntly. "But yes I know: The alliance. I'm sorry Kelly but my government sees no reason to change. We have agreed to mutual trade and defense. But really you would have our people running around in those stupid uniforms your military is starting to wear. Personally most Tellarites would rather vomit a c'nestra out than do that. You humans have a horrible fashion sense!"

"What do you think about it all you fat bastard?" Kelly asked pointedly.

"Your Ireland must be the most obnoxious place on Earth," Zarn answered. "Is that where men decided to bury the fissionable wastes from your old reactors? Look Kelly," Zarn wrinkled his snout and said in an abrupt change of subject. "We like your people, Gods know why with that smell you put off, but we do. So we'll continue to trade and exchange technology with you. As far as defense we will help you there too. Who in the c'harga is going to start a war in space? And hopefully Kelly, one day this project of Thorpe's will show all of us what we can do together."

O'Donnell knew that Thorpe was collaborating with the alien governments in some sort of project. What that project was O'Donnell was not privy to. But the ambassador had ridden Thorpe's coattails on that individual's rise to power. The terran ambassador believed in Christophur Thorpe. O'Donnell always had. Obviously Thorpe's hope had carried over to the Tellarites and Andorians. That was good news. Of the Vulcans O'Donnell knew there was little help they would give. That fact came with little surprise to the Irishman.

"I suppose that is the best we can expect from a people as backwards as yourselves," Kelly O'Donnell declared. "By the way," The Irishman asked in a solicitous voice: "Just what are you having for dinner tonight?"

UE Stellar Navy cruiser Beagle in holding over the magnetic pole of the Tarod sun

Jocelyn was wrapped in a warm dream. David and she were walking hand-in-hand through a winery. The heady smell of fermented grapes was thick in the air. David had proposed to her outside of the winery. He had descended to one knee before her in front of gawking tourists and proclaimed his desire to be wed to her. Jocelyn was embarrassed, overjoyed and ecstatic. Suddenly David seemed to be farther away from her. Then Stiles realized that he was gone altogether. She went through the winery looking for him. Somehow she knew that her future husband was not there anymore.

"Ma'am, ma'am," Chief Mary Vong said in an urgent voice. "Lieutenant; wake up!"

"What, what is it?" Stiles asked coming awake from the grip of the uneasy dream. "What happened?"

But then Stiles knew what had happened. The doctor had awakened her after she had fainted. Stiles remembered turning the ship over to Foster. The marine had taken her back to the small cabin that Jocelyn shared with a lieutenant from astrophysics. Stiles had collapsed into her bunk and pulled the covers up around her. She had soon fallen into blissful and healing sleep.

"Did you really turn over command to that idiot Foster?" Vong asked angrily. Then the petty officer continued. "Do you know what your hero has been doing? I'll tell you; he is running around asking people if we should surrender. He said it could all be some kind of misunderstanding; that we don't have the firepower to fight back. Don't tell me you are gonna let this happen ma'am!"

Jocelyn sat up in her bunk. The US Air Force officer was after all in outstanding physical shape. Her body was ready, but her mind was still clouded in the confusing unreality of the situation. Stiles asked Mary to explain what was going on again. The petty officer seemed to cool her anger then calmly related the events of the last three hours.

Foster had started talking to some of the linguists aboard. The marine had apparently somehow concluded that the attack could have been because the Beagle was in someone's territory. The Annapolis graduate had begun to talk of concessions and then of surrender. He had been canvassing the crew and the consensus seemed to be for a peaceful overture. The Beagle could stay in its present location for five more hours at most. After that radiation levels would begin to cause physical damage to the ship's human crew.

It was wrong. Every part of her being screamed no. Stiles heard the voices of her mother and father and their endless references to right and wrong. What those aliens had done to the Beagle—to its crew was wrong. It was wrong to surrender to them. But Stiles had no idea how they would fight them. First things first though Jocelyn realized she would have to reclaim command of the converted freighter. She planted her feet on the floor; realized that someone had taken her boots off, found those and put them on. Stiles left the cabin in the company of Chief Vong. She guessed that Devon was on the bridge. That was where the officer and enlisted woman were going.

"When can we get radios back?" Lt Devon Foster asked from the command chair of the Beagle. The gory remains of Capt. Huang Yi had been removed and stored for burial. An unpleasant odor remained however.

"About another hour sir," The corporal replied. "We had to break out parts from spares. Most of our gear was burned out. There was some damage to the external antennas too. I've got some of my boys rigging something in airlock three."

"Lt. Foster," Jocelyn Stiles announced as she stepped into the small nerve center of the starship. "I need to have a word with you."

Foster turned the seat to face Stiles. "If it is about my plans forget it. You put me in charge. Look we were taught in the academy about how enlightened aliens must be—just look at us humans. This is all some kind of crazy mistake. It's the best course Jo-jo." Foster had learned of Stile's nickname during a dinner at the captain's table during the beginning of the Beagle's journey. Jocelyn seemed on the verge of pushing her point more stridently when Foster continued.

"Sgt. Asahina," Foster commanded in a warning voice. A marine armed with a Colt AR25 assault rifle got up from an auxiliary console. "I'm sorry lieutenant, ladies. I know some of the crew thinks this is not the best solution. You'll see. You all will see. Now please leave the bridge before this turns uglier than it already is."

"They meant to kill us," Stiles declared as Chief Vong took her arm and started pulling her towards the bridge hatch. "Think about it Foster--please."

"Smitty, you smelly old coot!" Mary Vong said in greeting to the Beagle's Marine Gunnery Sergeant. "I can't believe they let you stay in the Corp. They should just stuff you and put you on display somewhere!"

"Mary, Mary," Gunnery Sergeant Ryan Smith answered. The weather beaten Colonial Marine was on the bad side of his forties. His close cut hair, what there was of it was completely gray. An ugly moustache rested under his pugnacious nose. At 190 centimeters the sergeant was a lean wiry man. "I shoulda married you Mary, Mary, but some poor dumb bastard got there before me! What is that number five now?"

"It is only three you lecherous old goat," Vong shot back. "But you may get your chance yet. In the meantime what do you think about your l-t's dumbass plan?"

Smith didn't think highly of it at all. But he, like Stiles and Vong had been told to shut up. Vong introduced Stiles to the grizzled marine NCO. The three talked about the insane probability that perhaps Foster was right; but nothing added up to that conclusion. Smith had given a resigned shake of his head.

"What are ya' gonna do about it?" Smith said calmly. "He is in charge."

"I'm in charge," Stiles was surprised to hear her voice saying the words; as if spoken by another. "I'm the third officer on this boat. I don't know what we're going to do but first we have to get Foster off the bridge."

"Okay ma'am," Smith said after some thought. "But Foster has the guns—and the key to the armory. I'm even locked out. When I politely told the l-t how fragged his plan was I was disarmed by Sgt. Asahina. Next time that kid points his weapon at me I'm going to take it and stick it up his--,"

"Don't worry about the armory," Vong declared interrupting Smith's colorful rant. "It is just a locking device. I defeated all my second husband's locks on our house; cleaned him out good too!"

"Sir I got strict orders from Lt. Foster to not let you near the armory." Private Daniel Gates said nervously as the trio including Stiles, Chief Vong and Gunnery Sergeant Smith approached the access to the Beagle's small weapon's locker.

Stiles and Vong stopped as smith continued walking towards the young marine. Gates nervously leveled his Colt at the approaching NCO. It was apparent to the two women that the young man; he couldn't have been more than 18, was frightened out of his wits.

"Don't come any closer Gunney or I'm gonna have to hurt you!" Gates squeaked out nervously.

"I don't want in the armory Gates," Smith said as he stopped about a meter and a half away from the quaking private. "What the hell are you doing son? Pointing a gun at an NCO is a serious offense."

"That is right," Lt. Stiles said from the entranceway. "I'm an officer Private Gates. You are in deep trouble!"

The nervous young marine shifted his eyes from Smith to Stiles. The private started lowering the muzzle of the assault rifle. That was all the time that Smith needed. The Gunnery Sergeant crossed the short distance; knocked the muzzle of Gate's rifle aside and planted his knee in the young man's crotch. The private lurched forward allowing Smith to plant a solid blow behind his ear. Private Gates fell to the deck.

"Don't wanna hurt me huh Gates?" Smith said to the unconscious form of the private. "You better get your ass in gear Mary!"

The CPO bolted to the entrance of the Beagle's armory. Stiles followed. Vong laid some tools out from a pouch and went to work. Two minutes later the remains of the entrance panel hung by wires. The hatch to the armory was wide open. The trio emerged each armed with AR25's. They headed back to the bridge of the Beagle careful to avoid any personnel they could. They had no idea who supported Foster and who didn't.

"You want to watch that Sergeant!" Stiles declared as she leveled the assault rifle at Sgt. Asahina. The trio of Lt. Stiles, Sergeant Smith and Chief Petty Officer Vong burst into the small bridge as best as one could rush into a small confined space. Stiles had hit the bridge emergency lighting system before they went in. The bridge was normally kept somewhat darkened. The sudden intense burst of the emergency lights disoriented the present occupants of the Beagle's bridge.

"What are you going to do Jo-jo?" Foster asked: "Shoot me; you might faint before you do that." The marine officer said in a mocking voice.

"If I have to I will," Jocelyn declared bluntly. "Your plan is suicide anyway. So it doesn't much matter how you die."

Foster tried to stare Stiles down but he saw a terrible resolve in her eyes that had not been there before. Finally he raised his hands; Sgt. Asahina did the same as he watched the capitulation of his superior officer.

"You are going to get us all killed!" Foster protested loudly as he got up out of the captain's chair. The marine turned to rest of the people assembled on the tiny bridge: "She doesn't know what she is doing. Stiles will get you all killed."

"That is enough Devon!" Stiles exclaimed. "Sergeant Smith take the lieutenant to the brig." The Air Force officer turned to the rest of the bridge crew. "If you aren't with me I need to know now. I don't know how we are going to get out of this. But surrender isn't an answer—think about it; would we shoot at an unknown ship like they did to us?"

Ensign Owen, Cpl. Allen and a navy enlisted man manning navigator station all looked thoughtful for a moment. Finally Cpl. Allen spoke out:

"Ma'am—can't speak for the rest here but I'm with you. I just do what I'm told ma'am but it sure would be nice if we could get out of here; better if we could give some payback to those bastards."

There were nods all around the bridge as well as a few uh-huhs. Foster was leaving under the watchful eye of Gunny Smith. Jocelyn sensed that she was in control of the bridge for the moment. When that fact sunk into her Stile's next thought was what in the hell she would do? They were all looking expectantly at the lieutenant.

Stiles desperately searched her memories from all the tactical courses she had endured as a Zoomie at the Air Force academy. Nothing seemed to crystallize. They were outnumbered and apparently outgunned. Finally a strange memory popped into Stile's mind. She was ten again. Stile's father had labored under the impression that his daughter was in fact a boy. That explained Jocelyn's involvement in sports. But the memory that presented itself was of the time her dad had taken her and Hank Jr. duck hunting. Junior hated the boom made by their father's shotgun and Jocelyn suspected that he was a little afraid of the weapon their dad had given to him. Young Jocelyn just hated being out under the camouflaged duck blind sitting on the cold ground.

"Corporal Allen," Stiles said to the NCO after what seemed like an eternity but in fact was less than a minute. "Continue your work repairing our communications system."

"Wait I thought you were going to come up with some sort of idea ma'am!" Mary Vong exclaimed. "That is the same thing as Foster had planned—just a quick way to die!"

"Cpl. Allen," Stiles said sternly. She was surprised to hear the voice her mother used when she absolutely wanted Stiles to do some unpleasant chore, come out of her own mouth. "Carry out my orders. Can you install your most powerful transmitter in a shuttle?"

"Sure," Allen said as he absently rubbed his shaven head in thought. "I mean yes ma'am but what for; are we gonna escape in a shuttle?" The technician asked in a dismayed voice.

"Ensign Owen," Stiles said turning away from Allen to the gunnery officer. "Can you find a way to fire three Narwhals simultaneously?" After a moment where the Starfleet ensign looked confused then thoughtful he replied:

"I can use the starboard cargo airlock and put two out that way. The hull will get a little scorched when they first light off but yeah—yes sir."

"What are you planning l-t?" Chief Vong asked.

"Gonna shoot me a few birds Mary!" Stiles declared in a bragging voice. She hoped her plan justified her bravado; if it did not they would all shortly be dead.

Gilligan's Island, Apr 2156

The sensor pod rolled through space looking much like a piece of space debris. There was no light visible in the pod's tiny viewports. That was much how the occupants had wanted it.

"How much longer do ya' reckon we can hold out without heat lieutenant?" Chief Peter Custis ask his superior officer as he visibly exhaled a frosty stream of air.

"Not long," Lt. Genji Kobayashi replied. "It has been over five hours and we are still here. I'll wait another hour then power up long enough to heat us up in here and clean the air a little."

The lieutenant had thought quickly after the destruction of the station. His friend Chief Custis hadn't been so quick to react; but given the fact that someone he loved had just likely been blown to bits Genji could tolerate the chief's sluggish movements. Kobayashi had fired Gilligan's Island's maneuvering thrusters in an erratic manner. The officer knew that this station might be next on the hostiles' list of targets. Kobayashi was hoping to make the pod look like a piece of interstellar flotsam. He had next removed power to all the major systems. That had included the environmental systems. Without the scrubbers warming the recycled air supply it had soon gotten cold in the small capsule. The two men had then settled back in sleeping bags and lay still. They had both been in space long enough to know that the less movements they made the more air they could conserve. Genji looked at Pete with concern.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Kobayashi asked the NCO.

"Nothing to talk about anymore," Custis replied morosely. "She's dead." There was a long moment of silence before the sergeant continued. "I was going to retire next year. Sharon was working an assignment to BuPer. I bought some land in New Mexico. She said she always wanted horses—she liked riding—hadn't did that since she went in the navy. So I thought; okay I'll get some land and we can build a ranch on it. She coulda shuttled to San Fransisco; lot's of folks do that nowadays they tell me. Forget about all of that now. What the hell am I going to do?"

"I'm sorry Pete," Genji declared. "I guess I should say time will heal all wounds. I don't know I wish--." Whatever Genji Kobayashi wished would not be known as a firm clang echoed through the small station.

"You got that flare gun sir?" Custis asked as he floated out of his sleeping bag. The NCO had a heavy spanner in his right hand.

"Yeah," Kobayashi replied as he leveled the single shot flare gun at the entrance hatch. The lieutenant wondered for probably the one-hundredth time that day why anyone would put a signaling flare gun in the survival equipment of a space vehicle.

What seemed like intense light to men who had spent the last five hours in the dark filled the interior of Gilligan's Island. The hatch opened. Kobayashi squinted into the glare as he pointed the signaling device toward the open hatch.

"Whoa buddy!" A human voice cried. "For Chrissakes don't fire! Hey is that—Genji? It's me Len Zimmermann! The Fearless is here. Thank God; someone is alive!"

There was a visible sense of relief for the two castaways. Custis and Kobayashi recognized the balding head of Commander Leonard Zimmermann. The first officer of the Fearless had been a regular at the Auger Inn when the Fearless would put into the station. The man pushed himself down into the capsule and did a back flip righting himself relative to the two survivors.

"Get your gear." Zimmermann said with a shiver as he took in the capsule's cold air. "Capt. Oulette is going to want any recordings you made of what happened. Get your asses moving we have people to rescue."

"You mean people from the station survived?" Pete Custis asked expectantly. The sergeant's excitement was visible.

"There is someone special to Pete on the station Len," Kobayashi interjected in a warning voice.

The first officer of the Fearless look startled for a moment; seemed to collect his thoughts then said quietly: "I'm sorry Chief, no one survived from Salem One. Some survivors made it in from Deneva and Topaz. I am truly sorry." Zimmermann could see the enlisted man's distress. Zimmermann filled the two rescued men in on the destruction of Taskforce 15. "Look these bastards like to ambush. There hasn't even been a declaration of war. I know you must feel like hell; but it is time to think about setting things to right."

That said Kobayasi propelled himself purposefully through the little capsule collecting his effects and the recordings of recent events that had been rendered into data wafers. Chief Custis didn't move as fast as his friend but he did move with a sense of direction. The two men were soon in one of the Fearless' rescue boats. The small shuttle made the trip to from Gilligan's Island to the starship in a matter or minutes

United Earth Stellar Navy cruiser Fearless Apr 2156

"Got them sir," Leonard Zimmermann's voice proclaimed as it came out of the grill of the bridge PA system. "Looks like two survivors as we expected. They have wafers detailing what happened."

Grizzly Oulette acknowledged his first officer's news. The commander of the Fearless next ordered his helmsmen to put some distance between the sensor pod and the Fearless. When he felt they were at a sufficient distance Oulette ordered his ship stopped. A single Narwhal anti-ship missile left its tube. Seconds later the pod was a glowing mass of nuclear energy.

"There," Oulette proclaimed. "Our opponents will not be able to get any of our technology. Helm, set a course for the survivors—engage at full impulse." Oulette turned his attention to his sensor operator. "Sgt. Guerrero what do we have here?"

"IFF returns show the ships to be the Hunt and the Star Bucket," The NCO replied.

"The Hunt," Oulette repeated as he casually twirled the end of his moustache. "That is a Schneider; I know of her but what of this Star Bucket?"

"DY300 class," Oulette's navigator Lt. Lisa Somers declared. Somers was a short and broad woman in her late twenties. She was a frequenter of the gym and it showed. She kept her mane of long black tied securely in a bun. Oulette was as startled as everyone else so he asked his navigator how she had come by her information.

"Last time we made planetfall at Topaz," The navigator started. "A few of us went to that pub the Frontier Club." Oulette rolled his eyes at the mention of that establishment. It had been placed off-limits to Navy personnel after some unpleasant incidents. It was a well known fact in the Stellar Navy however, that places listed as 'off-limits' by the higher ups were the places to go for real fun. The lieutenant continued: "We were drinking with the locals when this old guy comes in. Tells us he is going to strike it rich mining the system's asteroids. Says there is a future in that stuff dilithium. We thought he was some kind of nut but he bought us all drinks so we listened to him."

"He was babbling away when Dave," Somers said indicating Sgt. Dave Guerrero. "Dave asks him where his ship is and he goes on to tell us he has a DY300 called the Star Bucket. I figured there aren't many of those left and I doubt any outside of the Sol system—except for this one."

"Let us see this relic--uh ship then," Oulette said with wonder; "Helm how long until intercept?"

"One plus two sir," Somers replied meaning one hour and two minutes.

The End of Innocence

Washington DC, Earth Apr 2156

Lt. Tarang Gupta arrived in Georgetown via the old city Metro. The intelligence officer liked the sense of nostalgia that riding the ancient transport invoked. Gupta, however did not like to think of those who had died in these man-made tunnels when the Eastern Coalition had lobbed warheads full of nerve gas at the US Eastern Seaboard. The officer prayed that such a thing would never happen again. When the train grinded to a halt Gupta got up and walked up the long stairway to the surface. It was cold and damp in Washington. Nothing like the lieutenant's native New Delhi.

The restaurant was a short walk through the quaint old neighborhoods of Georgetown. Gupta also liked the fact that he could set aside his uniform for this meeting. Since the directive requiring the wear of the new jerseys had come down Gupta had not felt the same about wearing a military uniform. The Indian supposed that was what one got when the civilian government picked the military's garment designs. Tarang reflected that it was lucky there still was a military considering the frequent budget cuts. The officer had a brief pang of homesickness as he smelled the scents of food made from recipes from his homeland. He had arrived at his destination.

The old woman had been the sole owner of the small restaurant since the death of her husband. Tarang had discovered the place by accident. Harita always insisted on giving him too much too eat; claiming that Gupta was looking terribly famished when in fact the officer knew he needed to spend a little more time at the gym. But Tarang had come to value the woman's friendship and caring nonetheless. The restaurant also proved to be a good place to meet his friend. The woman sat in a small booth by the window. Her head covered by a severe looking gray scarf.

"Most punctual," The woman said in that eerie unemotional voice endemic to her race. "I wish all members of your race shared that virtue."

"The trains run on time here," Gupta declared. The Indian smiled at the woman. She really was quite lovely. "Have you eaten yet?" When she shook her head in the negative Gupta continued. "I think you would like the Karnataka; very spicy and it contains no meat."

"I will try that then," She proclaimed as seriously as if she were electing a catastrophic surgery. "It will be good to eat something hot. It is quite cold here."

Gupta took the lead and ordered for both of them at his friend's behest. The Indian officer ordered the same meal as he had ordered for his dinner partner. They sat quietly for a few minutes before Gupta broke the silence.

"I would imagine so given what the weather is like on your world." Gupta answered.

"It is," The Vulcan hesitated; "Much warmer on my world yes." In a change of subject she continued. "You are not having the curry with meat?"

"I know that your people are vegetarians," Gupta replied warmly. "I don't want to offend you by eating something you find offensive. I should be eating less meat anyway!" Tarang said with a grin while rubbing his small belly.

"I would like to say Lt. Gupta that I enjoy our small talk as you humans call it." She said in that same emotionless voice. "But shall we get on with what you came here for?"

Harita interrupted the meeting when she came to the table with the couple's meals. As always Gupta's portion was noticeably larger. The officer started to protest but seeing that would get him no where he thanked Harita in their common tongue. When the doting woman left Gupta continued.

"You said you may have more to tell me about sector 12?" The intelligence officer asked bluntly.

"This really is quite good," The Vulcan said as she took a cautious bite of the spicy vegetable dish. She looked around then slid a data wafer across the table to Gupta. "I think you will find interesting information on there."

"Do you know what is going on out there?" Gupta asked.

"The High Command," Gupta's contact said indicating the Vulcan military hierarchy; "Has sent ships into that area before with results similar to what is happening to your people now. We do not know who these aliens are. The High Command suspects that they are an xenophobic race. But since they have never had any direct contact with them they cannot confirm that."

"Do you know anything about them T'Pol?" Tarang asked.

"Just a name," T'Pol replied: "Romulan."

UESN Cruiser Beagle in stationary orbit about the magnetic pole of Tarod's star, Apr 2156

"Do you agree that they would come in along this axis?" Jocelyn Stiles asked Ens. Terrell Owen.

"They jumped us before but they didn't do anything exotic in their approach." The Starfleet graduate replied. "If we were making an attack I would come in along that vector; especially when it is three-to-one in favor of those guys."

"Mr. Davis," Stiles called the Beagle's engineer over the ship's intercom. Chief Ed Davis was a grizzled master chief petty officer who occupied a billet normally filled by an officer. The fireplug of a man had several advanced degrees in engineering and years of experience around spacecraft and their power plants. "Is the shuttle ready?"

"Aye sir," The engineer replied in his rough North Eastern American accent. "If Ensign Owen is satisfied with the placement of the missiles I'd say we are ready."

Stiles nodded to the gunner/armory officer. The Starfleet ensign looked a little unsure of himself but he shook his head vigorously in the affirmative.

"Okay, here is the plan folks," Jocelyn announced from an auxiliary sensor operator position. Stiles could not steel herself to sit in Capt. Huang's seat. "We send the shuttle out on autopilot. The tramsmitter is programmed to start squawking away two minutes after it gets in position. If those guys pick up our distress calls I expect they'll come back along this axis." Stiles pointed got up and walked the four steps to the bridge viewscreen. Jocelyn pointed out the line she was speaking of on the viewer's graphic display. "We are sitting in a position below them in the gravity well but geographically higher than they are. I hope to hell they can't scan us or we are dead. That is what this all hinges on. When they close for the kill with the decoy we climb out of the well and fire the Narwhals. I'm gonna stick with our sounding probes. They have navigational shielding that was designed to let them fly close to the surface of a sun before they explode. I'm hoping that'll defeat anything they might use to stop our birds."

"That's it!" Stiles exclaimed. "Let's get this show on the road—launch shuttle!"

The small shuttle departed the bay of the Beagle. It was fortunate it was unmanned for not only might it be destroyed as a decoy but anyone inside would receive a lethal dose of radiation this close to Tarod's star.

Stiles hoped she was showing confidence because she sure as hell wasn't feeling it. Jocelyn remembered an academy instructor talking to her class about the illusion of confidence. The crotchety old wing commander had claimed that knowing what one was doing wasn't half as important as looking like one knew what they were doing. Jocelyn hoped that she looked like she knew what she was doing. The young lieutenant couldn't help but notice the occasional expectant and concerned glances she was receiving from the bridge crew. Chief Mary Vong walked up behind her quietly.

"Sir," The chief whispered using the naval term of respect. "I know you don't want to; but you need to sit in the captain's chair. I know you didn't know Capt. Huang long, but I think he would want that; would expect it—please sir."

Jocelyn thanked the chief. Stiles walked over to the chair. After a long moment of hesitation she sat herself gingerly in the seat. Stiles gripped the armrests tightly then took a breath and relaxed. The ship's chronometer counted down the time.

"Contact!" Corporal Allen exclaimed.

"Corp—Chief," No Jocelyn reminded herself. They were in the navy; one navy one world one race. "Are they on the anticipated heading chief?"

"A few degrees off but nothing significant," The NCO replied.

"Tell me when they are at 3000 kilometers." Stiles said. That was approximately the distance from where they had fired before. It was also a prime position for the Narwhals to make a kill. The enemies' momentum this deep in a gravity well would prevent them from doing any exotic escape maneuvers; or so Jocelyn hoped.

"Range sir!" Allen called out.

"Helm full impulse!" Stiles commanded. The Beagle lumbered out of its position seeming to come out of the sun relative to the green cabbage ships.

Mary Vong was checked off as a relief navigator. The chief was currently manning the helm. Stiles was glad it was not like the old 20th and 21st century militaries where enlisted people were prevented from performing certain duties. Stiles would not have liked to try to fly the Beagle while giving orders.

"In position sir," Mary said quietly.

"Gunnery officer fire missiles!" Stiles ordered.

"Firing and away!" Owen announced from Stile's left.

Jocelyn looked at the bearing pointed on the navigation console. She was amazed at the bird's eye view that the captain's chair commanded. Vong's station was less than a meter and a half from where Stiles sat. The pointer jumped sharply; no doubt from the wash of the Narwhals that had been launched out of the starboard cargo airlock. Vong corrected the ship's course quickly.

"Reload primary missile tube," Stiles ordered quickly. If this didn't work against all three of them she might have a ship-to-ship fight. But the point proved to be moot as three detonations briefly lit the darkness of space.

There was no cheering or cries of victory. There were a few exhalations and sighs; as would come from a person who had finally completed a great physical labor. Stiles looked at her hands. Normally carmel colored she realized she had been gripping the armrest so tightly that her skin was turning pale. She let her hands relax. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Chief Allen cross himself in the old manner. She heard the voice of her father saying 'it is the quiet victories that are the really great ones sugar'.

"Sir," Chief Allen said in a breathless voice from the sensor station; "Looks like you were right about shooting birds. The computer just finished chewing on the video from our last contact."

"Let's see it chief," Stiles said. The curiosity in her voice was apparent.

One of the ships of their deceased adversaries was in sharp focus. A large bird adorned the ship's cabbage-like top.

San Francisco, Earth Apr 2156

"I'll miss the view," Maggie Thorpe declared as she stood next to the most powerful man on Earth. "Are you serious about Shran's offer?"

"We both fell in love with Andoria," Thorpe told his wife; "And after my term there will be nothing keeping me here." Thorpe thought quickly and amended his last statement; "Nothing political and just endless book and speaking tours. I'll be of no use anymore." Thorpe had to be careful: Magdalene Thorpe was a kind, lovely woman but a rare condition had rendered her unable to bear children. Despite Christophur's professed love for her regardless of their parental status he knew that his wife still felt a pang of guilt and regret over their childlessness.

"You'll always be of use to me," Maggie said playfully. The woman was a full head shorter than Thorpe. Maggie Thorpe had just passed her 55th year but she looked much younger. Her short-cut hair was mostly gray but that accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it.

"Some president I turned out to be," Thorpe declared sadly. "All the elements for a successful alliance and it went no where—all because of me."

"You can't save the world single-handedly Chris," Maggie said gently. "Think about all the good you have done."

Thorpe put his arm around his wife as the couple watched the fog roll over the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge. A cool breeze blew in chilling the older couple. Winter by the bay was not as severe as that of Thorpe's native Alberta but it could be cold nonetheless. Despite the chill the couple stood transfixed by the majesty of the moment. They both were holding glasses of bluish liquid. They toasted one another, their glasses clinking together then Thorpe stooped slightly and kissed his wife's mouth. They stared at one another for what seemed liked endless minutes. The phone chimed from in the bedroom.

"Damnit!" Thorpe cursed. The President of the United Earth had standing orders that no one on his staff should call him in the couple's private suite unless it was an emergency. There had not been a serious emergency on Earth since the Spaceship Wayfarer had crashed into a suburb of Tuzla; and that had been thirty-five years ago. "Probably some congressman needs a fix of taxpayer money." Thorpe groused with a sigh.

Maggie Thorpe turned back to the view of San Francisco bay. The first lady was an accomplished professional in her own field but she stayed out of her husband's political machinations. Maggie had chaired a large corporation so it was not that Thorpe's wife thought she lacked leadership skills rather just the opposite; she was keenly aware that in a position like Christophur's only one person could hold the reins. So it was that she only listened with half an ear to her husband's call. That was until she heard the increasing level of agitation in his voice:

"Now, say that again…….What...When...Are you sure………..When did the message get here?"

"Call a meeting of my staff and the military heads…yes…as soon as possible."

Maggie entered the couple's bedchamber. Her husband stood rigid. His face seemed drained of blood. The glass of blue Andorian ale dropped from his hand and fell to the floor where it shattered.

LaBarre, France, Earth, the vineyards of Lucien and Helene Picard, Apr 2156

The family sat around the table laughing for the most part. Crosby felt a little unsettled as his knowledge of French was not the best. Mr. Picard seemed to dominate much of the talk around his table. The vintner was a stocky broad-shouldered man with a face that seemed to have a perpetual smile pasted on it. At just over fifty years of age he still had a thick head of brown hair. His sharp gray eyes were at once startling and kind all at the same time. The elder Picard turned his attention on his future son-in-law.

"I am glad that you will be living in Paris," The man proclaimed. "But I wish you would stay with us. Mariel could commute to the university and when you find employment you could do so as well!"

"Let the couple be Lucien!" Helene Picard cried. Mrs. Picard was the same age as her husband. She was a short round woman with a mop of curly honey-blonde hair streaked with gray. "If they stayed at the guest house you would be over there every day in their business. Let the young lovers be you disgusting old goat!"

"My wife," Picard confided to his daughter and her fiancée. "She is the real power behind the Picard empire." Lucien turned to his prospective son-in-law. "You would do well to watch her Alvin," The vintner said indicating his daughter. "The women; they end up controlling everything."

Crosby laughed and put his hand possessively on his fiancée's. The meal went on until Crosby excused himself for some air. The intelligence officer nudged Mariel's leg before he got up indicating that she should follow him. It was an old signal between the couple and the young lady's frown came and went before her parents could notice it. Mariel got up a minute later amid her parents teasing about her needing to be kissed. She met Alvin Crosby outside on her parents' front walkway. The night was cold in LeBarre.

"Is everything alright Alvin?" Mariel asked in a subdued voice.

"Yes, mostly," Alvin took a deep breath then continued. "I don't want to live in Paris Mariel. My father can get me a job with Thiokol-Nissan. I want us to live in Portland."

"That is not what you told me when you asked me to marry you Alvin," The young lady said cautiously. Crosby took his hand in hers. He was very gentle; at first.

"I know but the more I think about it the less I like the idea of living in France," Crosby replied. "Your parents…." Crosby trailed off.

"I thought you liked my parents?" Mariel insisted. "You have never brought this up before. His grip on her wrist increased in force.

"Please Alvin don't do that," Mariel pleaded. "I had to explain away the marks the last time. We could start out in Portland, yes." The young lady said. The pressure on her wrist abated.

"I knew you would see it--." Crosby never got to finish his comment as Lucien Picard burst out of the door:

"You two! The vidcaster—there is some sort of problem! You must come in and see!"

Savannah, Georgia Earth, the farm of Henry and Kendra Stiles, Apr 2156

Kendra shook the sleeping form of her husband. He was in his favorite recliner—again. The woman would've loved to leave her husband alone but she knew how he would complain about his back and neck the next morning if she were to let him in the comfortable chair. She shook him again only to be answered by a loud snore. Then Henry's eyelids fluttered open. Kendra was about to tell Henry to come to bed when she heard a persistent chiming.

After the end of television over a century ago homes still needed news and entertainment. With most households wired into computer networks it was easy to deliver that which most people wanted on demand. Another advantage was the bidirectional interface. People could leave their vidcasters off. The average person could program the information and entertainment device to alert them for certain conditions; anything from a drama one might want to see to alerts concerning important news events. The Stiles had programmed their vidcasters to notify them only for emergencies.

"Now what on earth do you think that is about?" Kendra asked her husband.

"Don't know," Henry Stiles replied as he lowered the recliner and his feet touched the floor. "Couldn't be the weather I heard the forecast before I dozed off, clear and cold; Goddamned frost!"

"Shush!" His wife said in a warning tone. "You watch that cursing Mr. Stiles!" Kendra crossed the floor and turned the vidcaster on. A disheveled reporter spoke haltingly:

--still waiting on words from the president. Unconfirmed reports say that both Topaz and Deneva have fallen as well as what we previously reported. Earth naval units are under full recall—wait I'm getting a report—yes we will break now to take you directly to the office of the president.

Kendra returned to Henry's side. The woman sat down in her husband's lap as he put his arms protectively around his wife. The image of President Christopher Thorpe appeared on the vidcaster. The man looked haggard and beaten. Usually he would begin a broadcast with a smile; not so on this night:

"People of Earth, my brothers and sisters; tonight I must deliver the most tragic proclamation a president can deliver. Tonight I was informed by officers of our Stellar Navy of a heinous attack. This attack, this act of murder was perpetrated by an unknown race. Four days ago a navy taskforce under the command of Commodore Adrian Gellar was viciously ambushed without provocation. Our brave navy men and women were lured into an ambush and slaughtered. Over 8,000 personnel, Navy and Marines were killed. Two days after that act of malice our deep space Station Salem One was attacked by ships of the same type. The Station was utterly destroyed with a loss of life estimated to be well over 9,000 people. Our colonies at Deneva and Topaz have been invaded and are assumed to be lost to our foes. Between those two worlds there are over 5 million people on them. We have no idea how many have died in the invasion of our colonies. I pray for those people that our enemies will spare them. I pray for peace but it seems that prayer will be denied.

Immediately after this broadcast I will go before the World Council of Nations and ask for a declaration of war. It is a sad duty but also a mark of our maturity that no world leader has asked his nation or nations to grant a president this awful choice in well over a century now. We have received no such declaration from our enemy. They have crept up on us like a murderer in the night; dagger in hand. Whatever time zone you are in: rather you are on our green Earth or on the moon or our Martian Colony it is a dark night. It is a dark night for man. But night passes. Man has prevailed against great odds to be at the point we are at now. We will continue to prevail. The sun will shine forth once again. For those who pray; pray for our lost sons and daughters, pray for your families and for the family of man and especially for those warriors who will go forth to defend us all. Good night and God bless each and every one of you."

The Stiles would not know what the rest of the broadcast said for that night. Henry pushed a stud on his remote control shutting the vidcaster off. The couple sat huddled together on the old recliner for some time. The family room was silent except for the occasional sobs of Kendra Stiles. Henry Stiles made no such noises; but he was glad the room was dark. Tears of grief and worry ran down his face.


	3. Chapter 3

UES Fearless, in holding at the former location of Space Station Salem One Apr 2156

"What is the count number one?" Oulette asked his first officer from the airlock of the Fearless. The Fearless had docked with the Schneider class freighter Hunt taking in as many refugees as they could. Oulette was keenly aware that his ship's environmental systems were only designed for so many people. And with an unknown journey of many days ahead of them that number was limited.

"A little under 1200 now sir," Zimmermann replied dryly. "At this rate we are already past the ten percent safety margin. If we have to milk it all the way to Wolf the air is going to get pretty stale. That is it sir." Zimmerman concluded sadly. The Fearless' environmental system would have to provide breathable air for over double the ship's normal compliment; and the system would have to clean the carbon dioxide gases exhaled by the additional people.

"There are still over 500 survivors between the Hunt and the Star Bucket," Oulette sighed. "Merde! We can only hope they will be taken prisoner."

The refugee ships had barely made the location of the former Earth space station with the fuel they had carried. The Hunt and the Star Bucket would go no further. The Fearless was in little better shape: But they had the fuel to make it to the Wolf system; barely.

"Sir," A marine exclaimed as he ran up to the commander of the Fearless. Oulette severed the communication between his first officer and Pierre's position at the airlock. He turned to the marine and asked what the young woman wanted.

"Sir, we discovered some families in the lower hold. The governor had told us those areas had been evacuated!"

The governor of the Deneva colony had struck Oulette as a particularly officious little bastard. The man had insisted that his staff along with his self be rescued first. Oulette had issued the ancient order for women and children first. The commander of the Fearless was dismayed to see much of the governor's staff was male. True; some of them had their families in tow—but not all.

"Let us see these people," Oulette said as he left. A call came in on his handheld.

"Sir," Zimmermann's concerned voice game out of the small speaker. "Enemy force detected. Same readings as before; they are headed to this position at warp 1.5. I think it is a random sweep. They probably expected survivors to marshal here."

"What is the time Len?" Oulette asked referring to their enemies ETA.

"Ten minutes sir," Zimmermann replied bluntly. "You need to get out of there two minutes ago!"

Oulette acknowledged the concerns of his first officer. The big French-Canadian captain picked up his pace to the cargo hold. Grizz knew that they could undock and depart before their enemies arrived. Oulette arrived at the cargo hold in question.

Men and women greeted him with concerned and outraged cries. Oulette counted 14 children in the crowd much to his dismay. All of the children should've been evacuated to the Fearless.

"Get us off of here!" A nameless man cried.

"For God's sake man don't leave us here!" Another exclaimed.

"Calm down! Calm down!" Oulette bellowed out. "We are past maximum capacity. There is no guarantee that anyone will make it back now before we all suffocate."

A young man and his pretty companion were speaking emphatically to each other in hushed tones. Both were arguing at a feverish pitch when it seemed like they had come to a decision. The woman walked over to Oulette bearing a small child in her arms. The young sleeping girl was no more than four or five.

Sir, sir, captain," The woman said in pleading tones. "Take the children!" She started to hand her small bundle to Oulette. "Please don't let her here. Me and my husband will stay!" The young man joined his wife. A look of quiet resolve was on his face.

"Wait wait," Oulette cried backing up. The big Stellar Navy officer had confronted Denevian slime devils and the wraith spores of Topaz but he backed up from the small curly haired child as one would a box full of earth cobras.

"I am a spacer! I am no father! I have no wife! I know nothing of…children!"

The woman looked at Oulette's name patch emblazoned on his Canadian flightsuit. She shook her small daughter awake. "Katy, this is your Uncle Pierre," She said as she pushed the small brown haired child into Oulette's arms. Tears streamed down the young mother's face. "He will, he will take care of you." She said with a pleading look in her eyes.

Grizzly hesitantly accepted the small bundle. He heard Zimmermann's call of five minutes. The couple kissed their daughter and assured the girl that they would join her soon.

"Evacuate the children," Oulette told the young marine. The commander of the Fearless was aware that the extra lungs, no matter how small might doom them all. But he could not deny the parents need.

"Her name is Katherine," The husband told Oulette. "We have no relatives on Earth. Please sir, take care of her!"

Oulette sighed and agreed. There were screams and cried of grief as parents shoved their children away. Grizz helped the marine herd the small ones along as he carried young Katy in his arms. The airlock of the Fearless sealed behind Oulette, his marine and the last tiny refugees.

"Take us out of here number one!" Oulette commanded over the intercom. He made his way to bridge of his ship.

"Something you would like to tell us sir?" Zimmermann asked as the first officer eyed the small bundle in his captain's arms.

"This is not a laughing matter number one." Oulette declared. The girl clung to her new 'uncle'. Oulette could feel her trembling. He whispered the same comforting words to the child as his mother had spoken to him many times in his native Quebecois. He turned his attention back to his ship. "Go to warp!"

The Fearless was away; cruising the multi-dimensional boundaries of subspace. Behind the escaping Stellar Navy ship the Hunt and Star Bucket both maneuvered slowly with their chemical thrusters. Thirty-three green ships elongated in a flash then returned to normal size as they dropped to normal space. There was a short pause. Less than a minute later two small objects were ejected from two of the newcomer ships. The small cylindrical objects made their way with deliberate speed to the lumbering earth ships. Both of the refugee freighters became small miniature suns for brief seconds then were no more.

"Call a doctor or nurse to my cabin number one," Oulette said sternly as he rose from the captain's chair still bearing the small child. The bridge crew sat in silent anger and sadness: They had just witnessed the wanton destruction of the freighters on scanners. "And find out where Governor Wilson is. I wish to have words." Oulette added ominously.

UES Beagle enroute to the Wolf system Apr 2156

Stiles sat at Capt. Huang's desk. The lieutenant felt like she was dead. In some small part of her mind she wished for the final sleep. But Stiles pushed that thought away rejecting it utterly. That was the coward's escape; nothing more nothing less. The emergency action messages were coming in. They were days old. Earth was at war. The green birdie ships as Jocelyn had christened them had been busy. Stiles had calmly poured over the decoded messages until she had reached one in particular: It was a message to avoid the space of Salem One. The station was reported to have been destroyed with no survivors. David.

Somehow she knew. Somehow Stiles guessed that is what her dream of a few days ago had been about. She was not one to believe in superstition but she remembered an eccentric Creole aunt who claimed that she was a jujuwoman. The lady had always spooked a young Jocelyn who would run to her room when the aunt came for visits. Her mother had insisted that Auntee Krister could see certain things that others could not. Jocelyn sit in Capt. Huang's desk chair feeling the same numbness that had possessed her during the attack. She looked frozen as she stared at a small picture of her and her fiancée. Maybe somehow he was still alive. But somehow in the core of her being Stiles knew differently. The door chime sounded. After some moments it chimed again. She hit the door release button under Huang's desk. Ensign Terrell Owen ducked his head in the low hatchway and walked in. Stiles had appointed the man as her first officer.

Mary Vong was serving as navigator along with Marilyn Peaks. Chief Allen manned the sensors along with a relief technician. Devon Foster was cooling his heels in the Beagle's small brig along with a few other of his cohorts who had been rooted out. Stiles had struck out for Salem One first. That was until the emergency action message had come in. She had checked with Chief Davis who had concluded that the Beagle could perform a low consumption cruise to Wolf; but no further. The old navy enlisted man had used the ancient expression 'flying on fumes' for their anticipated fuel state upon the Beagle's arrival at Wolf.

"Sir, Ensign Owen reports!" The Starfleet graduate declared crisply. When Stiles made the necessary responses she invited the man to sit down. Her first officer, somehow the thought of that term was as unreal as everything else was in this situation, sat opposite Stiles. He had a large clipboard scrawled with writing.

"Sir I have the morning dispatches as well as the crew report." Terrell seemed to hesitate.

"Say what is on your mind Terry," Stiles said softly.

"Sir, the crew wants to know what is going on. I think it is time you addressed them. There is a lot of curiosity and rumors. They told us at the academy that was bad for morale."

"At my academy too Terry," Stiles replied with a sigh. "Okay I'll be up to the bridge in five minutes let me finish this last message."

"How bad is it?" Owen asked. He lowered his head seemingly ashamed of his apparent fear.

"You'll find out along with everybody else," Stiles told her first officer sadly. Then she continued in a strident voice. Jocelyn had been captain of both the academy lacrosse and basketball teams; she knew the sound of defeat in a person's voice. "You are doing a great job ensign! I know it is a lot to ask but this was a surprise for everyone. I can't think of anyone else who could do a better job Terry."

The ensign seemed to look more confident. He got up rendered the military courtesies and left.

Stiles made her way to the bridge as promised. She knew she had to rally the Beagle's crew. They were still many days from Wolf and from what she had read they might see more action enroute. Moments later she relieved Owen from the captain's chair and took his place in the chair. She glanced over Chief Vong's shoulder to see the Beagle's position and fuel state. Jocelyn took a deep breath. She closed the circuit engaging the ship's public address system.

"This is the captain. I have read through the dispatches. As some of the rumors say; we are at war. Two days ago we received word of attacks on Taskforce 15 and Space Station Salem One. Both were destroyed." At this last statement Mary Vong looked back at Stile's sharply. She knew. "Our colonies at Deneva and Topaz have fallen; no word on survivors except that the single surviving ship from Taskforce 15 rescued over 1000 refugees. President Thorpe asked for a declaration of war and the council granted it. We don't know who our enemies are. They have sent no word of their demands."

"But we do know they aren't invincible. They have achieved so much of this damage through ambush. We know; this crew knows they can be killed. And now that we know they are out there we will be killing them! I know many of you are afraid. Look to your friends and keep up your good humor. We will get through this! And we will do it by winning. These birdie bastards got the drop on us. No more! This crew has shown that their butts can be kicked! Look sharp people. In the meantime we are enroute to the Wolf system for fuel." And a new captain Stiles added to herself mentally. "I'll keep you advised of any new information. Keep up the good work folks—this might be a long war."

San Francisco, Earth May 2156

"Shran I can't believe this!" Thorpe said to the ambassador from Andor. "We have a mutual defense pact and you aren't coming to our aid?"

"I am as angry as you are Christophur," Shran replied bitterly. "The Guardsmen were ordered to full alert then the Caldonè issued their cowardly statement. This day I am ashamed to call myself Andorian!"

The statement the ambassador referred to was the Andorian governing body's rejection of military aid for Earth. Shran had said that the reason had to do with a fear of being brought into the war against foes who had thus far, done Andor no harm.

"Christophur no words of apology will suffice. Our Caldonè is more interested in how much tax money they can line their pockets with. War is an expensive business. The Shahar is even unresponsive. I imagine he to feels the shame of this betrayal like an ice dagger in his heart."

"First the Vulcans; now Andor!" Thorpe said burying his face in his hands. "Kelly sent me a communiqué from Tellar this morning. With the rejection for aid from both Vulcan and now your people the Tellarites are standing out as well."

Thorpe had not been surprised at the Vulcan reaction. The United Earth president was however angry at the callous manner of its delivery. Karzai had not even had the courtesy to come and speak to Thorpe in person. The Vulcan ambassador had instead issued his race's intent to stay out of the war in the form of a press release.

Thorpe was about to continue when Karl Ebenstark burst into his office in an uncharacteristic move. Thorpe's assistant usually knew better than to interrupt the president so Thorpe assumed the man had a good reason for his unannounced entry.

"Sir, turn on the news! It has just come in."

"What do you mean Karl?" Thorpe asked but he knew his assistant well enough to follow the man's lead. The president activated the vidcaster.

--started receiving the message on the subspace channels less than 5 minutes ago. It is being broadcast on a range of channels. For those just tuning in we have received a message apparently, this is unconfirmed, from our attackers. Here again is the message which seems to be playing in a continuous loop:

Praetor Karzan I am of Empire Romulan. Attacked and destroyed you have been will be. Back to your system withdraw. Shown you have been of our might. Back to your system withdraw. Allowed to live in peace you will be. Your only chance this is; withdraw, surrender. No choice you have to the Empire Romulan submit.

There you have it people of the Eart--.

Thorpe cut the display off. His communication panel lit up almost immediately. Thorpe picked the handset up.

"Yes I heard it admiral…mechanical sounding, the words were all out of sequence….filtered through some kind of translator…very well get the intelligence people on it and I want to read that report from Langley…yes good day admiral.

"So it is confirmed as your intelligence people have told you," Shran stated. "It is these Romulans. Does Karzai still deny knowledge of them?"

"He didn't answer my queries I sent over." Thorpe replied angrily. "And you know Vulcans; yes they won't lie but nor will they say the truth at all times! I told him we got the information from traders so the source was not cut off."

"I'm sorry Shran the young lady from the Beagle is here," Thorpe told his friend the ambassador. "And there seems to be little left to say."

"The chocolate-skinned warrior?" Shran asked. When Thorpe replied briskly in the affirmative it seemed like the meeting was over. Shran looked at his friend with sympathy.

"Christophur," Shran said as he rose. "Perhaps if you came to Andor and spoke to the Shahar; maybe then things would change."

"A sitting president running off to another planet during a time of war," Thorpe said shaking his head: "No, good day Shran." Thorpe said in a curt reply. The Andorian walked out of the presidential office. His antennae were drooping. Shran passed Jocelyn Stiles as the navy officer entered Thorpe's inner sanctum.

"Lt. Stiles," Christophur Thorpe got and greeted the young officer warmly. The president returned her salute and asked Jocelyn to sit at ease.

"It was my personal pleasure to sign your promotion orders to full navy lieutenant," Thorpe said with a smile. "You can't imagine what the effect of your victory has had. It has been showing on every vidcaster in the system. You are a real inspiration lieutenant."

Stiles looked down at her shiny boots. The president's inspiration, Jocelyn thought had spent the last ten days at home. Much of that time she had slept with her mother as she had when she had been a little girl. The heartache had still not abated. She could feel it even now; like anyone who had really lost someone they loved she felt the ache as a real pain.

"I wish I felt that way sir," Stiles replied morosely.

"I understand that you lost someone special to you on Salem One?" The president said in a voice full of sympathy.

"Yes sir," Stiles mumbled.

"It will take time Jocelyn," Thorpe answered. "May I call you Jocelyn?" When the officer answered in the affirmative the president continued. "It will take time. I know you have heard that endlessly but it is the truth." Thorpe knew his words were meaningless to the officer at this point so he continued onto a different topic.

"I know it is hard Jocelyn but I have to ask you if you could help me." When the young officer hesitated Thorpe continued. "We need a symbol. Your blowing up those three Romulan ships gave everyone hope. The recruiting stations are full; but we need someone to speak to the people—to give them a sense that we can win."

"I'm not sure that we can win sir," Stiles answered soberly.

"You're right Lt. Stiles," The president said after a few moments. "We know it is just a matter of time before we have to surrender. They obviously have accomplished their goals in destroying our forces." When he saw the young woman's look of shock Thorpe fell silent.

"What do you mean sir? If an Air Force academy graduate could take out three of those birdie bastards with nothing but an old freighter there is no tellin' what our navy could do if you turned them loose! Jocelyn was visibly angry. "I cain't believe the president of our world is talkin' about being beaten. We can fight those bastards—you are a sneaky bastard yourself President Thorpe." Stiles declared with a grin when she realized what he had done.

"If you can turn it on like that on the road you would go along way to rallying our people Jocelyn." Thorpe said. The president continued with a grin and mischievous twinkle in his eyes: "And yes thirty years of politics makes one a sneaky bastard!"

"I'm sorry about that sir" Stiles said quietly.

"Forget about it lieutenant," Thorpe declared firmly. "You spoke your mind. You have no idea how much I value people with candor. Don't ever stop being the way you are—on anyone's account!" Thorpe continued. "Now what do you say to my proposal?"

"My I think about it before answering sir?" Stiles said quietly.

"Take twenty-four hours lieutenant," Thorpe answered. "Enjoy some time in San Francisco in the mean time."

Christophur looked hopefully at the departing young woman. He had other matters to turn to though. This matter of the captain of the Fearless sealing former Governor Wilson of Deneva in an airlock and threatening to eject the politician; somehow Thorpe had to think of a way to save the angry officer from a court-martial and give him a commendation all at the same time.

Hangar 51, Ganymede, The cockpit of Lil' Nell II, May 2156

"Dilithium crystal matrix?" Maj. Jonathan Archer said commandingly as they ran down the checklist.

"Check," The Andorian Vanor replied.

"Matter/anti-matter injectors," Archer asked next.

"Check," The Andorian engineer answered.

They completed the rest of the pre-launch checklist in a matter of a few minutes. There was a pause of several minutes before the tiny experimental two-man spaceship would be launched.

"I want to tell you how much of a help your people have been," Archer told his Andorian copilot. "I'm sorry about what happened to Trax. Your people are really pushing yourselves hard with the double shifts."

Archer was recalling the Andorian dock worker who had lost his arm in a plasma torch accident. Ever since the declaration of war and Andor's and Tellar's refusal to join the war effort those aliens seemed to be spurring themselves on.

"It is the least we can do for your people," Vanor replied bitterly. "We should be out there at your side. We would be except for those cowards in the Caldonè—the m'tq' zor! They make us seem no better than pointies!"

"I appreciate that Vanor," Archer said. "I'm a little embarrassed to say I've had some of those feelings about…" The human officer trailed off.

"About aliens?" Vanor completed Archer's statement. "I can't say I blame you. The trouble with you humans is that you think you own racism and hatred. We Andorians would be no different were our situations reversed."

Archer had felt guilty since the loss of Trax's limb. Two days before the news from earth had relayed a story about a group of men in a groundcar who had cornered three Vulcan students returning to their compound in Sausalito. The human toughs had beaten the Vulcans to a pulp. The police had seemed reticent to look into the matter. Archer remembered having a passing thought that the Vulcans had gotten what was coming to them. Now the pilot regretted those feelings.

"I'm beginning to realize we have more in common than I thought," Archer told the engineer.

"Yes we do," Vanor said with a human looking grin. "And one of those similarities is a desire to go faster. Come let us go faster than anyone has before today!"

"Let's go!" Archer said as the dock tower signaled that Lil' Nell II was clear for launch. Between the aliens' help and that of Micah Brack's Boeing-Teledyne contractors they had gotten the old matter/anti-matter test bed ship out of mothballs. They had powered its reactor and after ten days here it was ready to fly.

The small barbell shaped vessel coasted out of the hangar. The little ship shot over the bowl-like horizon of Ganymede in a matter of seconds.

"Warp one," Archer said; "Engage."

The small ship stretched into a flash of light and was gone.

"Readings check good," Vanor announced. "Ready for a steady increase to warp two," The Andorian said as he watched a large collection of flight instruments. "Readings holding steady; warp two in three-two-one."

"Damn this something," Archer stated as he studied his readouts. "This is effortless compared to a fusion reactor powered drive. Steady on to warp three." Archer commanded as Lil' Nell's warp speed moved past the conventional safe speeds of even the most powerful of Earth and Andorian warships.

"Two point six," Vanor counted off the speed; "Two point seven, two point eight." The little ship started vibrating after the Andorian announced the last speed. The Andorian continued: "Checking the readings now."

"Press on!" Archer exclaimed wildly. Lil' Nell's speed moved to warp 2.9; faster than any manned ship had ever gone before. The vibration turned into a shaking.

"Could be the starboard nacelle I'm getting a slow plasma flow reading off of it," Vanor bellowed; "Warp three!"

"Standby!" Archer exclaimed as both beings literally felt like their brains were being shaken out of their skulls.

"It is the starboard nacelle; nothing we can't easily correct!" Vanor announced triumphantly. "It is causing a destabilizing effect on the warp field. Warp 3.1" The Andorian hooted with enthusiasm.

"Dropping back to 1.5!" Archer yelled out. The shaking subsided and stopped as the ship's artificial gravity caught its breath.

Human and Andorian looked at one another. The new power plant would be in the X in six weeks. No more frequent refueling stops. Unparalleled speed at their disposal with energy to spare for life support and ship systems; it was like a dream. The two beings shook hands in the human tradition. Lil' Nell dropped back to normal space for the return to its cradle.

Taskforce 12 enroute to the previous location of Space Station Salem One, May 2156

The small taskforce swam through the multi-dimensional region of subspace. Twelve ships comprised this small unit. The three Pioneer class cruisers; Pioneer, Sovereign and Gallant were augmented by the destroyers Al-Qahira, Wolverton, Milan and Charleston. The armed refueling tankers Kilimanjaro, Mauna Loa and Suribachi provided fuel for their more powerful partners. The taskforce was augmented by two small sixty-two meter long Archer class patrol ships. The Sickle and Machete needed frequent refueling to complete this long hop. The Archers would've normally seen solar system duty only.

Captain Frank 'the bastard' Buchanan stalked around his small bridge like a caged tiger. That was particularly hard since one could take about four steps at most before running into a wall or console. The wiry forty-five-year old was distinguished by the pock-marked skin of someone who had been exposed to too much radiation over their career. At 182 centimeters posessing a grizzled head of solid red hair the lanky captain of the Sovereign was a solid career navy man. His nickname was never said to his face and was only used with respect among his crew. The captain was angry. He was angry at many things.

"First the war then the Andies pull up stakes! I was just getting used to them too!" Buchanan groused. The thin man chomped on a foul smelling cigar as he spoke. He was interrupted in his rant by an NCO at the communication terminal.

"Sir I am receiving a distress call," The chief said.

Buchanan asked the woman to put it over the bridge speakers:

"—bayashi Maru, sector 11, coordinates 11021 by 11056 by 11213. We have stuck a piece of space debris and losing atmosphere. Repeat this is the--."

"Aren't too goddamned original are they," Buchanan said with a smile. "Number one!" The captain yelled.

Commander Michael 'Oliver' Cromwell turned away from his board. "Yes sir?" The commander was a medium height native of the British Isles. The normally quiet Glasgow native was usually said to be so unremarkable looking that he could fade into a crowd with no trouble. His nickname derived from the derision of people who discovered that his real middle name was Entwhistle. Cromwell preferred the moniker of the stern puritan from ancient Britain instead. The forty-two year old had been planning his retirement; that was until two weeks ago. He would have to endure a few more years in the navy he thought with a sense of resignation.

"Get me a reading from that area," Buchanan commanded. "I'm betting there is too much radiation to read anything; even with subspace scanners."

"Yes sir," Cromwell replied. "Miss Tonaka," Cromwell said to the Sovereign's sensor operator. "Report on scanner readings?"

"It is as the captain suggests," The warrant officer replied. "Sensors are clouded by the residual particles from numerous nuclear detonations."

Buchanan shook his head knowingly. "Number one; order the Gallant, Machete, Sickle, Milan and Charleston to holding. The same for our tankers. The rest of the taskforce will proceed to the coordinates. Once there, spool the buildup coils for warp entry." Buchanan turned to his gunnery officer Lt. Cmdr. Casimir Bem. "Cas, load up the tubes. Order the second wave to do the same. If intell is right those bastards need to close to 4000 kilometers to fire that beam. I want the Narwhals away before that—say 4500 kilometers."

"But sir," Bem protested. "That is outside the range of the missiles."

"I know that Cas," Buchanan replied with a twinkle in his eye as he relit his foul smelling stogie. "But it will give those birdie bastards a targeting nightmare. Once missiles are away I want to go back into warp—warp 1.5 for thirty seconds then drop out. Our entry into warp is the signal for the rest of the taskforce to warp in—except for the tankers. They should have targeting solutions since we will have drawn the Birdies out. The second wave will fire away; meanwhile we will head back in at full impulse since our buildup coils won't be able to generate another warp field for five minutes. Once we are in range the second wave will warp away except for the Archers—I know they can't. But they can play hell with the Birdies at close range. Same dance for wave two; one point five for thirty seconds then full impulse back. By the time they rejoin we fire one last salvo then max warp out. Even the Archers will have buildup by then. Stations people; let's make this happen!"

The bridge crew turned to their duties. The taskforce deployed as instructed. Minutes later the Pioneer, Sovereign, Al-Qahira, Wolverton, Milan warped away. Less than two minutes later they were at the coordinates of the endangered freighter. There was no freighter. Thirty-three Romulan ships elongated with a flash then returned to normal size. They advanced quickly on the United Earth ships. The Stellar Navy launched missiles; the ships' missile trails were visible as they sped to their targets. The Earth ships seemed to be stationary for a few seconds then they stretched away with a flash into subspace. The Romulan ships fired their plasma beams at empty space. A minute later the second wave of Taskforce 12 flashed into existence. They too fired their Narwhals. Thirty seconds later five Romulan ships were consumed in nuclear fireballs. The second wave repelled most of the incoming Romulan missiles with the exception of the luckless Gallant. That ship fell to an incoming Romulan missile.

The remainder of Taskforce 12 was back in range. The Sickle and Machete had accelerated towards the Romulan ships. The Archers' twenty kiloton Amazon missiles and pulse lasers played havoc with the Romulan cabbages. Two of the Romulan warships were destroyed while a third went spinning through space. The price was the destruction of the Machete when a Romulan point-defense missile sent the hapless ship into an uncontrolled spin. A fully powered Romulan plasma weapon reduced the wildly spinning ship to atoms. Missiles from the returning first wave of Stellar navy ships took their toll. Four more cabbages were destroyed. The Milan and Al-Qahira fell to Romulan weapons.

"The Sickle is reporting fully charged!" Cmdr. Cromwell exclaimed.

"Let's get the hell out of here number one!" Buchanan bellowed. Too late though a Romulan anti-ship missile fused for proximity went off less then one-hundred kilometers from the Sovereign.

The bridge crew heard a terrific single popping noise, every spacer's fear: Decompression. A fog formed on the bridge as the air vented out into space. Crewman ran for the hatch as it proceeded to close automatically. Cromwell tackled Buchanan knocking his captain to the deck outside of the bridge. A hapless ensign was trying to make his way to the closing hatch. Blood poured from his eyes; apparently something had exploded in the young officer's face. Olly Cromwell stepped back onto the bridge, and grabbed the ensign. When the officer was close enough to the exit hatch Cromwell roughly threw him across the threshold of the bridge hatch. Cromwell followed the ensign stepping over the threshold and losing his balance in the process. The first officer reached behind him to keep from falling.

Cromwell felt an intense pressure in the arm that he had used to stabilize himself. The first officer of the Sovereign heard someone screaming. Michael realized it was himself. Something warm and wet hit his face. He realized sickly before he passed out that it was his own blood spraying from the stump where his right arm used to be. Mercifully unconsciousness took the native of the British Isles.

Langley, Virginia, Earth May 2156

"What have we got," Capt. Erica Soames asked her team.

"Nothing on the ultimatum," Frank McCoy stated. "Fed through some kinda voice processor we do know that."

"Weapons?" Soames asked. The intelligence captain was tired and it showed.

"Better news on that," Alvin Crosby responded. "Despite the loss of the majority of Taskforce 12 we have determined that this plasma beam needs time to fire; and to recycle for a second shot. It is also range limited. Also it looks like their missiles, though dangerous are comparable to ours. We can defeat them—sometimes."

"That explains why they couldn't fire their plasma weapon at the Beagle," Soames conjectured. "Not enough time to power up."

"We experimented with the same thing over ten years ago." Crosby continued. "The idea was to chamber a mass of plasma then accelerate it out along a highly charged magnetic field. The power consumption for something like that is enormous."

"What about these neutronium pellets?" Soames asked.

"Bad news there," Crosby answered. "MiG-Bell has an idea about building an enhanced Spider defense missile. Analysis suggests they eject these pellets; that defeats Narwhals of course. If we had a longer range; cheaper missile we could clear the path for the big boys then."

"They are bipeds," Gupta declared. The Indian related the tale of Private William Walters; the young marine had been found near dead of dehydration and radiation sickness. But he had escaped the slaughter of Deneva. The marines NBC mask had picked up the video of the intruders and transferred it to hard storage aboard the Minotaur's computer. Tarang continued:

"That probably means they have a similar ancestry to us. For whatever reason bipedal mammals seemed to have taken root throughout our small part of the galaxy. Perhaps that means similar psychology. Certainly an empire suggests some sort of structured government."

"But you don't know that," Lt. Crosby interjected. "Hell they could be bipedal plants or rocks for all we know. That is the thing here—we have no information. We need to know what these Romulans are thinking. We need to know their psychology."

Soames looked sharply at Crosby after the lieutenant said that.

"We have my contact's data wafers," Gupta declared.

"Which we do what with?" McCoy asked skeptically.

"Attack," Captain Erica Soames said quietly. The others looked at their commanding officer intently.

"What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room. A Marine Taskforce is going to depart for the Wolf system in three months—apparently. Instead they will make for Galorndon Core. Before reaching there they will refuel with what looks like a Denobulan freighter just short of Qualor. The ships in this taskforce have been specially modified to carry every kilo of deuterium they can. From the refueling IP they will proceed to the coordinates Lt. Gupta's contact has indicated as the Romulan homeworld."

"That is suicide!" MSgt. Frank McCoy and Lt. Gupta exclaimed simultaneously. McCoy continued: "They could bag enough fuel to get there; but there will be none for a return trip!"

"No," Soames said. The usually jovial captain bowed her head in sorrow. "They will have enough to make it to the Klingon frontier."

Everyone in the room seemed to shiver visibly at the mere mention of the Klingon Empire.

"Is that any better?" Crosby asked quietly.

"The Klingons have sent one message out in linguacode since the start of the war." Soames replied. "Honor goes to the victor," The intelligence captain recited. "We have no reason to believe they would reject our presence. Rather they would help us is another matter."

"What are they going to do there?" McCoy asked soberly meaning the marine assault force.

"You've all seen the pictures from Tara's wafers," Captain Soames stated. "They show what we all have agreed is probably an orbital shipyard. It is the intent of our force to destroy that; more importantly to show the Birdies we can take the battle to them."

Nitka, Crimea Earth Jun 2156

The old Russian Federation airbase had seen its better days. Stiles looked at the small cylindrical craft parked on the tarmac under camouflage netting. It was not known if the Romulans could survey the Earth; but news agencies had that access. The Minotaurs were hidden as well as they could be. Five of the craft were visible; another of the craft was visible through the partially opened door of an ancient hangar. The heavy metal doors were covered with rust and decay. Stiles found the barracks she had been looking for.

Most of the old wooden barracks were empty. A few showed signs of recent habitation; dour looking blinds were evident in some of the windows. A barbecue grill looking like it was in reasonable good condition sat outside of the doorway that the US Air Force officer entered. The savory smell of recent use wafted off of the time-tested cooking appliance. Stiles ticked off the numbers on the doors. All of them had been recently painted on. Jocelyn got to number seven; she stopped and knocked on the old hinged door. There was a sound of someone moving around inside. Moments later a disheveled Lieutenant Devon Foster opened the door.

"Jo-jo!" The marine exclaimed in surprise. "I mean Lieutenant Stiles; congratulations you deserved that. You got us out of my foolishness."

"Jo-jo is fine," Stiles answered without expression. She continued in a more strident tone. "That was a mistake on the Beagle; anyone could've done that. After all who would believe that another species would take a shot at us? You thought like a human would; who in the world would shoot at us? We wouldn't do something like that to another species. But Devon; you made a mistake. Committing suicide is not the answer!"

"It's not suicide Jo-jo!" Foster declared. "Look thanks too for doctoring the log and talking to people. Just a few people on the ship really knows the whole story." Stiles mumbled a reply after which Foster continued:

"I guess you found out with your presidential connections?" Foster asked sarcastically. The lieutenant softened his tone. "I'm sorry. I know you are doing your part—we all are. Look I have to do this. Yeah, what you are thinking; to make up for my piss-poor decision making on the Beagle. But more than that we need to strike back at those sons-a-bitches! For what they did to Taskforce 15 and Salem One; you of all people should know that, should want that. And God knows the reports of the survivors from Topaz and Deneva—I mean Christ neutron bombs and nerve gas. I've heard from the Corp intell officer here that they think over five million people were killed. Killed just like that! No reason, no demands, no warning just cold blooded murder. I'm glad the president did not give in to them!"

Foster was referring to President Thorpe's reply to the Romulan message. The leader of Earth had been short and to the point. He had refused the Romulan demands. Thorpe had stated again that there was no provocation for the attack. The president had gone on to say that the people of Earth demanded redress. The United Earth president had ended his reply with an ominous warning for the Romulans: Earth had not started the war; but Thorpe intended for his home world to finish it.

"He wouldn't have done that!" Stiles protested. "The president never considered giving in." Jocelyn returned to the matter at hand. "Do you think you'll get back?" She asked incredulously.

"We'll have just enough fuel to make it to Klingon space," Foster replied. The marine smiled. "Look Jo-jo let's not fight. This is something I have to do. I'm not trying to be a hero; this is just a job that needs doing."

"What did you expect me to say Devon?" Stiles asked sadly.

"Wish me luck lieutenant!" Foster declared. He continued mischievously. "I'll see you again in a few months then maybe I'll be the one with the cushy presidential spokesperson job!"

The marine stuck out his hand. Jocelyn extended hers hesitantly then embraced her former shipmate instead.

"You come back you damn stupid jarhead!" Stiles cried. "That is an order!"

The two separated. Stiles excused herself after planting a kiss on Foster's cheek. Stiles turned and left; she left the marine standing alone in his barracks room. The marine said to his closed door:

"You forgot wish me luck."

Taskforce 25, outbound from Mars enroute to Tarod, Jul 2156

"You are one lucky bastard Grizz," Leonard Zimmermann told his commanding officer who was also the commander of Taskforce 25. "You almost kill a planetary governor and you turn around and get promoted!"

"That is Commodore Bastard to you!" Oulette replied. "And what are you complaining about? Besides a lack of follicle fortune you have done quite well out of this situation Captain Zimmermann." The big French-Canadian put an emphasis on the word captain.

One of Oulette's first acts as a flag officer had been to promote his former first officer. The Fearless was now Zimmermann's ship except for Oulette's decision to use his old Pioneer class cruiser as his flag ship.

"It just smacks of cronyism is all," Zimmermann said in a jovial tone of voice.

"You are my crony," Oulette replied with a grin. "Have you all along been laboring under the illusion that you earned your rank through your meager talents?"

"I suppose you got me there!" Zimmermann replied. "Speaking of meager just what are we supposed to do out here?"

Oulette explained the operational orders he had received. Taskforce 25 was to harass the Romulans to the utmost of their ability while incurring a minimal loss of ships and crew. They were also to gather intelligence in an attempt to guess their adversaries next move. The truth was that the United Earth Stellar Navy was in trouble. Years of budget cuts had taken their toll on the space navy. New ships were being built since the outbreak of the war; so the military personnel had been promised. Ships promised by many of the same politicians who had fattened their regions' budgets with the cuts from the military's budget; but it would be a year or more before the new hulls showed up. The same was true for crews; yes the recruiting stations were mobbed, but one did not turn out an experienced naval officer or enlisted person in a year or less. In the meantime the few remaining ships and their crews were all that stood between Earth and disaster.

"It is strictly hit and run Len," Oulette continued. "We must somehow pull a rabbit out of our hats and make our forces look more than what they are."

The taskforce under Oulette's command consisted of the Fearless, the Pioneer class cruisers Pioneer and Ironsides. Three Amarillos accompanied the larger Pioneers they were the: Wolverton, Charleston and Kursk. The taskforce was made complete with the armed tankers Vesuvius, Suribachi, and Kilimanjaro. Much of the force consisted of the survivors of Taskforce 12. The navy was scrapping together what they could these days.

"Any ideas floating around in that head of yours?" Zimmermann asked his commander.

"We are going to SN1572," Oulette explained. "We know from the Maxwell expedition that supernova remnants interfere with subspace radar. From what intell has told us the Birdies rely on radar. Also the Bastard reported that when he engaged the Birdies several of the cabbages seemed to light off like a skyrocket. Intell thinks they were carrying deuterium and have to refuel much like us." Oulette paused and took a deep breath as he got ready to continue to deliver his plan. "A likely low consumption route from either Romulus or this Cheron just happens to pass very near to SN1572."

"So we wait in the supernova remnant and teach the Birdies how an ambush really should be done." Zimmermann concluded sardonically. When his CO nodded in the affirmative Leonard took the time to change the topic to a more personal one.

"What about the child?" Zimmermann asked Oulette.

The commander of Taskforce 25 sighed and then told what had transpired at his parent's home in Montreal:

"When I suggested to Merè that we should put Katy up for adoption I thought for a minute that she was going to flail me!" Oulette replied recounting the incident with his parents. "My papa gave me that 'you ought to know better you silly stupid man look'. Merè said she would not turn the child over to one of those agencies. My parents have elected to keep the child. We had to explain to Katy that she would not see her parents again." Oulette sighed. His face clearly showed that the memory was a painful one. "I would rather have faced a fleet of these Birdies than have done that Leonard. I tell you starship command is much easier than dealing with children."

Zimmermann laughed. Although the captain was a career navy man he had met a radiant and tolerant woman in 2144; tolerant of her husband's frequent and long absences. Zimmermann and his wife Felicia had had a girl and boy. Leonard had not been there as much as he would've preferred but he had never failed to miss the important parts of his children's lives.

"You are discovering the things I always told you about," Zimmermann told his friend. "I only hope we all get to see them again."

"We will my friend," Oulette replied. "One must have faith."

San Francisco, Earth, Jul 2156

"Ah Capt. Soames," The president rose and saluted the intelligence officer. Admiral French rose from the chair where he had been sitting opposite the president. Thorpe returned her salute and shook her hand. Thorpe invited the officers to sit down and all three took their seats. The president made some small talk as he usually did with his guests then the chief executive of the United Earth government got down to business.

"What is the situation?" Thorpe threw the question out to his Naval Chief of Staff and the intelligence officer. Capt. Soames deferred to French since he was the ranking officer.

"With the destruction of Taskforces 12 and 15 we lost too many hulls. There has been little contact with the Romulans since the destruction of Taskforce 12. Several freighters who did not receive the recall notice in time have went missing. In the meantime we are building up our defenses around Centauri, Terra Nova and Earth."

"Do we have any idea of the Romulans' next move?" Thorpe asked.

"None sir, they have given us no clues as to what they are up to," French replied.

"Perhaps if you sent probing forces out?" Thorpe inquired sharply.

"And leave our remaining colonies and Earth unprotected?" French stated rhetorically. The bearded admiral continued. "In fact I take issue with you going behind my back and ordering Taskforce 25 out; and under the command of a lunatic who should have been court-martialed!"

"Admiral please don't point out my lack of military experience," Thorpe said angrily. "We have been down that road before. But I know we just can't sit here and do nothing. I don't want to find out what the Romulans are up to after they have done it to us! We may be looking at over five million casualties as is." Thorpe looked at Capt. Soames. The thin blonde officer nodded somberly.

"Most of the survivors were from Deneva; for whatever reason some managed to make it off in time. Rather the Birdies got their timing wrong or it was divine intervention we just don't know right now. But the ships climbing out of Deneva recorded lethal levels of radiation consistent with what a bombing would've done to both continents. Also some lucky colonists had taken up in a cave. There are accounts that the few survivors were exposed to some sort of gas—lethal. There is no reason to believe they would've spared Topaz from the same treatment. "

Thorpe buried his face in his hands. Then he looked up and declared grimly: "They knew enough about our physiology to kill us."

"Our conclusion as well," Soames added. "They have probably been conducting covert surveillance. We might also assume that some of the personnel on the lost freighters were," The intelligence officer hesitated: "Were experimented upon."

"Very well," Thorpe said sadly. "Is there any good news—at all?"

"Sir I was wondering if you had heard about the Bas—Capt Frank Buchanan's plan?" Soames inquired.

"That idea has been quashed as the nonsense it is!" Admiral French interjected sharply.

Soames looked between the president and Admiral French in confusion. Then the native of the British Isles grew quiet. French continued the presidential briefing with a litany of ship distributions in Sol, Alpha Centauri and Wolf 359. Finally the president asked his guests for their final thoughts. French said nothing. Captain Soames spoke up:

"Sir the problem here is a lack of knowledge. If we knew who these Romulans were; what their psychology was; maybe the--."

"What are you proposing Captain?" French said cutting the intelligence officer off. "Sending ships on some fool's errand when they are needed to defend our worlds?"

"I'd like to hear more about this Buchanan--," Thorpe started to say when French interrupted the president.

"Sir with all due respect, this officer Buchanan is another unconventional fossil; much like Oulette. Do you know he, this Buchanan smokes cigars on his bridge—most uncouth. This is another crazy scheme about going on the offensive. Well sir; if you do that then you risk this planet and everyone on it! We are in no position to go on the offensive!"

"I tend to agree admiral," Thorpe replied with a sigh. The president rose. "Very well unless either of you have more then I must move on to my next appointment." Neither officer had anything to add. They saluted and made their ways to exit when Thorpe spoke up:

"Erica," The president called to Capt. Soames. "I understand you are somewhat of a gardener, would you stay back a minute my wife has questions about some rose bushes."

The intelligence officer froze for a second, looked puzzled then acknowledged the president's request. Soames bid French a good day then turned to President Thorpe as the door shut behind the exiting admiral. Thorpe beckoned the captain to resume her seat.

"Sir with all due respect if I touch a plant it dies!" Soames said with a chuckle. "If we find out the Birdies are plants then I am the natural choice as a secret weapon!"

"Very funny Captain," The president said with a chuckle. "But I also know you are no idiot and you know I didn't call you back here to discuss my wife's roses. Tell me first about this Buchanan and his plan. It is the first I've heard of it."

Soames launched into an account of Buchanan's suggestion to modify tankers to carry the small Minotaur craft. The converted tanker/carriers could then stand off, launch a force of Minotaurs, recover them and warp back to safe zones. Erica was explaining the plan in detail when Thorpe interrupted:

"Wouldn't that deplete the tanker force?"

"Buchanan is a character," The intelligence officer confided. "But he has also been called a tactical genius in some circles." Though she did not say it Thorpe got her inference that one of those circles was not Admiral French's. Erica continued. "He wrote a piece for _Space Power _where he analyzed the tanker force and said we have an overage; by as much as twenty percent. If the president wants I could review the numbers but his conclusions are pretty solid."

"I'll take your word for it Captain," Thorpe sat back idly rolling a stylus between his fingers. Finally he looked at Soames and continued. "You mentioned finding out more about the Romulans. How would we go about that?"

"Sir, Admiral French is right there," Soames said lowering her gaze for a moment. "We would need a large force with tankers to make the trip. All that metal and subspace distortion would be easy to pick up. We have an idea of their borders based on the information we obtained from our Vulcan contact. But the time and fuel to go around there—go in the back door as it were. No; if we just had ships with more unrefueled range." The captain fell silent.

"If such a ship," The president hesitated; "Or ships existed. Who would you suggest goes—hypothetically of course?"

"Names?" Soames asked. The intelligence officer thought for a moment then answered. "I'd have to dig up some specific names. But we would need the top person we have in xeno-biology; same for xeno-psychology and physiology. A linguist, someone like that Sato woman in Brazil; or even better one of my officers is engaged to a French mathematician. That young lady has a grasp of languages and she could also fulfill the cryptologist's role quite nicely. Of course an engineer who is adept with alien systems would do nicely as well."

The president was nodding intently as he scribbled some notes on a pad before him. He looked up and asked:

"Say nothing to no one Captain. But I would like you to put this list of names for this hypothetical journey down somewhere. Find primary people to fill the roles and alternates as well. Picard—that is the woman; I've heard of her work. When you have completed the list send it to me—and only me!"

Thorpe rose and asked Soames if she had any questions. When the intelligence officer indicated that she did not Thorpe bid her a good day. Thorpe walked over to the large window overlooking the bay. It was a warm sunny day in San Francisco. But Thorpe was thinking of the chances that Earth could be looking at defeat. The president of the United Earth government shivered despite the warmth of the day.

Walston City, Terra Nova, Wolf 359 system, Rusher Military Medical Facility, Jul 2156

Cromwell moved the mechanical monstrosity where his arm had been. It looked like his old arm. But the commander could feel nothing with it. Cromwell could will the substitute limb to do things for him much like he had with his flesh and blood arm. But he had to be careful; he either ended up dropping things or crushing them. He thought that it would be a long time before he could caress a woman. Not that he ever would now, Cromwell thought; now that he was a mechanical monster. For so he thought himself as he moved the mechanical limb again. The former first officer of the Sovereign was trying to grasp a bottle of water when his former commander walked into Cromwell's room.

"Getting along good?" Frank Buchanan asked his ex-first officer.

"As well as could be expected sir," Cromwell answered laconically. The bottle fell to the floor.

"It is your fault Olly!" Buchanan chided Cromwell. "Why you had to go and knock my ass out of the hatchway is beyond me. I'm not one to go down with the ship; I want the enemy dumbass to go down with his ship! I suppose to you could've let Ensign Sanchez on the bridge; ensigns are plentiful."

"I guess so sir," Cromwell sad quietly.

"Well don't expect to spend the rest of your life sitting around," Buchanan said quietly. The captain produced a data wafer and a sheaf of papers from the pouch he was carrying. "New orders for you bucko; I cheated and looked."

Cromwell visibly perked up. One of the things the man had been feeling was abandonment. Cromwell felt that the navy would medically retire him once he was healed. What could a one-armed man do in the space navy but get others killed Cromwell reflected bitterly.

"Well are you going to make me wait sir?" Cromwell asked. It was the most boisterous his voice had been in the weeks since the wound. His former CO presented Cromwell with the wafer and papers.

"You; my friend are going to Ganymede," Captain Buchanan stated. "I don't know what you will do there. I tried asking through the grapevine and was told if I ever mentioned Ganymede again I would likely be court-martialed and executed."

Cromwell visibly sank back into his malaise. Great the wounded officer thought, probably a maintenance officer gig or some other useless function. Michael would be a decoration on a wall somewhere until he retired. Cromwell sighed and thanked his former commander. He did not even look at the paperwork that Buchanan had handed to him.

"You should look at those orders and quit feeling goddamned sorry for yourself," Buchanan said firmly. "There are a lot of people who are going to get killed in this war; and yes hurt like you were!" The Bastard studied Cromwell for a moment. "I can't meld like a goddamned pointie but I can tell what you are thinking. You ain't going for a window dressing job somewhere. The Stellar Navy doesn't hand out captain's stripes for that."

Cromwell was jolted out of his misery by that bit of information of Buchanan's. He looked sharply at his old CO.

"You're not speaking of a command?" Cromwell asked quietly.

"I was told to not ask about Ganymede," Cromwell said in a quiet conspiratorial voice. "But I didn't make it in this man's navy without keeping my eyes and ears open—and making sure I made a few friends in low places. Don't you ever repeat what I'm about to tell you or I'll cut off your other arm. There is a ship being built out there. Something that is hush-hush. That is all I know."

The news rather than brightening Cromwell's day just made him confused. But even that was better than the pessimism and self-pity the new captain had sunken into. The two men made small talk for several more minutes before Buchanan said good bye and excused himself. Cromwell got himself out of the hospital bed and tried picking up the water bottle again. This time Capt. Cromwell was successful. He smiled for the first time in weeks.

The steak was delicious. Billy Walters had never eaten this good in his life. And the doctors and nurses allowed him to eat whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. He looked down at his thin wrists as he cut another piece of meat. Good thing too, his normally seventy-eight kilo lanky frame had been reduced to a thin fifty-one kilos. Walters mused that he was lucky to be alive at all.

Walters had never completed his training on warp flight. After Walters' Minotaur's escape from Deneva Billy had found the coordinates for Station Salem One and inputted them. The marine private was unaware though that he needed to make corrections for variances. The Minotaur's limited fuel supply had run out spilling Billy back into normal space; light-years from his intended destination. It was a month before Walters had been picked up. A freighter crew who had received the recall orders in time happened upon Billy's lone craft.

The little Minotaur was not equipped for long space voyages. The atmospheric scrubbers worked quite well. But there was only a small store of emergency rations aboard the small craft. The marine rescue craft's water reclamation system had saved Billy from dying of thirst. The meager rations were gone in a week. Walters was contemplating suicide by the end of the third week. During the middle of the fourth week of Walters' lone exile in the craft the water reclamation system had failed. The air scrubbers had also exceeded their maximum capacity. Walter's remembered being told that the scrubbers could give a two-man crew one week of breathable air. Somewhere in the marine's hunger-induced delirium during his last week in the craft Walters had thought how proud the designers should be that their environmental system had exceeded their expectations. Walters had been in the process of eating his sidearm business end first, when the metallic clang had reverberated through the Minotaur. The Perfection had arrived just in time.

Walters was up to sixty-three kilos now. The marine was still weak, nonetheless he tried to spring to attention when the grizzled red-haired man with captain's stripes on his sleeves walked into Walter's room. The officer motioned for Walters to stay in bed.

"You're the crazy son-of-a-bitch who escaped from Deneva?" The captain inquired rhetorically. The officer stuck out his right hand. "Frank Buchanan!" Billy accepted the handshake limply. Walter's listened as Captain Buchanan continued.

"That was a nice piece of flying son. I know it was hell leaving your mates behind; we don't do that to marines. But you had no choice. The last hard copies of rips we got from Deneva said you had some raw talent."

Rip was the navy slang for a person's training record. Gunney Gibbs had always told Billy that his rip read like an obituary. Apparently the deceased Gunnery Sergeant had been goading Walters. Captain Buchanan read comments made by both Gibbs and Lt. Singh: Pvt. Walters shows an uncanny amount of raw talent in flying operations. Pvt. Walters should be offered a slot for advanced flying training upon completion of his Deneva assignment. Walters had to choke back tears as he heard the comments his now dead superiors had made about him.

Buchanan put the folder down that he had been reading from. The captain gave Walters an appraising look then continued: "You look like hell son. But the docs say you'll be a hundred percent in another two months or so. I have a proposition for you."

"I'm organizing a new kind of squadron. I need Minotaur pilots. The work is going to be long and hard and you'll probably end up dead. But it's a ticket back into the war. We are going to hit these birdie bastards back and hard! Interested?"

It was a lot for Walters to take in, finally he spat out: "Yes sir!" Walters had always wanted to be a pilot. He knew he could come close in the marines. As a private he would've been little more than a relief pilot; doing system runs at the most. But this offer was a lot more than he had ever hoped for.

"Good!" Buchanan replied boisterously. "I'll have your orders cut Mr. Walters. Get your ass fattened up in the meantime; get some meat on those bones. Is there anything you want while you are here?"

Billy thought about it for am moment: "A cold beer would sure taste good sir."

Buchanan had left shortly afterwards. Walters was lying in his bed looking unbelievingly at the warrant officer one bars on his dinner tray. The young marine was even happier though when an orderly brought a large glass of frothy, foaming yellow liquid in on a tray.

Hangar 51, Ganymede, Jupiter orbit, Aug 2156

"Good to see you again Mr. Brack," Major Jonathan Archer stated politely. "Are you up for an inspection?"

"Of course I want to see the X!" Brack exclaimed.

Archer had been busy coordinating construction gang rotations and finalizing engineering details with Trip. But the Air Force officer was glad for this diversion. In all of Archer's adolescence and academy time he never recalled his father telling him about the endless minutia faced by designers. Archer was still somewhat puzzled by Brack too. Vitamins, drugs and surgeries could offset the appearance of old age; that much was true. But the wealthy designer and CEO moved with a spring in his step that belonged more to someone forty years younger than Brack's stated chronological age.

"The engineering section is coming along," Brack said with a smile. The cylindrical section to which Brack was referring now had a skin over eighty percent of its surface. The primary hull was still a spherical skeleton.

"Thanks to Dis and Vanor we are six months over where I thought we would be!" Archer declared. "Vanor and Trip worked the bugs out of the mam reactor." Archer was using the shorthand that the team had been applying to matter/anti-matter reactors.

"That is another reason for my visit," Brack stated. "Lt. Tucker has been working with engineers from Deere-Mitsubishi. They are ready to start turning out SSWR-I's and II's reactors en masse. Their factory bosses need some creative help though for the final push."

"You are not going to ask what I think you are?" Archer inquired; his voice was rife with suspicion.

"I need one of your engineers," Brack said confirming Archer's suspicion. "I would ask for Vanor or Dis but aliens are not being greeted in as friendly a manner as was once true."

"They can't help what happened," Archer replied defensibly. "Neither the Andorians nor the Tellarites attacked us. I know there is some resentment about them backing out of the mutual defense pact. But that is not their fault."

"You have learned that Jonathan," Brack said. The man got a faraway look in his eyes. "Prejudice rears its ugly head again. It was not so long ago that horrible evils were committed on the European continent, later in the Middle East and America. Some things are hard to bury Major."

"That was a long time ago Mr. Brack," Archer replied.

"Yes, of course it was," Brack seemed to return to the present. A smile crossed his face.

"Okay I'll ask Trip," Maj. Archer declared with a sour look on his face. "I guess he'll appreciate some time back on Earth."

"Not Earth," Brack replied with a hearty laugh. "Tell Mr. Tucker to pack his bags for Mars."

"Mars?" Archer asked obviously surprised by the designated location. "What kind of factories are on Mars?" Mars had been settled decades ago Archer knew. But it had for the most part become little more than a way station for interstellar ships. Teams had begun terraforming the planet but it would be many decades before any progress would be visible.

"All in good time Major," Brack replied with a grin; "All in good time."

Las Vegas, Nevada, Earth, Aug 2156

She had become an expert at packing. Jocelyn folded her garments neatly and put them into her suitcase. This speaking job was in many ways worse than military duty; persistent traveling and long hours. But Stiles had asked the president to assign her to a combat ship. That was where she belonged, the lieutenant realized. The only thing she dreaded now was telling her parents. They had been so glad to see her when she got back. Many families of Stellar Navy personnel would ever see their loved ones again. Kendra Stiles had told her to try to 'keep her butt out of the fightin''. Then her brother had made the announcement: Henry Aaron Stiles II had signed on with the Starfleet Medical Corp. The news had come as a horrible blow to her parents. Jocelyn was in the process of thinking of the best way to break the news when she heard a knock at her hotel room door. The lieutenant padded over and opened the door. A look of surprise was pasted on Jocelyn's face when she saw who her caller was.

"Ambassador Shran!" Stiles exclaimed as she dug in her memory for the correct military protocol to use in greeting a foreign dignitary.

"Let us forget the niceties Lieutenant," Shran said upon seeing the Air Force officer's obvious distress. "I'm here to speak to you as one being to another." The blue-skinned ambassador looked into her room. "May I?"

"Yes, yes sir of course," Stiles replied gesturing for the ambassador to come in. Stiles shut the door behind the Andorian as Shran found a seat in the room.

"I know you are wondering about the purpose of my visit?" Shran said coming right to the point. When he saw Jocelyn's nod in the affirmative he continued:

"As you know relations between your government and mine are not good. I wish things were different. Our Caldonè is composed of the same type of short-sided narrow-minded pirate—politicians as some in your World Council are." Shran got up and started pacing. Stiles noted that his antennae were visibly flinching. "I believe Christophur is hurt by what he sees as a betrayal; rightly so. But I once said he needs to speak to the Shahar. I know it is a lot to ask him to leave his charge. But face it chocolate-skin, your forces are not doing well in this war."

Jocelyn knew the Andorian was telling the truth. Her position on the presidential staff had made her privy to a great deal of information. No one knew the Romulan force strength but the clues seemed to point to a carefully thought out attack from the Romulans. That led many to believe that the unknown enemy had an exact idea of the strength of the Stellar Navy and the force needed to defeat it. Stiles neither agreed nor disagreed with the Andorian when she asked:

"Why tell all of this to me Ambassador? When you get right down to it I'm just a lowly lieutenant jg who got lucky. The president has a lot of smart advisers. Why do you think he will listen to me?"

"You are a warrior, a leader!" Shran exclaimed. "Circumstances propel people like you to the forefront. I saw the recordings of your battle with the Romulans; how you held your crew together. A lowly soldier as you call it could not do as you did. You could convince the president to go to Andor. I believe you are a person he would listen to chocolate though you do not."

"Okay suppose I buy all of this," Jocelyn replied. Stile's father had imbued his children with a great deal of cynicism when it came to sale's pitches and politicians' speeches. "Why should the president go? A subspace message should do the same thing?"

Shran uttered a very human sigh. "Look chocolate, you don't know our society. We are a proud people. But we are a people with a sense of duty and morals. The Shahar is a titular ruler, that much is true, but his words have always held great meaning for our people. A comparison would be your ancient British Royal family or one of the Shahs or Popes. I received a message from Andor yesterday: The Shahar has not given the annual Call to the Hunt."

"Let me explain chocolate," Shran said when he saw Stile's obvious confusion. "Before the freeze Andorians from all tribes and social cells went on the final hunt for meat animals; to build up our larders for the long winter. This event was common among tribes even before the unison. This commonality helped bind us in the ancient times. It became the practice for our common ruler, The Shahar, to make a proclamation for this event. A Shahar has not failed to do so in over three-hundred years now—until now."

"Duty is important to us. The Shahar has traditionally refused to intervene in the Caldonè except for serious situations. That custom has become a duty. I believe Rastan's refusal to give the call was his way of protesting the Caldonè's act of betrayal of your people. I believe that were the leader of your world; were Christophur to go to Andor and call upon the Shahar, then Rastan might call the Guardsmen to action; or at the very least try to shame the Caldonè into action."

"Why don't you speak to President Thorpe?" Stiles asked pointedly.

"I am afraid that our friendship was hurt by what happened." Shran replied. The Andorian's antennae drooped. "But you chocolate—you have that rare gift to inspire others. You just are too young and foolish to see it yet."

"You're wrong about me," Jocelyn stated confidently. She sighed and took a breath. "I'm no leader or hero. I was just a scared girl who got lucky. It won't change anything but I'll talk to the president; just don't expect much Ambassador."

"Thank you choc—Lieutenant Stiles," Shran replied heartily. "There may yet be hope."


	4. Chapter 4

The Thin Gold Line

Taskforce 20, Outer planetary cluster, Alpha Centauri, Aug 2156

The small group of ships patrolled their assigned area. Captain Ronald King had found himself going from the commander of an Amarillo class destroyer to commander of a taskforce. King reflected that it was not quite a real taskforce. His small destroyer group consisting of his own ship the Xiaguan was accompanied by its sister Amarillo's the Kamina and Portland. King's group of three destroyers was in turn escorted by the Archers: Claymore, Barong, Lancer, Spear, Luger and Kalashnikov. They were assigned as the outer pickets for the small colony on Alpha Centauri.

Man's closest neighboring system had been discovered to hold little value. The second planet of the triple star system was the only one that had been found to be habitable; barely. The planet had been designated Centauri by the original explorers. The colonists who had chosen to live there had determined that 'hard scrabble' would've been a better name. But hydroponics and anerobic soil revitalization had helped the planet along. Man's nearest colony and outpost consisted of several small towns located about Centauri's equatorial region. Centauri was viewed as no jewel; but the navy leadership had determined that the nearest star to man's ancestral home could not be conquered—no matter the cost.

The small group was scanning away with subspace sensors. The new scanners were the one edge man seemed to have in this war. Thus far the Romulans had resorted only to ambush. Any attack against the Alpha Centauri system would have to be made in the open. Capt. King was aware of this fact. The Taskforce commander was also aware of just how thin the Stellar Navy's resources were spread. King hoped his tactics would work. The captain reflected on the old maxim about losing militaries that were trained to fight the last war; not the next one. The trouble was King groused, man had never fought a war like this before. There was not even a past war to use as a standard. King's revelries were broken by the voice of the NCO manning the sensors.

"Sir, scanning unknown ships," The enlisted man said calmly; "Three groups coming in on three separate tangents. Each group reads seven to eight ships; speed warp factor 2.0."

"Put it on the viewscreen," King ordered. Less than two and a half meters away King saw the graphic portrayal of the inbounds. Two groups were roughly ninety degrees apart while the third group was about two-hundred and seventy degrees from the other two.

"Call general quarters," King announced over the ship's PA. "First officer notify the remainder of our force."

The call went out. The taskforce began a slow withdrawal back to Centauri. King ordered them to drop out of warp just prior to the asteroid belt. The Romulan raiders likewise dropped to normal space. Video recorded the Romulan cabbages or jellyfish as they were becoming known, as the green ships overtook their prey just inside Alpha Centauri's asteroid belt. Two other small groups of Stellar Navy craft had been brought to bay at different locations inside the Centauri system.

"Guns target the Birdies," King ordered. "Tell me when you have a targeting solution; comm start the bird call!"

The Romulan ships paused; apparently to power up plasma beams when a flight of Amazon missiles with their twenty kiloton warheads seemed to come out of the asteroids. The small anti-ship missiles were followed by a flight of three additional Archers that had been hidden among the asteroidal debris. King's taskforce maneuvered for the cover of a large body of rock as Romulan plasma beams tried to destroy the Stellar Navy ships. Several things happened at one time: The Lancer exploded in a burst of intense light as it was hit by a plasma beam. Three Romulan jellyfish fell to Amazon missiles. The Kamina's aft section was hit completely blasting away one of the cruiser's Pachyderm warp nacelles. But the ship made it to protective cover spewing a trail of glowing red and white-hot debris. An Amazon missile fired from Xiaguan missed its intended Romulan target colliding instead with a plasma beam.

The Archers that had been positioned in the asteroids for the ambush recorded the spectacle of the small anti-ship's missile impact with the plasma beam. An incredible flash occurred causing a tremendous surge in the Archers' video systems to spill over into their sensor systems. The brave crews of the small patrol craft sat awaiting death. They were blind. But it did not come. When King's small flotilla emerged from behind the protection of the asteroid they found both the Stellar Navy's Archers and the Romulans in relatively stationary positions. Capt. King was not going to consider this gift for too long. He ordered another flight of Amazons away.

"Firing and away!" King's gunnery officer announced. Within a minute the Romulan raiders were vaporized. King called the other two units in the Centauri system. The Romulans had been repelled. The costs had been high: Six Archers and two United Earth Navy destroyers were no more. The surviving Archers' of King's group reported in with the news that they had been temporarily blinded.

King knew that the information would be in Intelligence's hands soon. Now if they could only figure out when the Romulans were about to fire their weapon; apparently the jellyfish had been as blinded as the Archers' had been. Maybe this was a turning point King mused. Or perhaps it was a false sense of hope. But Centauri was still Romulan free. That goal had been achieved. If they only knew how many ships the Birdies had, King thought bitterly.

Marine Recon Force 7, Converted Bison class transport Moskva, just past Qualor, Aug 2156

"Looks authentic to me!" Captain Mohammad Qaddoumi exclaimed as the two-hundred and fifty meter converted Bison freighter linked up with the boxy Denobulan freighter. When Qaddoumi's engineer reported contact the commander of the marine craft ordered the transfer to begin. Deuterium fuel poured into the tanks of the converted Bison. Qaddoumi rose from his chair and turned command over to his first officer. The captain wanted to see their Denobulan friends firsthand. The Saudi officer made his way to the ladder that led to the airlock where the two ships were linked together. When Mohammad saw a green ready light he opened the airlock hatch. A lanky dark-skinned Navy officer greeted him.

"Well, well, well," Commander Donald Townsend declared as Qaddoumi's head of short black hair emerged into the S'Vicqin. For a Denobulan ship the freighter's interior looked suspiciously like a converted Bison class freighter much like Qaddoumi's. "I always knew you would come to a bad end Q!" Townsend said in greeting to his friend.

"Do not speak of bad endings!" Qaddoumi replied emphatically. "It may be just our fate; should Allah will it!" The Arab officer changed the topic: "They did a great job on the Jade Queen!" Qaddoumi declared indicating Townsend's converted and disguised freighter.

"The crew voted to change the name," Townsend replied. "Unofficially of course, you are aboard the Queen Bitch. Admiral French would put us in for sensitivity training if he found out our new name. They not only made us pretty like a Denobulan freighter; they also installed two launch tubes for Amazons in addition to the primary tube for our Narwhals. We got two old Remington rail guns—mark fivers; not as potent as lasers but they don't need to recycle."

"Not exactly sporting eh?" Qaddoumi asked.

"I guess you figured our purpose out," Townsend answered. "We go somewhere and squawk emergency; SOS the whole works. The Birdies come swooping in—we hope. If they only dispatch one or two jellyfish we wait till they close then we show our true colors. If there are more we run like hell. We are hoping the Earth distress calls from a Denobulan freighter will make them pause."

"Just wait to the Denobulans find out what you are doing!" Qaddoumi shot back.

Townsend laughed like one who is in the know while his friend remained ignorant. Dawning realization came over Qaddoumi.

"The Denobulans—are they with us?" The captain of the Moskva asked incredulously.

"Not playing on the team—yet," Townsend replied with a rueful grin. "But let us say they are rooting for us from the sidelines."

"That is some good news!" Qaddoumi replied. "I suppose the populace really can't know that." Qaddoumi asked rhetorically. When he saw his fellow officer's nod he continued. "That is really too bad. People at home can't be good. The news about the colonies is only now getting out. The last subspace reports we monitored reported riots outside of the alien embassies."

"Things turn ugly Q," Townsend stated sadly. "We think we are finally civilized then something like this happens. People are throwing bombs and rioting. They are lashing out at what they don't know about. It didn't help that the Andies and Tellars turned their backs on us—no surprise about the Vulcans. How are the crews doing?" Townsend asked in a sudden change of the subject.

"Praise be to Allah for I have never seen such a brave lot." Qaddoumi answered. "They are running simulations and staying fit as best as they can given our cramped circumstances."

Qaddoumi's Moskva had been re-outfitted as well. The aft section forward of the engineering spaces had been stripped of cargo bays and crew quarters. In their place a rotating launch mechanism had been installed. Six of the fifty meter long Minotaurs were coupled to the rotary launcher. The arrangement made the marine fighter craft look much like bullets in the chamber of an old style revolver. Each Minotaur had a crew of three people: A pilot and co-pilot performed their traditional duties; in addition a flight engineer had been added. The addition of the engineer allowed the pilots to devote more time to flying. This need would become apparent when they arrived at their target. The engineer also operated the small ship's four nose mounted pulse lasers. The small crafts' normal compliment of sixteen Corsair attack missiles had been removed in favor of eight specially upgraded Amazon anti-ship missiles.

The rest of the Moskva was literally a flying fuel tank. A small room off of the bridge that normally housed EVA gear had been turned into a room for the Bison's small staff of ten officers and enlisted people. Hammocks were strewn in the few remaining narrow corridors. The sickbay had been reduced to the doctor's two and a half by three meter office space only. Sickbay also acted as the Moskva's one assigned doctor's living quarters. The marine crewmembers flying the Minotaurs took their rest in their small ships.

"You mean to make for Klingon space?" Townsend asked his friend pointedly. The captain of the Queen Bitch paused for a few seconds before adding ominously: "Afterwards."

"Are the details of our mission known to everyone?" Qaddoumi protested.

"It doesn't take a tactical genius to put two-and-two together." Townsend declared.

Mohammed sighed then said soberly: "That is our hope. We don't have the fuel for a return to our space. And it is hoped that the birds will not anticipate our taking up a course through Klingon space."

"And once there?" Townsend asked. Donald's skepticism was apparent.

"We hope to trade with the Klingons for fuel for the return leg." Qaddoumi explained. "Or even better finding a world where we can manufacture enough deuterium for the return trip."

"Capt. Townsend," A stern female voice spoke over the ship's public address system. "Refuel is complete. We are ready to decouple."

Townsend looked at his friend. The two men shook hands firmly.

"May the blessings of Allah be with you Mohammed," Townsend said to his friend as the Arab descended the ladder back into his ship. Qaddoumi paused and looked back at his friend.

"I know you are not a believer Donald," The captain of the Moskva declared. "But it means a lot that you would say that to me my friend. Good luck and good hunting to you Donald! Do not despair. You will see me again."

Qaddoumi's head vanished down the access way. Townsend closed the hatch of the Queen Bitch.

"Hatch sealed," Townsend announced over the ship's intercom. "Complete the final checklist and break seal. Let's get on with our next mission Margaret."

Red Rock Canyon State Park, north ranger station, Earth, Nevada, United States of America, Aug 2156

The sweat poured down Gupta's face. The Stellar Navy intelligence officer was disappointed that his friend had not scheduled their meeting in the relative air conditioning of the ranger's station. But the Indian could understand: This weather was probably as home-like as could be for the individual he was meeting. At forty-three degrees Centigrade it was hot. Gupta was no stranger to heat. His native India saw hot weather throughout much of the year. But that heat had humidity behind it. The heat at this western American desert park was like a blast out of an oven: Hot and dry. He saw his friend.

At least Tarang hoped they were friends. With Vulcans one could never tell. Before First Contact rumors abounded about black-eyed, gray-skinned, mouthless aliens. Then along came the Vulcans who with the exception of the ears, skin color and piercing eyes could pass for one's neighbor down the street. Those non-human qualities of Vulcans could be explained away or covered up rendering a Vulcan as human looking as any other inhabitant of Sol's third planet. So it was that Gupta could not help but to look at T'Pol as he would a handsome human female. At 165 centimeters with a pleasing face and a swath of eloquently cut brown hair; Gupta found T'Pol very pleasing indeed. But the officer reminded himself that he must not think those thoughts.

Tarang guessed that T'Pol was trying to stay inconspicuous. Besides the risks inherit in these meetings it had become quite dangerous for aliens to travel out of their compounds on the Earth. Angry people everywhere were trying to find some symbol for their hatred and frustration of the Romulans. It was sad that those people were finding that symbol in their former friends and allies. Tarang did not think a full length bodysuit and scarf covering her head was very inconspicuous in this desert inferno. But, the Indian reflected she could be mistaken for a traditional Muslim. Few of those remained after the enlightening but a few were still around.

"Good day," Gupta said in greeting. Tarang kept a straight face neither smiling nor frowning.

"Good day Lieutenant," T'Pol responded crisply. "I am glad you could meet me here. In better times many of us came here; with the exception of the blue sky it is a reminder of our home."

"So I thought," Gupta replied. "I know you must miss it."

"We do not feel it that way," T'Pol replied sharply. "It will be good to be in my home city again one day, of course. But we have no feelings of melancholy such as humans are said to experience."

"Of course," Gupta answered. The lieutenant quickly switched to another topic. "I want to thank you for the information you have given me. It is proving to be invaluable. The information you passed on about Cheron was most helpful."

"As we hoped," T'Pol said. The Vulcan woman seemed lost in thought for a moment then she said: "Do not look upon me as some sort of traitor to my people. There are those of us on Vulcan who wish for more contact with your people; with other species as well. Vulcans were in space for five-hundred years before we discovered subspace scanners. Your people in concert with the Andorians and Tellarites have made the same advances in little less than fifty of your years."

"Our universities have always been open," Gupta said. "Your people could have worked with ours."

"Many Vulcans thought it was hypocritical to study on Earth while we denied entry of aliens to the Vulcan Science Academy." T'Pol stated. The couple had started walking toward one of the park's fascinating lava rock formations for which the park was named. A group of young men were milling about formation taking pictures and jabbering away in what Gupta took to be a Slavic language. One turned and noticing T'Pol spoke to his friends. The group of four men started walking towards the intelligence officer and his Vulcan contact.

"Uh-oh," Tarang said. This did not look good at all. These young men were not aliens and their thoughts and feelings were readily apparent in their hostile faces. Gupta thought quickly. "Please do not take anything I do as an insult T'Pol." Gupta seized T'Pol's hand as one would a lover's.

"Is that a pointie?" One of the youths asked in an angry voice. "Bastards!"

"What do you mean?" An apparently surprised Gupta replied. "Do you mean my wife? How dare you insult my wife! She has been ill too!"

The young man looked carefully at the Vulcan woman then back at Gupta as the lieutenant put a protective arm around his newly acquired wife. The man looked back at his friends in confusion and embarrassment.

"I…I am sorry," The red-faced youth said as his anger was replaced by humiliation. "I thought, well never mind. I'm sorry."

"You are an idiot Punta!" One of the young man's friends exclaimed.

"I'm sorry," Punta said to T'Pol. The Vulcan nodded keeping her piercing eyes away from the youth's glance.

The group of youths left in a noisy flourish as Punta was lambasted by his fellow toughs. Gupta breathed an audible sigh of relief. T'Pol cleared her throat loudly. Tarang stood with his arm around the Vulcan until he realized that her throat was not dry but that it was a signal for her human companion to remove his arm.

"I'm sorry," Gupta said as he dropped his arm away from her. "I meant no disrespect."

"Of course not," T'pol replied as she looked deeply into the Indian's eyes. "You do know lieutenant besides the obvious difficulties an interspecies relationship would create that I am married."

"What?" Tarang asked incredulously. "But you never…you said, nevermind. I wasn't--." The intelligence officer took a moment to compose himself. "We should proceed with the purpose of our meeting."

"Yes I agree," T'Pol replied. The Vulcan looked around then produced a data wafer from a pocket of her bodysuit. "I think you will find this most interesting. I have included more information on the Klingon Empire as well as a more detailed Stellar Cartography report on subspace eddies. We hope it will aid your people."

"Do you miss him?" Gupta said in a sudden and drastic change of subject; "Your husband I mean."

"I have," T'Pol hesitated as Gupta had never seen her do before. "I have met him only once during our childhood. Vulcan's are mated as children. We meld with our prospective mate after the parents' approve of the arrangement."

"Arranged marriage?" Gupta exclaimed. The lieutenant's own society had had arranged marriages. They still went on in some parts of India Gupta mused.

"It was decided upon during Surak's time," T'Pol explained. "It would be hard for an outsider to understand. The wars of our people had finally degenerated into two groups. Those who followed the teachings of Surak wanted a more orderly way of doing things. The others," T'Pol hesitated, when she continued it was as one who is explaining an embarrassing fact. "The others would take their mates in rape. They were savage even by your standards."

"But now you are one people," Tarang said; "As we humans are."

"No," T'Pol said. Were she human Tarang would've thought that she was agitated. "They were driven away; out into space. We think they perished after their escape. We have found nothing of them. Surak expunged much of the history of them. To know that we were such savages became a deeply embarrassing fact."

"I will not inquire further," Gupta said courteously. "I suppose that is it then. Please allow me to escort you to the shuttle; for your safety."

"Agreed," T'pol answered as the couple made their way to the park's shuttle station. "I thoroughly enjoyed the food from your homeland. I would find it," Again she hesitated; "Pleasing to join you for a meal again."

Gupta waited as his clandestine contact boarded the Vegas-Frisco shuttle. When the intelligence officer saw her away safely he moved to view the station's board for the Vegas-Washington shuttle times. The officer had the times but a careful military man; he wanted to confirm his information. Her hand had been so warm in his Tarang thought and there had been an exchange he thought. For just a second he had felt another presence in his mind; it had been beautiful the Indian mused.

Taskforce 25, in the blow-off of SN1572, Sep 2156

The small force of Stellar Navy ships had been in their assigned location for two days now. Grizzly Oulette's engineer estimated that their hulls would start suffering serious degradation from the radiation of the cast off supernova in three more days. The commander of Taskforce 25 knew a Romulan ship movement in this small a timeframe would be a long shot. Nonetheless he was resigned to wait. Oulette was already working with his engineer to plot a low-fuel consumption route returning them to the nova remnants in two days should their quarry disappoint them this time. Grizzly finished the sheaf of reports that a Taskforce commander was required to check off. The commodore reflected angrily that it was more paperwork than he had performed as a ship captain.

Oulette glanced up at the picture of Katy hanging in the space where his desk folded into the wall. Merè had insisted he take the portrait of the child with him into space. Before his departure the child had picked up on the fact that others had hurt her parents. Papa had told the girl that it was monsters. Oulette knew he should be an enlightened human and try to understand the viewpoint of others. But his father was right: These Romulans were monsters. There was no reason for this attack. Merè had made Pierre assure Katy that he would keep her safe from the monsters. At the moment that promise was binding him more to his duty than his oath to the Stellar Navy had. Leonard had warned Oulette that children had a strange effect on adults.

Oulette signed his name on the final report: A disciplinary hearing on an enterprising enlisted chap who had been running a still on the Ironsides. Grizzly sent back his suggestion to Capt. Gazonis that he write the man up; then tear up the reprimand. There was a war on and navy personnel needed outlets. They might, after all, be dead tomorrow. Oulette had drunk some of the man's hooch that had made its way to the Fearless. The man had a future in the liquor distillation business after the war Oulette thought.

"Commodore to bridge!" Lt. Lisa Somers called over the ship's PA. Somers had the bridge watch for that evening. Oulette responded to the lieutenant. The big officer got up, took one last look at Katy's picture, and then folded his desk back into the wall. Oulette tugged the annoying gold navy jersey down once again. He departed for the bridge.

"Commodore on deck!" Capt. Leonard Zimmermann announced loudly. The captain had an enormous grin on his face. The captain had been making it a point to beat Oulette to the bridge just so that he could delivery that military courtesy.

"I told you to stop doing that, no?" Oulette chided his friend. Oulette made the three steps to the captain's chair slowly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the Stellar Navy cruiser's bridge.

"One must show flag officers the proper respect," Zimmermann said in a mocking official voice.

Oulette let fly with a French-Canadian curse then assumed the captain's chair. Lt. Somers had returned to navigation relieving the petty officer who had been manning that station. The viewscreen showed a group of contacts less than one astronomical unit from the remnants of the exploded sun. Sixteen unknown objects represented by illuminated blips crawled across the viewscreen.

"Our friends are indeed cutting the corner to get to where they are going," Oulette stated.

"This would be a confirmation of intell's theory about their fuel usage. Of course we would plot a low consumption route regardless of fuel; just out of efficiency. They might do the same thing." Zimmermann stated.

"Guns," Oulette called out to Ensign Carla Harrison. "Obtain a firing solution. We will warp to within three-thousand kilometers then fire.

"Damn sir," Zimmermann declared. "That is cutting it close. If we miss by a degree we might end up in a collision."

"I know," Oulette answered. "But I do not want to give them time to power up their plasma beams. We warp in, fire and warp out. The tankers will stay back according to plan."

"Standing by sir!" Lisa Somers announced. "Course laid in, engineer reports buildup coils charged we are ready for warp entry."

"Targeting solutions acquired," Ens. Harrison stated.

"The rest of taskforce is reporting in sir," Zimmermann stated as he held a hand to his small earpiece transceiver. "Ready to implement the," The captain of the Fearless hesitated; "The Quebec option."

"Then let us get to it," Oulette said fiercely. The commodore switched to interfleet communications. "On my mark; engage."

The Fearless, Ironsides and Pioneer along with the three destroyers of the taskforce accelerated in normal space until they cleared the zone of radiation. Then all six ships elongated into a flash of light. Seconds later they stretched back into normal space: The three Pioneers and the Wolverton, Charleston and Kursk. The six United Earth Stellar Navy ships were confronted by the sight of sixteen of the craft identified by intelligence as Romulan Sabinus class cruisers or jellyfish in the slang used by navy personnel. The three-thousand kilometers between the opposing ships suddenly became full of the pinpoint trails of high speed Spider point-defense missiles. A second wave composed of Narwhals headed toward the Romulan group.

"Firing and away!" Harrison announced from the gunnery position.

"Sir," Chief Guerrero spoke up from his post at sensors. "They are turning to."

"Helm take us to warp speed," Oulette ordered; "Back to SN1572."

The Stellar Navy ships had already begun turning away from the fight after the launch of the Narwhals. The Spiders were for the most part defeated by Romulan neutronium pellets. Navy crews had begun to refer to the pellets as bird excrement; only the navy personnel were not as tactful in their usage of the term. The Narwhals were getting through. The six ships under Oulette's command jumped to subspace as three Romulan jellyfish were engulfed by the Narwhals' nuclear warheads. Another jellyfish was actually crippled by a Spider. The Romulan craft went cart wheeling through space then burst into a white-hot ball of fire. Plasma beams lanced through the empty space once occupied by Oulette's ships. The Romulans headed to SN1572.

"They are pursuing us," Zimmermann announced gleefully.

"The Birdies have had their coop raided," Oulette said with a chuckle. Oulette switched to taskforce common. "Group, go to one-quarter impulse, proceed along the planned course to the other side of the nova remnant."

"Phase two implemented," Zimmermann said calmly. "Sixty seconds until the Birdies enter the field."

The bridge crew looked intently at the image of the twelve pursuing blips. The time ticked down. The blips took on an unfocused wavering look as their distance to the radiation of the former star decreased. The subspace scanners were having a difficult time tracking through the radiation. The Romulans contacted the field. Seconds later the energy graphs displayed beneath three of the blips increased dramatically and then dropped off. The Romulan group slowed but not before a forth blip's readouts flared away into nothingness. The eight remaining cabbages stopped. Moments later they reversed course.

"How careless of someone to strew nuclear weapons about Number One!" Oulette exclaimed.

"Yes sir!" Zimmermann laughed as he rubbed his bald head. "Whoever the irresponsible bastard is who left those warheads there should be turned in to the proper authorities!"

"We will be clear in two minutes sir," Somers reported.

"Notify the engineer for immediate warp entry after we are clear," Oulette ordered. "Leonard please inform the taskforce to do the same. Good job all!"

"Sir," Chief Guerrero said quietly from his position at the scanners. "Remember how I said I was going to try to tweak the circuits for a better readout?"

Oulette and Zimmermann looked at the NCO intently. Both officers replied in the affirmative.

"Well sir," David said, "I think I was able to tell when they were on a buildup to fire that plasma beam."

Earth, Tehran, Capital of the Persian Confederacy, Sep 2156

"President Sheibani," President Christophur Thorpe announced in the warmest tones of greeting. The United Earth president turned his attention to the other meeting participant. "President Glenn, thank you for coming here from Washington."

The men sat around a large marble table. Sheibani was a swarthy, short man well into his late fifties. Gholamreza Sheibani the president of the Confederacy had a full head of black hair peppered with gray. His counterpart from America, Todd Allen Glenn was a short balding man just entering his sixties who looked strikingly like his ancient space explorer ancestor. The three leaders sat around the table drinking tea. Thorpe looked tired. The strain of the war showed around the United Earth's president. Finally after some pleasant small talk Thorpe announced to the reason for the meeting.

"We are dire straights gentleman," Thorpe declared bluntly. "We are short on ships, men and resources. Every resource is important. It is with that thought in mind that I am ordering you Mr. Sheibani to transfer your fusion tipped missiles stationed at Bandar Abbäs over to the control of the Stellar Navy. Likewise you Mr. Glenn will order the missiles buried under the plains of South Dakota transferred to our control as well."

"You are no one to order me!" Sheibani exclaimed amid similar protests from Glenn.

"This is as we always thought," Glenn announced; "The world government out to take our freed--."

"Stow it!" Thorpe interrupted angrily. "Your people lost that claim when your Secularists persecuted your own people just because they didn't like their religion. Your own people called the in the new UN after the war. And you, Mr. Sheibani; what are you thinking? You lost your empire after the Third World War and rightly so!"

"I would remind you," Sheibani sputtered angrily; "That you are in my capital Mister Thorpe. You do n--."

"Tehran is hosting a battalion of Colonial Marines," Thorpe said in a mock kindly voice. "Very kind of you Mr. President; the marines are in fact in place around your palace. They are ready to put on a martial display—all in your honor sir; and yours President Glenn."

The presidents' of the two opposing powers were speechless. Thorpe continued with an evil grin on his face:

"I see two possibilities, one: I have you both arrested and seize the weapons. When I issue a press release telling what you have done; practically aiding our enemies—our real enemies the Romulans; it will then be a question of when your respective populations will come for you and tear you both apart like rabid dogs!"

"The second possibility is where you both publicly announce the presence of the missiles." Thorpe spoke in grand tones. "You will say how these weapons belonged to a past long dead! How your people are beyond that and how in a new spirit of brotherhood you will turn the weapons over to defend your fellow man." Thorpe concluded in a voice full of menace. "Neither of you will run for office after your respective terms are up."

Both men looked at Thorpe then at one another. The presidents had that look of defeated men who still held an ember of smoldering resentment. Thorpe merely smiled with his best campaign grin.

"This is blackmail Thorpe!" Glenn stated coldly.

"Yes it is," Sheibani added to his American counterpart's statement. "It is not at all civilized. The idea of landing troops to enforce your wi--."

"You can drop that nonsense as well Mr. Sheibani," Thorpe answered, interrupting the Persian president. "Those weapons do belong to the past." Thorpe appealed to both men. "I know your nations took the brunt of the destruction in the last war. But the idea of planning to fight another war over issues almost one-hundred years old is insane. I've given you my terms. Shall I call in the marines or can you really be civilized and come to terms here?"

Glenn sighed then looked at Thorpe with resignation on his face: "Very well Thorpe! But I will tell you this—this travesty won't be forgotten. You will pay for this sometime in the future. Oh I'm threatening you; just telling you. The bill will come do for what you did today."

"I agree," Sheibani stated bluntly. "When this war ends—mark my words carefully Thorpe; you will pay a price. You will not always have a war to hide behind; and the people are stupid. They will forget any good will they hold for you—with the right manipulation."

"That may be Mr. President," Thorpe replied sadly. "Actually I think the average person is pretty smart. But that is an argument for another day." Thorpe drew some papers out of his briefcase. "These gentlemen," Thorpe said as he handed copies to the two politicians; "Detail the transfer orders. We know how many missiles and warheads you have so don't try hiding anything please."

Thorpe concluded the meeting by bidding his counterparts a good day. The president made his way out of the extravagant palace. A hardened Colonial Marine Colonel met the United Earth President as Thorpe exited the building into the heat of the Tehran afternoon.

"I hope your meeting went well sir?" The colonel asked.

"Very good," Thorpe replied; "Unpleasant business but something that should've been laid to rest a long time ago."

Salintac, capital city of the Tellarite Union, Sep 2156

The Tellarite was a Shavma if O'Donnell remembered his briefing on the Tellarite military structure properly. Shavma was roughly equivalent to a high-ranking admiral or general on Earth. O'Donnell seemed to recall that the exact translation was more like Supreme Space Martial; but the Tellarites were nothing if not grandiose in their bestowing of titles. The Shavma was deep in discussion with Creel Zarn as O'Donnell entered the head of the Tellarite government's office. O"Donnell listened carefully as both beings were speaking the common tongue of one of Tellar's major nation states. O'Donnell had a good grasp of that language. The ambassador tuned his ear to the conversation in progress:

"—there is merit in that Shavma. If we are to press forward with this—ah here is the pile of offal I told you about. Come in Kelly! Sorry Tas Shavam about the smell. But Kelly is the least offending of his race. Sit down Kelly! Do try to not soil your seat."

O'Donnell sat down after trading the customary insults with Zarn. The human ambassador did not know Tas well enough for an exchange of abuse. Tellarite custom required parties to know one another before insults were permitted. O'Donnell was desperately searching his memory for any knowledge he had of Tas Shavma. Tellarite military officers put their names before their rank; that much Kelly remembered. Then he had it: Tas Temgaria or colonel, O'Donnell mentally translated the rank; Tas had spent much of his career being in trouble for what the Tellarite governing body thought of as unconventional thinking. O'Donnell took a chair across for the Tellarite officer.

The Shavma was dressed in the shiny non-descript one-piece Tellarite military uniform. The officer taller was thinner than many of his race were. But that leanness lent the Shavma a certain power. The officer's hair was a mix of blonde with the start of some gray. O'Donnell would've guessed that Tas was in his late forties; or the equivalent thereof in human terms. Tas wrinkled his snout then spoke in a language that O'Donnell thought belonged to the Tellarites of the Island Axis. Zarn listened intently to the Shavma then translated for O'Donnell's benefit:

"Me and Tas have been speaking about the Romulan proposal."

O'Donnell audibly sighed. It was neither a tactful nor diplomatic response but the Earth ambassador feared the worst. The Romulans had sent a carefully worded text message to the Tellarites. O'Donnell wondered if the Andorians had received one as well. The communications lag time between the two former Earth allies was measured in days. The message, unlike the Romulan demands to the United Earth government was a carefully worded message of conciliation and peace. In essence the Romulans had asked the Tellarites to agree to not enter the war on the side of Earth. In exchange the Tellarites would receive favorable trade status with the Romulan Empire.

"Many in the congress are anxious to accept. The Shavma has a different idea though; so do I. These Romulans attack your colonies; then they send you a garbled message demanding a truce or surrender depending on how it is translated. Then they send us a carefully worded message offering peace and prosperity. Tas Shavma and myself smell a mel'ot worm in the pudding."

"But from what I've seen on your news services the congress is for acceptance of the terms." There, it was out O'Donnell thought.

"The congress would not know a V'Zic from a Tarma!" Zarn replied bitterly. Zarn lowered his head briefly and wrinkled his snout. Tas Shava was speaking to him again. Zarn looked at the military officer nodding in a very human manner to the soldier's anxious speech.

"The Shavma has his concerns and I have mine. We have found common ground: It is very dangerous having your poorly organized military blundering about. You are aware of our space station Kamaga on the border of our territory?"

"Yes you reduced the staff there," O'Donnell replied. "It is a navigation beacon mostly now."

"Your idiot excuse for a government is not the only ones anxious to cut budgets Kelly," The Tellarite administrator confessed. "Yes Kamaga has a minimal staff. It also has subspace sensors that your backward scientists helped ours develop." The administrator gave O'Donnell an appraising look then continued: "As I was saying before you interrupted me Kelly we can't have your navy blundering about. We have data on Romulan movements about Deneva. Because we feel so sorry for you Tas Shavma has suggested to me that we should share that information."

O'Donnell's mouth dropped open in surprise. The ambassador looked at Zarn for a long minute. "You are going to help--."

"You really are stupid Kelly!" Zarn replied emphatically. "I am in no position to help you, officially, nor am I offering that. I told you; you disgusting sack of zartha we don't want your navy blundering about. That is why we are going to give you the information. Your navy is so incompetent that Tas Shavma is worried you may accidentally shoot at us."

"I see," O'Donnell replied. "I guess we can accept help from backward savages such as you."

Tas uttered a hearty laugh. The officer spoke and gestured to Zarn. The Tellarite administrator replied to Tas' conversation. Zarn turned his attention back to the ambassador from Earth:

"Tas Shavma has reminded me that your poorly built naval craft, which may blow up at anytime might need repairs. The Shavma has informed me that were your people to dock at Kamaga then fine Tellarite technicians can offer your ships much superior service instead of the marginal performance one would expect of your human engineers."

O'Donnell licked his dry lips quickly then replied in an uncharacteristically human fashion:

"I…we appreciate this Creel. But I have to ask: Once you are discovered doing this your own congress will have you removed; you and the Shavma are risking…everything. If the Romulans find out they may well turn on you"

O'Donnell knew that despite Zarn's hollow position one of the few powers the Tellarite administrator had was that of command of the military in emergencies. The Earth ambassador guessed that his friend would cloak his activity under that rationale should things go public.

"I know what we are risking. And this is a response to the emergency your garbage scowl of a fleet offers; no more. Although as to these Romulans turning on us," Zarn conferred with Tas some more. "There are those of us who believe they will do that anyway. Do not try to read anything else into this offer Kelly." This last Zarn added with a wriggle of his snout. O'Donnell had been on Tellar long enough to know that particular wriggle equated to a human wink. The Tellarite slid a terran data wafer across his desk to O'Donnell.

"That has common access codes and the Tellar defense force common cipher on it. I pray that your idiot technicians will be able to figure out how to use it." Zarn spoke to Tas then turned back to his human guest. "Now get out of here. I will have to have my office deloused as it is to get rid of your smell!"

O'Donnell rose. Kelly wanted to cry out loud in happiness but his instincts as a trained diplomat took over. O'Donnell excused himself by directing the proper epitaphs at his host. The ambassador would be able to send out good news in his coded diplomatic daily correspondence. O'Donnell was keenly aware that President Thorpe was probably receiving little news that was good these days.

Alpha Centauri, Taskforce 20, Sep 2156

The Xiaguan and its sister ships were holding at a geosynchronous point two AU's out from Centauri. Captain Ronald King had no idea what axis the Romulans would select to make their next attack; if they attacked. But this position was the one in direct line with Centauri. If the Romulans came from the other side of the system's three suns King would have time to reverse course from this position. King's forces had been augmented by the Archers Grus, Pike and Mace in addition to the Spear, Luger, Claymore, Barong, and Kalashnikov. The Amarillo's Kamina and Portland completed the group. King's would've liked the company of another Amarillo destroyer or better yet a Pioneer class cruiser. But the navy did not have those ships in as plentiful a supply as they had six months ago.

The patrol class Archers were all that were holding the line in the colonies. The little sixty-two meter long ships had 24 Amazon anti-ship missiles and two pulse lasers. King reflected that their real ability lay in their impulse drives. The little, highly maneuverable ships had been playing havoc with the Birdies at close range. Their small supply of deuterium would allow them to accelerate to warp 2.7 within a 20 AU range; that made the little patrol craft the fastest warp ships in the Stellar Navy fleet. Too bad, King thought bitterly that the Archers were so range limited.

"Are the other groups reporting anything?" King asked his first officer Cmdr. Gordon Albright. Albright was as an apparently non-threatening military officer as there could be. At just 170 cm and sixty-eight kilos with a youthful face the commander looked more like a recent academy entrant rather than the seasoned naval officer he was.

"Nothing on scanners sir," Albright replied with a lightly accented Canadian voice. "At least we have more Archers and the London and the Melbourne." The two destroyers had been dispatched with the additional Archers to replace the ships that had been destroyed during the Stellar Navy's last engagement with the Romulans.

"Yeah Gordon we have that going for us," King answered dryly. The commander of Taskforce 20 was painfully aware of just how thin the Stellar navy was stretched these days. Capt. King knew that things stretched too tightly for too long a time were likely to break. King wondered what the United Earth Stellar Navy's breaking point was. He hoped that he would not find out what that critical point was.

"Taskforce 11 reporting unknowns!" The petty officer manning communications reported.

"Sir," Chief Glenda Forrester called from the Xiaguan's scanner position. "We have contacts as well."

"Okay folks look sharp!" King spoke up. The forty year old captain ran a nervous hand through his coal black hair. The Philippines' native had known a fight was coming; that did not lessen the tension now that the moment was at hand. "Sensors show me a graphic of the enemy."

The viewscreen changed from the computer enhanced video representation of the stars to one of a solid black background showing three groups of blips. Their position, course and speed were highlighted beneath each group. Three groups of sharply defined blips showed the Stellar Navy taskforces deployed in the Alpha Centauri system. The unknowns were traveling previously trodden territory: They were coming in along the same approach paths as they had used in the previous battle.

King stroked his chin thoughtfully. The captain noticed the bridge crews' expectant looks. The commander of Taskforce 20 was thinking: The thoughts were not pleasant ones. King was dubious from the moment that he had recognized the Birdies approach as the same one that they had used before. "I don't like this at all Gordy," King told his first officer. "They take the same actions as before; one would expect us to do the same."

"Sir," Albright answered. "They tried the freighter ruse a second time. Maybe they are trying this again thinking something will change." Albright looked thoughtful for a moment; "Unless they want something to change."

"There are also fewer of them," King said thoughtfully as he counted the ships up in each group of unknowns. "Gordon; where is the worst position we could end up in?"

"Stuck in the asteroid belt," Dawning realization came over Albright's youthful face; he continued quickly; "Stuck in the asteroid belt while their third group came in along a Z-axis!" The commander exclaimed. Albright was using the navy's shorthand for an attack coming in from above or below the defined galactic plane.

"Exactly what I think," King agreed. The captain came to a decision: "Proceed with King's X. Gordy; tell the Archers to warp out according to plan. Take us to the edge of the field at maximum warp after the patrol ships report in. Make it look good folks. This isn't going to be as easy as the last one!"

The Archer class patrol ships Mace, Grus, Kalashnikov and Claymore stretched away into subspace. They arrived at the edge of the field some four minutes after that. King's destroyers leapt away into subspace then. The Archers proceeded on impulse into the asteroid field. King's group arrived moments later.

"Okay helm," King said to Lt. Tara Cramer. The navigator straightened up somewhat in her seat. "Take us into the field slowly."

Gordon Albright notified the Kamina and Portland to follow the Xiaguan into the field. The three destroyers followed the path that had been blazed by the Archers. Pinpricks of light, like the brief light from a firefly illuminated before the three 126 meter long destroyers as micro chunks of debris from the field impacted the ships' navigational deflectors. On the other side of the field five Romulan Sabinus class vessels elongated into normal space.

"They are on the inbound!" Chief Forrester declared from the sensor operator position. The tanned petty officer's face was cast in a sinister light as the majority of lighting on the darkened bridge came only from the instrument panels. "They are slowing," Forrester said in a voice full of suspicion.

"Turn us around," King instructed Albright. The commander relayed the same command to their sister ships in the group. "Take us out of here; maximum speed for the field." King was keenly aware that the deflectors could not handle the repeated strikes of micro-fragments were his destroyers to cruise at higher speeds.

The destroyers slowly turned about their axis and proceeded out of the debris field. The Archers took up a position behind their larger partners. Five streams of white hot plasma shot from Romulan ships. Rather than targeting the Stellar Navy craft that had some protection because of the position of the asteroids, the beams hit some of the neighboring pieces of space flotsam that surrounded the fleet of Earth ships. The result was chaos.

Pieces of space rock that had known and charted speeds and direction were blown apart. The resulting destruction made the smaller chunks of rock into shrapnel. The Kalashnikov and Mace were both struck by pieces of asteroids several times the size of the unlucky Archers. No navigational deflector could protect those ships from tons of rock. Both Archers were destroyed immediately. A piece of space debris slammed into one of the Kamina's warp nacelles. Glowing hot plasma trailed out of the ragged remains of the Kamina's pylon. The Archers and Amarillos released a flight of Amazon missiles behind them. Most of the anti-ship missiles were obliterated by pieces of flying rock. The beleaguered Earth ships finally made it out of the melee.

"Sir, incoming from the Kamina," The communications NCO announced. "Their fusion reactor is going critical. Capt. Vanderhoff is launching shuttles." The enlisted man hesitated briefly. "They are abandoning ship."

"Contacts warping in along a negative Z-axis!" Chief Forrester exclaimed. "They first group is firing plasma beams again. It is like they are clearing a path."

"Okay here we stand!" King declared. So that was it, King thought.

The Romulan ships closed the distance. Soon the group of cabbage like Sabinus class vessels blasting their way through the asteroid field was almost upon the small group of Earth ships. Eight more cabbage looking ships flashed into normal space. King's fleet was between the two groups. The Kamina accelerated toward the group of Romulans coming through the asteroid field as the hapless destroyer's last shuttle launched out of the doomed ship. The Kamina detonated in a blinding nuclear blast. Suddenly pinpoints streaks of light were flying off of some the larger asteroids where King had chosen to make his stand.

"Narwhals away!" Albright reported crisply. "They are out of range but if that info was Taskforce 12 was right it should throw their targeting system off!"

"Have the Archers warp into the group that came from underneath Gordy," King instructed. "We'll deal with these Birdies coming through the field." King turned to Lt. Cramer. "Helm move us back into the field. Have our batteries on the asteroids saturate the area."

The big destroyers moved back into the asteroid field. Narwhals exploded before the oncoming Romulans. One cabbage was hit by a Narwhal that had gotten through. The green Romulan ship was destroyed on contact. King's two destroyers added additional Narwhals and Amazons to the fray. The battle became a missile to missile fight; that was until one of the Sabinus class ships seemed to be burning away from the inside as two glowing gashes appeared in the Romulan's hull. Another Narwhal scored a hit reducing its Romulan target to radioactive molecules.

"Defense lasers firing!" Albright announced gleefully. The lasers implanted throughout the asteroid field were the orbital version of their smaller shipboard cousins. "Archers reporting three jellyfish have been bagged!" Then in a bitter announcement Albright added: "Pike and Claymore are destroyed."

"Sir the last two jellyfish are turning to!" Chief Glenda Forrester reported from her station. "They are making their way out of the asteroid field!"

"Comm traffic coming over," The communication chief reported: "The last two Romulans are warping away from the Archers!"

"Shall we pursue sir?" Albright asked expectantly.

"Negative!" King snapped. "Comm get me a report from the other taskforces." As much as King would've liked to pursue the Birdies through the asteroid field he could not risk it. Were the Romulans to turn about with their plasma cannons the pursuit could be turned into a route.

The reports were coming in: The two other taskforces reported much the same results as King's group. Fortunately only one other destroyer had been lost. The costs in Archers had been high however: Six of the patrol craft were no more; added to the losses sustained by Taskforce 20 that meant that ten of the tough little ships had been destroyed. The destroyer Shikoku had not been able to evacuate survivors as had the luckless Kamina. King did the math in his head; almost six hundred navy men and women killed in this skirmish. The loss of ships and personnel was telling to the Stellar Navy. Albright must've been on the same wavelength as that of his captain.

"This is nuts sir," Albright said in a lowered voice. It was hard to hold a private conversation on the small bridge of a Stellar Navy ship. "We can't keep this up! Wolf is taking the same kind of losses."

"I know it," King replied somberly. "It is like they are pecking away at us bit by bit. Admiral French sent a dispatch out saying more Archers were on the way but that was it. The rest are being held in the defense of Sol."

"That is the one place the bastard Birdies have not attacked!" Commander Albright exclaimed.

"Yes," King answered pensively. The commander of Taskforce 20 lowered his head in thought. He looked up a few moments later. "It could mean a lot of things Gordy: They are either trying to chip away at us here or else they have something big lined up for Earth."

San Francisco, Earth Oct 2156

The couple strolled along the outside of the confines of the ancient prison. It was early morning; a thick fog had rolled into San Francisco Bay. The fog was lifting causing a myriad of shining rainbows as the sun's rays burned through the gradually clearing fog. The air blowing off the water carried the salty smells of the sea in its chilly grasp. Alcatraz Island had received its first visitors. The tourist attraction had traditionally never been busy at this early hour. With the coming of the war tourism was even sparser. The couple had shared the boat ride over with another couple.

"I suppose you don't have prisons on Vulcan?" Lt. Tarang Gupta asked his walking partner.

"There is criminal behavior," T'Pol answered in that eerily unemotional voice endemic of her people. "But it is regarded as a mental aberration and those found doing those things are remanded over for treatment."

"I suppose it was regarded the same way here once," Gupta said. "Unfortunately counseling never seemed to solve the problem as well as punishment did."

"Yes but your people lack the discipline of logic," T'Pol replied. "When one can be shown the error of their ways then it is only logical for them to seek correction."

"That works when one is logical," Gupta agreed. "That certainly does not define the criminal element on my world." Tarang continued on a different subject. "It was better to meet here given what happened the last time."

Tarang had received the message to meet T'Pol in San Francisco. The incidents of hostility towards aliens had gone on unabated. The war news did not help. A group calling themselves the Son's of Terra was publicly advocating a more imperial stance in Earth's relations with other races. Tara reflected that these types of groups were nothing new. Of course none of their number would ever be willing to carry the water needed from the military to achieve the ends they wanted.

The couple strolled around the prison grounds. Tarang realized that T'Pol would not like the inside of the prison. The smells that had accumulated there throughout the years were pungent to even Gupta's human olfactory system. The Indian could only imagine how it would affect the more refined Vulcan sense of smell.

As was typical of these meetings Gupta's Vulcan contact came to the point quickly. "I have no additional helpful information for you at this time. But," T'Pol paused in what Tarang thought was the most human like she had ever sounded: "Another who feels as I do would like to arrange a meeting with your president. We are being closely monitored in the compound. He would have to be escorted to meet your president in," T'Pol paused again then continued; "In a most clandestine manner."

"Do you think they are aware of who is leaking information?" Gupta asked thoughtfully. The intelligence officer did not even know who in the Vulcan government 'they' were. But Gupta would've given anything to find out.

"I do not believe so," T'Pol replied. Then the Vulcan added in a lowered voice: "Some of the information seems to have come from the inner sanctum of the High Command. It leads me to conclude that we, as you humans say, have friends on the inside."

"You know it is going to take a lot to arrange a meeting with President Thorpe," Gupta said flatly. "Besides conducting the war he has other responsibilities as well. I'm not plying you for information T'Pol. I have come to respect you too much for that. I just know that I cannot go to my superiors and expect them to arrange a presidential appointment without reason. I'm sorry T'Pol."

"Your apology is accepted lieutenant," T'Pol said. "And unnecessary; we anticipated this need." This time the Vulcan woman remained silent for so long that Tarang was about to inquire what was wrong when T'Pol continued in the same hushed voice as before: "We are prepared to exchange limited advanced technology to your people. I have been told that these are things you are well on the way to discovering for yourselves. A lot of it is medical; we know that many of your navy personnel who were wounded in battle suffer horrible burns. We are prepared to show you tissue regeneration techniques. In addition we can show you how to upgrade the computer interface for your subspace scanners to conduct elementary molecular analysis."

"They were supposed to be able to do that in the first place," Gupta replied bitterly; referring to the subspace scanners. "Still we know that the Birdies have nothing like them. It is our one advantage so far: Being able to see them coming before they see us."

"We can show you how to detect differences in power output states and detect variances in thrust. You will also be able to better analyze incoming missiles to make a better defense." T'Pol stopped walking and looked at the intelligence officer. "You used the term 'birdie'. I know it is a derogatory term towards the Romulans. It makes me wonder if you see me as a pointie?" If Tarang ever thought the Vulcan showed any emotion it was with the emphasis she put on the word pointie.

"Well, no, I a, well, wait," Tarang took a deep breath and tried to seek out the right words. "I like you—I mean I respect you; and yes I like you. I have never thought of you as," Gupta trailed off. The Indian realized on some level that he had romantic feelings for the Vulcan. That certainly would pass for evidence that the intelligence officer harbored no prejudicial feelings toward the Vulcan. But he could not tell her that.

"I'm sorry," Tarang said finally. "As a human I have feelings of contempt towards our enemies. Please do not think I feel that way about your people T'Pol. I realize how I must sound. It is part of being human. We can hate an enemy yet love another—not that I love you!" Gupta hastened to add.

T'Pol broke the lieutenant's stumbling attempt to explain himself to a close. "I will, let you off the hook, I believe is the expression? I have been among your people long enough now to understand them somewhat. Perhaps I should never have asked you that question. You have indeed shown me nothing but respect and kindness."

"Thank you T'Pol," The intelligence officer uttered a sigh of relief.

"You may," Once again the Vulcan hesitated; "Buy me breakfast to make up for any guilt you may feel."

Gupta agreed heartily. He assured T'Pol that he would take her request through channels. Were Gupta dealing with a human woman, the Stellar Navy intelligence lieutenant would've sworn that she was flirting with him. But that could not be possible Tarang thought to himself; could it?

United Earth Raider Jade Queen between Deneva and Denobula

The boxy freighter dropped out of subspace with a flash. Denobulan letters and numbers identified the freighter as the S'Vicqin. The freighter was stationary for a few minutes then went into a slow lazy spin. The few crystal-composite portholes and transparent aluminum windows that had been showing light suddenly went dark.

"Start sending out a distress call Chief," Capt. Donald Townsend told his communications operator. Townsend directed his attention to his sensor operator Chief Petty Officer Scott Aarons. "Chief Aarons give me a good scan."

The petty officer replied promptly. There was nothing to report for the moment. Reports from the Tellarite space station Kamaga indicated that some birdie vessels frequently this track of space. Townsend thought that despite the immense size of space it worked to their advantage that closest distance between two points was a straight line. Surveillance from the Tellarite space station indicated that the Romulans were running ships between Deneva and Topaz.

No one knew if the Romulans would help another species. This whole operation was fraught with questions: Would they respond to a distress call? If they did respond; how many ships would the Romulans dispatch? If the Queen Bitch ensnared a Romulan ship could their jamming equipment overcome the Romulans' communications' equipment? Townsend was hoping to find out the answer to some of those questions this day.

"Sir," Cmdr. Margaret Sadler walked over to stand next to the captain. The commander was a medium height brown haired woman from Texas. Neither exceptionally beautiful nor plain one would say the commander looked like the girl next door. Sadler was young for a commander as she was still on the low side of her thirties. Townsend acknowledged his first officer with a nod of his head.

"I think I know what this is about Margaret," Townsend said warily as he made notations on a clipboard bearing the Queen Bitch's fuel consumption report. "But go ahead anyway."

"This whole thing about sending out a distress call to lure the Birdies in; a lot of the crew has questions about it. We learned the rules of warfare at the Point," Sadler was referring to her time at America's US Army Academy; "And using a distress call to lure someone in was not in those rules that I remember."

"Look Commander, Margaret," Townsend continued. "Our mission came from intelligence. Word I got is it came all the way from the president. Seems like he is not happy with the way French and the rest of the admiralty is conducting this war." Townsend sighed and continued:

"We are violating our rules of conduct Margaret. By ours I mean rules adapted by man. The Birdies ambushed our forces and conquered our colonies without even a formal declaration of war. Declaring war on an opponent is one of those rules as well is it not? And the last I heard we agreed to stop nuking civilians; God knows we saw enough of that ninety years ago." When the commander nodded in the affirmative Townsend continued.

"I don't mean to come down hard on you Margaret. But the Birdies obviously don't share our values. You knew what this mission was as soon as we saw this ship. Now is not the time for reservations."

The captain and commander had been speaking in hushed tones. The small bridge of a Bison class starship was no place to hold a private conversation. Townsend noticed that the rest of the bridge crew fell into two groups: One was actively listening to the ethics conversation. The other group was pretending to be doing other things but was still eavesdropping. Sadler noticed the same thing.

"No questions here skipper!" Commander Sadler exclaimed. "We are ready to do what it takes to rub the Birdies noses in it!"

The rest of the bridge crew seemed to be satisfied that things were settled. Deep down Townsend knew that things were not settled. Donald had held his own reservations about this mission. The commander of the Queen Bitch would have had the same ethical questions as his first officers at one time; before the Romulans destroyed the Star bucket and Hunt. And before that same group of unknowns had nuked two unarmed populations. Ethics had a way of going out the window when things like that happened, Townsend thought bitterly. He was interrupted in his thoughts by the voice of Chief Aarons.

"Sir I have unknown sensor contacts from the direction the Romulan groups have been traveling in." The non-commissioned officer paused for a few seconds as he looked into the eyepiece of his display. "A single bogey has separated from the main group. Bogey is headed in this direction; warp factor 1.8. Time till they intercept us: plus nineteen." The chief was using the shorthand for nineteen minutes.

"Okay this is it people!" Townsend declared: "First officer; sound general quarters." Townsend switched his attention to the ship's PA. "Engineering bridge, Marsh start reactor coolant venting."

Lt.Cmdr. Marshall Davies replied in the affirmative. Townsend had to maintain the image of a distressed ship. If the Birdies smelt a trap things could turn sour quickly. The rest of the department heads of the Queen Bitch called in with positive readiness statuses.

The time ticked down. As the unknown made its approach on the Queen Bitch Townsend ordered the gunnery officer to run several targeting solutions based on reentry in normal space. It never hurt to be prepared and Townsend had excelled at his response times. That was in better days when drills were run to keep the military sharp; nowadays it was to keep them alive.

"Contact has transited to normal space," Chief Aarons stated. "The target is at six-thousand kilometers closing at one-hundred kps."

"Inbound traffic!" The communications chief announced. "It reads like our linguacode. I'm running it through the computer—standby!"

"Make it march chief!" Townsend declared. The commander of the Queen Bitch knew that his people were the best but this was combat.

"Text is as follows," The chief replied. "Unknown ship, something that might be standby; prepare to be boarded—text ends."

"Four-thousand three hundred kilometers sir," Chief Aarons announced.

"Optimal firing solution!" Chief Mathew Prescott announced from the gunnery position. "Safeties uncapped on the Narwhals and Amazons; standing by to fire."

Townsend watched the display on the viewscreen as the distance closed to three-thousand eighth-hundred kilometers. Chief Aarons had split the screen to show his sensor readings on one-half of the screen the other half showed a video representation of the star field. A green ship with a large bird painted on its side swam into view. It was a Romulan Sabinus class cruiser. "Communications start jamming. Guns fire," Townsend said coolly.

"Firing and away!" Chief Prescott announced as a single Narwhal and two Amazons left their launch tubes.

The missiles seemed to be stationary for a split second then they rocketed away toward their intended prey. The faster Amazons out-distanced their higher yield cousin. The Romulans must've been prepared as one of the Amazons disintegrated short of the jellyfish; neutronium pellets. The second Amazon got through but exploded short of its target. The Narwhal flew straight and true. There was a large nuclear fireball.

The blinding atomic fire subsided. Chief Aarons spoke in a rush of words from his station: "Sir the second Amazon went off short of the target as planned; but so did the Narwhal. It appears to have malfunctioned."

The image on the screen had cleared. The Romulan jellyfish was in an uncontrolled tumble. One of its warp nacelles was gone; a trail of glittering hot slag trailed from the wreckage of the shredded Romulan warp pylon. What was thought of to be the primary hull had at least a quarter of the skin burned away showing the network of braces and supports making up the jellyfishes structure.

"We aren't reading any comms from them!" Margaret Sadler exclaimed. She looked at Townsend. The two had come to the same realization. Both officers spoke simultaneously:

"We've got one!"

"Scanners are the rest of their ships moving on?" Sadler asked Aarons.

"Yes sir," Aarons replied then continued. "This bird is reading low power; like a powered down Earth cruiser. Other than that I can't read much. Spectral imaging shows oxygen nitrogen mix vented into space. That might confirm that they are air breathers."

"Margaret get Gunney Guyotat and his platoon into a boat." Townsend ordered. The commander of the Queen Bitch was about to give more instructions when a flash from the viewscreen got everyone's attention. The hellish detonation soon gave way to the cold blackness of space. The Romulan Sabinus cruiser was no more.

"What the hell?" Townsend asked to no one in particular.

"Sir," Chief Aarons spoke up. "I didn't read anything like a reactor buildup. It was more like a nuke."

Townsend exchanged a glance with his first officer. "No way in hell a nuke accidentally goes off. They need to be coded and fused. Physics is physics; even for the Birdies."

"Could be they had one in the tube," Margaret added helpfully. "Or," The first officer of the Queen Bitch trailed off.

"Or they self-destructed before we could send out a boarding party," Townsend said. "Okay we'll send out details of what happened here in the dispatches." The commander of the Queen bitch sighed: "One down and we got no earthly idea of how many more to go."

Talhava, Capital City of Andor, The Season of the Chill, Earth time Oct 2156

The Shahar of the Andorian Sovereignty stood opposite his guest. Even in his advanced years Rastan was not one to sit for very long. The titular ruler of Andor preferred rather the freedom to be able to pace. Rastan was pacing a great deal. The back and forth movement did nothing to ease the tension of his guest.

"Perhaps this tentative move to negotiate will be defeated," Shran said tersely. "There have to be some in the Caldonè who see the Romulans for what they are. I simply can't believe that the same people who refused Thorpe's alliance now want to build an ice h'atak with the Romulans. It just does not make sense."

"And when did politics ever make sense Shran?" Rastan declared. "I see our guests are late?"

"This representative government we have adopted," Shran said. "I wonder sometimes; I've studied the humans' history of that. It always seemed to lead to a betrayal of civilization: Time honored traditions destroyed and justice for the highest bidder dispensed by politicians claiming to represent the people."

"Nonetheless it is now our way Shran," Rastan answered sourly. "Shahars did not always make good wise rulers either. Recall the his--." Whatever Rastan was going to say was interrupted when the large ornate crystalline looking doors opened into the inner chamber of the ruler of Andor. An Andorian man and woman dressed in formal wear entered.

"We greet the Shahar," The couple said mechanically rather than formally. They had their hands by their sides' palms out but their antennae were perked up. Rastan knew the man by sight and the woman by reputation. Chrut was a D'ehsela, or member of the Caldonè. The politician stood as tall as Rastan but had a lankier frame. He was also far younger than Rastan given his position in life. His female counterpart was Lahana. She too was a D'ehsela. Lahana was shorter than her political partner and older. Rastan recalled that the woman was entering her seventies. That was relative middle-age as Andorians went. The Shahar also knew that both D'ehsela held commanding positions within the Caldonè.

"You may be seated," Rastan told his guests. Shran was standing as was Rastan. Chrut and Lahana both took seats at the large crystalline looking table where Shahars of the past had held their councils. The two politicians looked at one another. Finally Lahana started the discussion:

"It is an honor as always Shahar. We have to ask why you did not give the Call to the Hunt? The people have been most distressed. We've had to deal with several angry constituents. This is not to our liking."

"The people look forward to our traditions," Chrut added. "We; I and D'ehsela Lahana have to wonder if this is in response to the Caldonè's abandonment of our unwise position with regards to the Earthers?"

"The humans have been our friends," Rastan replied. "We Andorians have always honored our commitments—until now. It is rather; I wonder why the Caldonè turned away from our friends when they were in need? Our society thrives on cooperation. We would not abandon a soul to the ice. Why then did we abandon the out-worlders?"

"I led a delegation that determined that perhaps the humans were responsible for these problems," Lahana answered. "We should look to our own security rather than intervening in the affairs of aliens."

"And no one in the Caldonè thinks that we might not be next after these Romulans are finished with Thorpe and his people?" Rastan asked in reply. "Surely a hostile force near our borders is a matter for security."

"The traditionalists of course," Chrut answered this time. "They speak of fulfilling our commitments and the threat of the Romulans—foolishness! The Romulans have not threatened us. Given their last message to us there may even be profit in dealing with them."

"The Romulans never threatened Christophur's people either," Shran added. "Now look at what has happened."

"Your like of the pink-skins is well known Ambassador," Lahana stated. "Perhaps it is time for a," The Andorian politician thought for a few seconds before continuing. "A less biased person to assume the post of Ambassador to Earth. You have after all served for some time in that position Ambassador Shran."

"I am biased about being Andorian," Shran replied sternly. "And as the Shahar has stated we Andorians do not leave our friends in the lurch!"

"Be that as it may," Chrut answered. The politician looked at Rastan then and continued. "I ask you Shahar to let these matters of state to people…better able to handle them. Make the Call to the Hunt. I know it is late; but not too late. It will do much to mollify the people's anger."

"I will not do so," Rastan stated flatly. "This is a disgrace by the Caldonè and the people know it. There anger is not going to be lessened even were I to issue the Call. They are angry because they are Andorians and they feel this betrayal. It only makes me wonder why those in your august body do not?"

"We do not see it as such," Lahana added. "It is just a matter of view--,"

"Wishing a thing was another does not change it D'ehsela!" Rastan exclaimed. "Treachery has only two viewpoints; that of those who commit it and those who it is committed upon. The act is still treacherous!"

"As I said Rastan," Lahana said. Shran's antennas perked up at the slight aimed at the ruler of Andor. The Shahar took the use of his name in stride however. "As I said it is a matter of viewpoint. We simply don't share your viewpoint as you do not share our vision. As far as the people are concerned they will do what we tell them. It has always been so and always will be. We know what is best for others." The woman continued; moving the discussion in a different direction:

"Speaking of treachery and keeping secrets; we wonder what is being done with certain funds. Monies and personnel have gone off; some say to Earth. We know the Shahar holds title as head of the Imperial Guardsmen but you must still report your activities to the Caldonè. Should we find that you are cooperating with the pink-skins it may bode ill for the Shahar."

"Are you threatening the Shahar?" Shran asked angrily. He seemed about to come to blows with Chrut when Rastan held up an intervening hand.

"What exactly do you mean Chrut?" Rastan asked. "Or is this another of those murky viewpoint issues that D'ehsela Lahana was speaking of?"

The Shahar's skepticism of Lahana's statement was not lost on the politicians. Chrut spoke carefully: "Some of us feel it is time to abandon the old ways. Perhaps with your passing Rastan there will not be a need for another Shahar; a position that some feel belongs to our past. We must be enlightened and diverse in our acceptance of new things."

The group grew quiet for some time. Finally the politicians rose. Lahana spoke for the couple when she said: "Good day Rastan."

The politicians walked out without further ceremony leaving a pensive Rastan and an angry Shran behind them.

Marine Recon Force 7, Converted Bison class transport Moskva, two light-years from the Romulus system Oct 2156

Qaddoumi studied the scans carefully. The captain of the Moskva had never imagined that such a setup of radar pickets were possible. The Saudi officer wondered what sort of madmen would spend the time, money and manpower to protect their system this much from intrusion. It led Qaddoumi to believe that the Romulans had been planning their campaign for many years. For it would take many years to seed the spaceways with these many automated pickets. Qaddoumi turned a harsh glare upon his first officer. He lightened up after a second; Qaddoumi realized that their predicament was not his first officer's fault. The captain of the Moskva was not going to slay the messenger.

"What is it Cmdr. Dunleavy?" The captain asked his first officer. "I suppose by your look that you have the report for me?"

"Yes sir," Commander Wiley Dunleavy replied somberly. "These pickets are like a spider's silk through which we could not pass without alerting the Birdies." Dunleavy hesitated for a moment. Qaddoumi had come to know the big, jovial Englishmen enough now to understand that the news was bad. "There is one exception," Dunleavy announced while he handed Qaddoumi a clipboard bearing charts and calculations. "There is a gap in their pickets at this location," Dunleavy pointed out the position he had indicated to Qaddoumi. "There is a frequency shift every 18.3 minutes causing a period of R dot through which we might pass."

R dot was ancient slang in radar parlance indicating an area where a ship traveling at a velocity relative to the radar platform's might appear invisible to the radar. Qaddoumi skimmed through the pages. It looked like a textbook approach through a radar picket but there was one problem: An accompanying fuel analysis showed that the course change would use a great amount of their precious deuterium. They would be unable to make the Klingon frontier after dropping the Minotaurs off, much less the friendly stars of home.

The captain of the Moskva reviewed the figures looking for anything that might allow them to squeeze extra kilos of deuterium out of the situation. Qaddoumi looked at the clipboard with disgust. His crew was just too efficient at their jobs. There was no way to avoid this situation. Qaddoumi thought for a moment then told his first officer of his plan:

"Plot a course through the pickets. We won't arrive there for seven hours according to the calculations." Qaddoumi sighed and continued. "We have two choices my friend: We continue with our mission knowing it is one way or we turn back. We can use the fuel in the Minotaurs' tanks for the return."

"What are your plans sir?" The Englishman asked bluntly.

"This mission never had much hope," Qaddoumi stated flatly. "I am the captain and mission commander. But I will not order these men to commit suicide. Gather the crews in the maintenance bay Wiley; it is the largest area we have on the ship. I will present the facts and allow the crews to decide. Set the briefing for one hour."

"What is up sir?" Chief David Lester asked his pilot. Lt. Devon Foster turned to the Star Fleet engineer. The enlisted man was the flight engineer on Foster's Minotaur and every bit as accomplished a flyer as Foster and his co-pilot Ensign Rajesh Tilak were.

"Has to be about the mission eng," Foster replied. The Minotaur crews and all except the watch personnel of the Moskva were assembled in the small maintenance bay. It was standing room only except for those lucky few who had found a tool chest or spare engine pod to lean against. Captain Qaddoumi walked into the bay. A technician got him a small cargo container to stand on so that most of the crowd could see the commander of the Moskva.

The captain told what had transpired recently. Qaddoumi recounted their discovery of the subspace radar pickets. The captain informed the assembled crews and personnel of the two available options. There were cries of no and angered mumblings when Qaddoumi mentioned turning back. There was stunned silence when he mentioned the second option. Qaddoumi told the personnel and crews to go back to whatever private area they could find to think about their choices. The commander of the Moskva looked at his chronometer and started to suggest a time to meet again when the commander of the Minotaur group stepped forward.

Captain Franz Metzger was an imposing looking man at 188 cm. The black haired native of Austria was young for a captain: He had just entered his thirty-fifth year. Metzger looked around the room. The German Naval officer did not need a box to stand on. Metzger spoke in a booming voice:

"I have not come this far to turn back," Metzger said loudly and strongly. "I need no time to think about it. I unlike many of you have family back in Austria. I had hoped to see my wife and baby boy again. But there must be a world for them to live in! A world where there is peace and freedom."

The commander of the Minotaur group was speaking the truth: Many of those who had volunteered for this mission had been picked for their lack of family ties. Metzger and a handful of the personnel were married but overall most of the people on the Moskva were single with no personal commitments. There were shouts of agreement. People were looking around at their comrades. The consensus seemed to be going in Metzger's favor.

"I see," Qaddoumi stated. "There is such a thing as group think for those of you who remember your twenty-first century history. I will not allow the group to speak for a single individual."

The commander of the Moskva stepped off of the container he had been standing on. Qaddoumi stooped down and picked up a small box. He took his place on his makeshift podium again. Qaddoumi held the small box he had been carrying aloft.

"This box contains extra unused radiation badges. They are identical except one group is red the other is gray. I will ask each of you to step forward; take two badges. There is another box against the hatchway; a red badge means you want to proceed knowing in all likelihood that you are going to die. A gray badge means you are for turning back."

"What do you plan to do if there are any gray badges sir?" Foster asked from the back of the room.

"I will discuss that after the vote!" Qaddoumi declared firmly. "Now let us start the process."

Qaddoumi cleared the way as the men formed a line as those who had received military training were wont to do. The line moved at a brisk pace. Soon the last of the officers and enlisted people had deposited their vote in the box. Qaddoumi stepped up to the box. The captain was shocked at what he saw in the container.

Qaddoumi had planned to turn back if there was even one gray badge. Although the Arab captain knew his military calling could lead to his death he also did not believe in throwing away the lives under his command needlessly. The odds of this particular mission's success had been scant to begin with Qaddoumi knew. The Stellar Navy had clearly not intended the mission to be a suicide mission. But that was all a moot point now: The container was devoid of any gray badges.

Savannah Georgia, Earth Oct 2156

Jocelyn stomped through the muddy fields. Her father's ancient tractor was stalled. Stiles was amazed that the man did not use a mule and a plow. Henry Stiles was a man who had a parlance for older things. Jocelyn's father had always insisted that if something was useful it should not be discarded just because its replacement was newer and flashier. Henry Stiles' tractor was an old John Deere that had first rolled off of the assembly line prior to the start of the third world war.

The younger Stiles was carrying a spark injector out to her father. Jocelyn had chided her father for not putting an entire box of spare parts on the old tractor that Jocelyn otherwise referred to as the beast. The injector did the job that Henry Stiles said a thing called a spark plug used to do. The injector however fired its spark into a rotary alcohol-burning engine. The walk from the barn to the field had left Jocelyn in mud up past her Star Fleet boots and shorts. If the videos cameras could only see the big war hero now Stiles mused with a smile.

Her father was bent over the open cowling of the tractor. Words drifted up from the area of the tractor's engine compartment that Jocelyn knew that her mother would never approve of. When the elder Stiles heard his daughter's muddied sloshing he quieted down and stood up from the tractor.

"We are late clearing the fields this year baby," Henry Stiles said angrily. "It is so hard to get help with all the young men and women going off to war." The old man looked sad after he made that last statement. "Course I understand the need." This was a heart-to-heart discussion. Jocelyn had heard this tone from her father before. "I'd be signin' up myself if I was twenty years younger. Your mother," Stiles looked down at his battered work boots. "Your Mama doesn't understand Jo-jo. I cain't say that I do either in a way. All this space and these Birdies pick a fight with us. I just don't understand. But I know you and your brother have to do your part. Trouble is you'ns are Stiles!" This last he added with a smile. "Stiles have always been out there; not doing all the flashy, fancy tomfoolery but the real elbow grease work to fix things."

"It'll be okay Dad," Jocelyn replied with a smile. The young lady put on as much false bravado as she could muster. It was not that she was pessimistic; more so that her military training had taught her to be practical. "We'll have new ships next year. Lots of people are signing up. We'll push the Birdies back!"

"I wish it wasn't just us child," Henry Stiles said sadly. "Do you think anything you said to the president will make him talk to this Sha whatever from Andoria? Just think; my little girl advisin' the president!" Henry Stiles declared with a smile.

Jocelyn had wondered what to do after the strange visit from the Andorian ambassador. Stiles' military training had not equipped her for diplomatic engagements. In the end the oldest Stiles child had done what she had always did as a child: She had asked her father for advice. Even with an advanced chemistry degree and training in the profession of arms; Stiles still believed that the old farmer from Georgia had the answers to everything. The elder Stiles had encouraged his daughter to act as a go-between and deliver Shran's message.

"President Thorpe said that he was thinkin' 'bout goin'," Jocelyn told her father. "He don't look good daddy." Stiles recalled her last visit with Thorpe. The big man had visibly lost weight. Thorpe's cheeks were sunken whereas before the war his face as seen on videos had been firm and full. Thorpe had at first rejected the notion of leaving earth. But Jocelyn was close enough to the seat of power to know just how bad things were. There were new ships on the way and no shortage of volunteers to go out in the black and fight. But it was a race against time and unless the Birdies were out of ships it was looking like a race the people of earth would lose. Thorpe had finally agreed to give the matter more thought. Stiles had left the frail looking president with the final words that Henry Aaron Stiles had once told her: Sometimes help can come from unexpected places.

"He has a lot on his shoulders baby," Henry Aaron Stiles replied. He chuckled and then continued. "You actually told him your old man said those words?" When Jocelyn nodded in the affirmative Henry Stiles rolled his eyes then fell silent. The farmer was thoughtful for a few seconds. "When do you leave?"

"Two weeks," Jocelyn replied quietly. "I've been assigned as navigator on the Vigilant." Stiles was still a little bitter about her assignment. The Pioneer class Vigilant was Admiral French's flagship; as such it was said that it was unlikely to see combat. Jocelyn was becoming aware of two camps in the Stellar Navy: Adm. French's group that seemed to want to draw the navy in towards Earth to defend their holdings and another camp led by a Commodore Forrest that wanted to engage the Romulans out in the deep. Stiles had discussed her assignment with Thorpe.

For some reason the former Air Force officer; she had begun to think of herself as a navy officer since that fateful day aboard the Beagle, had thought that Thorpe was intentionally protecting her. The executive had at first denied that charge. Jocelyn had then asked why she was not assigned to a frontline ship. The president at first had laid the blame along the feet of the Navy Bureau of Personnel. Then he had relented and made a confession that had both amazed and saddened Stiles. Thorpe had related how he and his wife were childless. Stiles had dined several times with the couple since her return and fast fame. The president had then confessed that he and Mrs. Thorpe had begun to think of Jocelyn as a daughter. There had been too much death lately Thorpe had told Stiles. The president had said that it was his wish that Stiles did not join that growing number of deaths. The confession had taken the officer aback a pace. The president then added ominously that even French's ship was liable to see combat when it came to protecting the human race.

"You take care out there baby girl and you come back to me and your mom." Henry Aaron Stiles said as he turned his back on his daughter. The big man uttered a small sniffle. Jocelyn walked up behind her father and hugged the man.

"Don't you worry daddy; I'll be back."

Taskforce 25 in the shadow of the fifth planet of the Deneva system, Oct 2156

The small force had been playing what Oulette remembered as hopscotch. Lisa Somers was an accomplished astronomer as well as navigator. The lieutenant had pointed out to Oulette that Deneva was going through a minor planetary alignment. The taskforce commander had been looking for a way to sneak the Fearless, Ironsides and Pioneer into the system along with the destroyers Kursk, Charleston and Wolverton. Oulette had elected to let his tankers stay on station under the protection of their subspace scanners and Commodore Forrest's force that was currently being serviced at Kamaga. Oulette had elected in the end to make an approach using the fortuitous alignment to hide behind the bulk of the system's planets. So far they had been lucky.

"No Birdies eh?" Oulette asked his first officer Captain Leonard Zimmermann. "I expected them to be making patrols of their holdings."

"It scares the pants off of me frankly," Zimmermann watched as the big French-Canadian rolled his eyes at the captain's last statement. "Okay, sorry for the distressing mental image there sir. But what I'm getting at is these Birdies seem to have a good idea of just how thin we are stretched. I do not believe they expected us to try something like this sir."

"I do not understand this," Oulette said quietly. "The admiralty seems deadset on waiting around the earth till the Birdies are ready to come for us."

"I heard from one of Forrest's people that the few ships operating away from Earth or a colony were dispatched under presidential orders," Zimmermann told his commander confidentially.

"Our orders were signed by French," Oulette replied. "But I too heard it was under the president's direct orders. I tell you Leonard that I feel if we wait for the Birdies to come we will be looking at destruction on earth not seen since the bad old days."

"I hope we catch them here as you planned sir," Zimmermann declared.

"We will of course Len!" Oulette replied playfully. "I will make it so since I have this extra stripe!" The commodore held up an arm of his gold navy jersey showing the extra band of silver. Oulette grew serious. "Inquire of our status please number one."

Zimmermann called out to the sensor operator. Former chief now Ensign David Guerrero by act of a field commission replied with what he was seeing:

"It is a large force. I'm reading seventy-nine ships. I'm reading the typical power readings of jellyfish for about half of those. But there are other signatures. All are in close orbit about Deneva. There is some structure there with large power readings. I would guess it is a space station. Several power readings are closely adjacent to it."

"These other ships," Commodore Oulette inquired; "Are you saying it is a different class than we have seen before?"

"It could be," Guerrero replied obviously not ready to commit himself to an answer. "We need a video pass for confirmation."

"That is one thing I hope to accomplish," Oulette replied. "Are they deep in the gravity well David?" When the ensign replied in the affirmative Oulette continued; "Very good ensign. Keep this up and we and you will be a lieutenant soon!"

"Sir I had kind of liked being enlisted," Guerrero replied with a rueful grin.

"We cannot have it too easy for good people David!" Oulette answered. "Besides if you are going to drink with the officers then you should be one!" Oulette had not forgotten Lisa Somers' story about the notorious Frontier Club.

"You still mean to go through with your plan sir?" Zimmermann asked the taskforce commander.

"Of course," Oulette responded. The commander of Taskforce 25's plan was to make a high-speed approach to Deneva if the Romulans were in close orbit. Oulette knew that it would take awhile for even a fusion-powered ship to climb out of a gravity well. It also made maneuvering cumbersome. Space warfare was only theoretical to Earthmen but it was an established fact that operating close to a planet made things more difficult. Oulette hoped to make a fast approach; fire a volley of missiles while taking some video and then warping out before the Romulans could get a margin to pursue. The big French-Canadian's only concern had been the presence of roving patrols. The way it was looking the Birdies did not expect something like this. "Let us make for the protection of the fourth planet Leonard."

Zimmermann conveyed the orders to the other ships of the taskforce and to Lt. Somers at the helm. The small group of ships shot out from the orbit of the fifth planet using the planets gravity to them an extra boost of speed. It was a long way at sublight speeds. Oulette's taskforce was spread out in a line to make use of the bulk of the fourth planet which from this distance gave the Stellar Navy ships only a little protection.

"What is the time Lieutenant Somers?" Oulette asked the navigator.

"Thirty-two minutes at this speed sir," Somers replied briskly.

"Outbound group sir!" Guerrero exclaimed from his post at the ship's sensors. Zimmermann asked the new ensign for more information. Guerrero bent over peering into the hood of his scanner display. After a minute the officer put the display that he was seeing on the bridge viewscreen. Four white pulses of light were in a group. The large mass of Deneva's forth planet was visible as a great grey circle between Oulette's ships and the four pulses.

"It looks like their course is making for Beacon," The forth planet of the Deneva system had been so named because of its brilliance in the night sky of Deneva. "I'm no birdie expert but I would think this might be a patrol."

"Can we still hide in the umbra of Beacon if they come around?" Oulette asked.

"We would have a couple degrees to play with," Somers stated as she analyzed the path of the approaching enemy ships. "It looks like they are going to make an orbit of Beacon. They aren't set up for an injection to let them slingshot."

Oulette looked at the viewscreen and fumbled with a small hand held computer calculator. Finally the big French-Canadian looked up. "Lisa, make our course for the extreme end of the umbra. We will take up a stationary position there." Oulette turned to David Guerrero. "Ensign, feed your data to guns—Carla plot a solution based on them coming over the horizon of Beacon. I want the Narwhals already inbound for them. They will not have time to react; or hopefully to get off a warning to the coop!"

Fifteen minutes later the taskforce led by Oulette's Fearless was in a stationary position over Beacon. The planet was a frigid wasteland dominated by seas of frozen methane. On the other side of the world four Romulan cabbages approached the Earth ships. The sky over the hostile world was empty of any shipping traffic when a flight of Narwhal anti-ship missiles made there way toward the vacant horizon. Seconds later the Romulan ships appeared visible now to the telescopic video equipment on the Stellar Navy ships. The Narwhals, already well on their way impacted with the Romulan cabbages creating four small and brief suns.

"Any communications traffic—at all?" Oulette asked anxiously. Captain Zimmermann checked with sensors and communications then replied in the negative. Oulette continued. "Good! Lt. Somers plot a maximum injection slingshot around Beacon. I want to emerge and proceed at maximum impulse to that space station; if it is a space station. If possible I want to make the attack run at less than a thousand kilometers."

"According to what I put together from previous scans the Birdies need at least thirty maybe thirty-three seconds to fire their plasma beam." Guerrero interjected.

"I can get us at the IP in twenty-five seconds," Somers said thoughtfully over her shoulder as she ran navigation simulations on her panel. "That means we can start to turn to and go to warp by thirty seconds."

Oulette let out a low whistle. "That is cutting things close!" Oulette looked down at his boots. Finally he looked up; tugged annoyingly at his uniform jersey that always seemed to be riding up the commodore's back, then spoke. "Very well this is war. I want to inflict the maximum damage on the Birdies. Notify the captains Len and let us be to it! We have precious little time, so prepare for maneuvers in one minute!"

The commander of Taskforce 25 was thinking that the Romulans would miss their patrol soon. Zimmerman replied with a roll call of ships ready to fight. Oulette settled back after he told his first officer to sound general quarters. The alarms sounded throughout the Stellar Navy ship. Men and women went to their assigned stations and quickly donned airtight suits; helmets at the ready.

Oulette listened as department heads called in ready for battle. Zimmermann turned and reported that the rest of the ships were ready except for the Wolverton that was reporting a malfunctioning subspace radar.

"Tell Capt. Bèton to use us as a weather ship Leonard," Oulette said tersely. The Wolverton had not been upgraded with the new scanners. "Have her slave her fire control computers to ours."

"Done sir!" Zimmermann replied promptly as information was relayed to him via the earpiece he wore.

Oulette watched as the ship's chronometer counted down. At the appointed time the commodore quietly said: "Engage."

The six Stellar Navy warships picked up speed as they used Beacon's gravity to their advantage. Whatever the Romulans were aware of was not known as no activity was apparent at first. Romulan Sabinus class ships formed a small artificial ring around Deneva. A large station consisting of a large cylinder with spokes protruding from it at different points was highlighted against the bulk of the green seas and white clouds of Deneva. Several jellyfish were moored against the station's spokes. Several of the cabbage type ships could be seen firing thrusters.

Like large sea-going predators the Earth ships closed on their targets. Romulan ships were turning about to face the threat. Whatever warning system the unknown beings had was apparently active. Missiles belched forth from the Stellar Navy ships; at first they appeared to be almost stationary. Then the missiles accelerated rapidly toward the orbiting Romulan vessels. Several of the Romulan ships were in the proper alignment to use their plasma beams. Eight Romulan Sabinus class cruisers became miniature suns adding to the brightness of Deneva's star. The Stellar Navy ships turned as rapidly as they could; thrusters firing away to help the ships turn. White Romulan plasma beams leapt through space towards the Earth ships. Three more Romulan ships were consumed by the nuclear fury of the Narwhals. Five Stellar Navy ships stretched unnaturally as they warped away into subspace.

"Message from the Kursk sir," Zimmermann relayed the information coming across his earpiece. "They report their warp field collapsed. They are on a build-up to try to go to warp again!"

"Too late!" Guerrero shouted from the sensor station. "The Kursk is hit!" A few seconds passed. Ensign Guerrero slammed his fist down on his console. "They are gone sir."

The bridge of the Fearless was silent. Oulette bowed his head in silent prayer; only Zimmermann could see the commodore's lips moving silently. Oulette collected his wits quickly and asked: "David, are they giving chase?"

There was a short pause; finally Guerrero replied: "Negative sir, a few cabbages seemed to be climbing out of Deneva's gravity to chase us but now they are on a vector to a higher orbit."

Oulette asked about the rest of his taskforce. Zimmermann reported that with the exception of the Kursk the rest of the ships of Taskforce 25 were okay. Oulette passed orders along for his small group to continue on their present heading for an hour then alter course for their tankers. Zimmermann approached his commanding officer and friend.

"A two-to-one kill ration is pretty good Grizz," Capt. Zimmermann said quietly.

"Did you know Capt. Peterson was going to retire this year?" Oulette was referring to the commanding officer of the Kursk. "Before the war came along of course; he and his wife had purchased a home in China. We actually knew each other before our service; Alan grew up by Lake Placid. I had met him when our schools competed in hockey. I suppose I shall have to write the letter to Marjorie." Oulette sighed and continued quietly:

"Yes a two-to-one ratio is excellent. But you saw all those ships. They can afford to lose that many while our loss of just one is a major blow to us. I tell you Len we need a miracle now."

"Maybe Forrest will have something," Zimmermann added helpfully.

"We shall see when we get to Kamaga Leonard," Oulette declared. The commander of the taskforce turned command over to Zimmermann and stalked off to his cabin.

Marine Recon Force 7, Minotaur 4, in the Romulus system Oct 2156

"I can't believe our luck," Chief Lester exclaimed as the group of six Minotaurs made their way to the twin planets of Romulus and Remus. "I've got that space station or ship yard on sensors. Christ it is big!"

"What are you seeing Eng?" Capt. Nathaniel Downing asked from the pilot's position. Devon Foster sat beside the captain checking instruments and their position relative to the rest of the group. Chief Lester sat behind and to the right of the pilots behind an instrument panel of his own.

"I'm reading at least four kilometers by two," Lester replied. "Scanners don't show a whole lot of ships moored to it."

"I don't like that at all!" Downing declared anxiously. "That means they are somewhere else." The marine captain sighed. "But there will be no more ships built or serviced there anymore. Any hostile contacts?"

"No sir," Foster replied as he checked his own scanner readout. "I'm guessing the stealth fix to the warp drive worked."

Subspace radar relied on the warp signatures of a starship to track against. Human and Andorian engineers had reasoned that compressing the warp field would yield a smaller return on an opponent's radar. The little Minotaurs' warp drives had been so modified to compress their warp fields to as small an extent as possible. The only problem was seriously reduced speed. The little marine fighters had been crawling along at just a little over warp one.

"Ten minutes to target," Foster announced.

"Final checks on weapons complete," Lester declared without ceremony. The Minotaur's normal compliment of sixteen Corsair single kiloton conventional warheads had been replaced with four of the larger twenty-five kiloton Amazon missiles.

"Swing your visors guys," Downing ordered. The Minotaur crews were suited up. Intelligence had surmised that the marines intended target might have a form of rail gun or point defense laser guarding it. "Remember we want to inflict the maximum damage on that structure. If we have extra missiles; we look for any other targets of military value."

Franz Metzger's voice came over the headsets' of the marines' helmets. They had been maintaining radio silence until the attack was imminent. That time was here.

"Split up according to plan," Metzger stated. "The station is the primary tar—looks like we have company. Give them our best guys; Metzger out."

"Confirmed sir!" Lester exclaimed. "They were in the magnetic interference between Romulus and the other planet. I'm reading twenty-one high speed objects, roughly spherical; approximate circumference is thirty meters. They are heading our way at one-eighth light."

"Some kind of space fighter," Foster said in speculation: "Probably roughly equivalent to a Minotaur. I remember reading one of the contractor's proposal for a spherical fighter; lots of maneuverability."

"Looks like we're gonna find out sir," Lester said over the intercom. He continued: "Optimal range for the Amazons sir!"

Downing gave the order to fire as the five other Minotaurs fired their Amazons. Three of the missiles exploded short; destroyed by laser fire. A forth missile was hit by the hyper-accelerated slug of a rail gun. The fifth and sixth missiles hit the Romulan station. One missile impacted the station near its center. The other exploded at one of the station's ends. That was enough to destroy the station. Pieces of debris that were not incinerated by the nuclear blasts went hurtling through space. A glowing red shard of a support beam collided with a Romulan fighter smashing the metal sphere.

The Romulan defenders had arrived. Their ships were comprised of hexagonal plates assembled into a rough sphere. Thrusters dotted the surface of each sphere along with a single glowing red impulse engine exhaust. Apertures and ports slid open revealing the tips of missiles and the snouts of lasers and a single small rail gun. The large yellow bird painted on each craft rolled into and out of view as the ships, made for space combat maneuvered towards their prey.

The marine ships fired away with their lasers; four of the Romulan fighters were shredded to molten pieces by the fire of the four nose-mounted pulse lasers in each Minotaur. The small Earth ships accelerated towards the Romulan attackers as a hail of missiles were released by the spherical craft. A glowing slice appeared in the side of one of the marine craft; seconds later it broke apart into a shower of metal debris. The surviving Minotaurs flew through the hail of missiles while releasing their Amazons in reply.

"Christ they got Sterling's ship!" Foster cried as the marines witnessed the destruction of one of their flight. "Good plotting on their missiles—intell is doing something right for a change!" Foster was referring to the marines' flight through the pattern of Romulan missiles. Intelligence had guessed that the Birdies waited to disengage the safeties on their weapons until they were well away. "Give 'em hell with the Amazons!"

"Firing and away!" Lester exclaimed. "Targeting lead bird--."

Chief David Lester would never be able to inform Downing or Foster of anything ever again. Several things happened at once. Foster's Minotaur adorned with the paint job of an Earth cobra shook violently. A fog formed for a split second as part of the Minotaur's hull had been compromised. Foster could feel his suit stiffen as the pressurized air left the small fighter craft. David Lester leaned against the side of the craft's fuselage; a hole in the side of his helmet. Red blood splattered the inside of the chief's faceplate.

"Something got us!" Downing exclaimed. "We still have thrust! Transfer weapons to your board Devon! Reactor is online—birdie dead ahead!"

"Firing!" Foster announced as he lined up a sphere craft on his heads up display and fired a burst from his ship's four pulse lasers. The sphere literally separated into two halves each half exploding in a shower of metal.

The Amazons had taken their toll: Seven of the Romulan fighters had been unable to spread out far enough to escape the nuclear blaze. The marine ships blasted through the Romulan fighters. The Minotaurs pivoted as they passed the Romulan group; the Romulans did as well. A hail of high speed heavy metal slugs reduced two Minotaurs to scrap. Foster's cobra motif fighter reduced another Romulan fighter to metal bits as the groups passed one another.

"We can't last like this!" Downing exclaimed from the pilot's seat. "I'm starting a speed impulse run back through them! Fire our last Amazons!"

"But sir!" Foster exclaimed. "We are too close we will get caught in our own blast!"

"Leave the safeties engaged," Downing said quickly. "Hopefully that'll make the Birdies spread out to clear us a path. Do it man! We don't have muc--," The threat warning tone sounded in the pilots' headphones. Downing and Foster watched as another set of unknowns rose up from the vicinity of where the last group had been hiding.

"Firing and away!" Foster announced. The marine lieutenant looked over at Capt. Downing. Devon foster spoke quietly. "I removed the safety Nate."

"Probably for the best," Downing replied tersely. "Lets see if we can beat the odds!"

Downing glanced at his heads up display. Their escape path was narrowing to nothing. The surviving Romulan fighters destroyed Franz Metzger's Minotaur with a high speed missile. Two of the Stellar Navy fighter craft were on full impulse in an attempt to escape their pursuers.

The Amazons shot out by the surviving force of raiders caused the Romulan defenders to move out of the Earth ships' immediate flight path. The Amazon fired by Foster's Minotaur caught three of the Romulan sphere ships in its destructive fire. Foster's Minotaur hit the leading edge of the nuclear maelstrom as the fiery explosion was subsiding.

Inside the small craft sparks erupted out of electrical panels as the hardened components tried to deal with the electromagnetic pulse. Foster and Downing maintained control as they passed through the destructive wave. As the cobra adorned craft and its sole surviving mate accelerated a group of smaller Romulan ships of a class never before seen by men dropped into normal space before the escaping Earth marauders.

"Damnit they had time to call the cavalry in Devon!" Downing exclaimed. The marine captain was about to ask Foster if they were clear to go to warp when a spate of Romulan missiles were released by the newcomers. Their sister Minotaur was shredded into glowing hot pieces of metal by Romulan lasers. "The hell with it Devon go to warp now!"

The Minotaur accelerated in normal space then seemed to hang in the blackness for a second. Then the last Minotaur of Marine Recon Force 7 stretched away into the safety of continuum distortion. Too late though; a Romulan missile exploded as the escaping marine craft was in transit between normal space and subspace. The Minotaur seemed to waver then elongated back into normal space for a split second before it was consumed by the nuclear fire of the Romulan weapon.

The Gathering Tide

Las Vegas, Nevada, Earth, the site of the old US Air Force's Groom Lake complex, Nov 2156

Thorpe walked down a long walkway. His security guards accompanied the president at a respectful distance. Micah Brack walked beside the chief executive of the United Earth government. The entourage strolled between groups of interconnected hangars. The ancient stone and metal buildings were on either side of the president's group. The silence was profound; if one stopped and listened they would be able to hear the sand blowing across the ground.

"It is hard to believe that so much activity is going on here Micah," Thorpe said happily. "I've read the reports of course; I just hope mankind is around long enough for some of your toys to come to fruition."

"Is it as bad as I've read?" Brack asked pensively. Inwardly the industrialist was concerned with the appearance of the president: The man was far thinner than Brack remembered. Thorpe's face held a pinched look to it.

"I won't lie to you Micah," Thorpe said with a sigh. The president put an emphasis on the word you. "I have a feeling you have your sources. But the journalists are being responsible for once. They aren't publishing our losses and what they mean. I'm not sure how much longer we can hold on. We need ships and crews."

"Or allies," Brack interjected.

"Lt. Stiles had that same discussion with me Micah," Thorpe looked back at his guards. Even though they were well out of immediate earshot the president nonetheless lowered his voice. "I was convinced not to make another appeal. But Jo-jo—Lt. Stiles made such a plea on Shran's behalf that I have decided to leave for Andor. I tell you I have mixed feelings. We are on the brink Micah. French has proposed reopening communications with the Romulans to discuss terms."

"There is little here that can help you Mr. President; Christophur," Brack stated sadly. "But you wanted the tour so you shall have it."

The group rounded a corner and turned down small walkway leading to a secure door. Two Stellar Navy Marines snapped to attention and saluted when they saw the president. Despite the presence of the most powerful man on the planet the door guards did not give way until Brack pressed his hand onto an identiplate then punched in a series of numbers in a small keypad. When that was complete and the door slid open the guards parted. The building they entered was immense.

The ceiling was low; less than twenty meters high but the low squat building was at least two-hundred meters long and fifty wide. A huge cylindrical chamber ran the length of the building. Sets of metallic rings encircled the tube at various intervals. Heavily shielded conduits and cables ran into one end of the cylinder. Thorpe and his party walked along the length of the cylinder while Brack explained the device to Thorpe:

"We've suspended a great deal of research on this. There is potential but it is much too early to put something like this in the field. It is a new type of beam weapon. My people along with Tellarite and Andorian physicists have come up with a way to use a nadion pulse in a phased energy rectification beam. This is the emitter end; if you'll put these goggles on sir. The metal is a wrapped steel poly-crystalline composite such as is used for the hulls of our ships. Not one of the hardest substances we know of to be sure; but certainly one of the overall toughest."

The small group had arrived at the other end of the low building. The cylinder ended in a narrow funnel type exit. A large cube of metal, easily two meters on each side was suspended from a ceiling lift system directly in front of the tapered end of the cone. Thorpe and his guards put their protective goggles in place. Brack did likewise. Brack signaled to an Andorian technician. A short countdown ensued. When the countdown ended a red beam shot out of the emitter and hit the metal block. A low hum combined with a piecing high-pitched warbling sound accompanied the beam's firing. The block of metal composite glowed the same color as that of the beam's for a second and then was gone without a visible trace.

"Christ Almighty," Thorpre declared quietly. "You are telling me we can't field this thing?"

"I wish we could sir," Brack replied sadly. "To fire that single shot took the power of four mam reactors. The recharge rate is abysmal. Pial," Brack directed his attention to the Andorian. "When can you fire again?"

"Checking now Mr. Brack," The blue-skinned alien replied. "It looks like forty-five minutes, we need cooling time and time to recharge the firing coils."

"I would guess needing that many of the new reactors means taking away from the new ships being built," Thorpe spoke aloud his conjecture.

"Yes sir," Brack answered. "I had thought of proposing a few for ground-based batteries. But given the number of reactors and rate of fire we arrived at the point of diminishing returns rather quickly."

The president and his entourage removed their eye gear. Brack escorted them out of the building to a waiting ground car. The spacious vehicle soon deposited the group before a smaller building. Another tough looking guard awaited the groups' entrance. The industrialist was busily explaining this next project to the United Earth President:

"Like a good magician you only see what we allow you to see. Most of the hardware is underneath the building as the mam reactors were underneath the last building. Dr. Erickson will explain further."

Brack led the group to a lanky dark-skinned elderly man with a slight goatee peppered with grey. When he saw Brack and the industrialist's famous guest Dr. Erickson walked over to greet his guests. The doctor had a wide, youthful smile on his face that belied his age. He extended his hand to President Thorpe. The scientist soon got down to explaining his project for the benefit of the president:

"I was working in theoretical mathematics when I discovered a way to compensate for the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. I approached several universities, hell even the Vulcan Science Academy with my idea—they all turned me down." The scientist proclaimed bitterly. Then Erickson's mood seemed to improve. He looked at Brack, smiled and continued: "Then I met Micah here. Boeing-Teledyne has given me more help than I could ever have wished for." The scientist continued:

"We have networked several computers in the chambers beneath us to construct, as I call it a compensator. Once there is an order introduced to elementary particles one can do things with matter."

"Dr. Erickson with all do respect what does this," Thorpe trailed off slowly then added: "Gadget of yours do?"

"Step this way gentleman—ladies too," Dr. Erickson added as he noted one of Thorpe's dour looking security guards. The group walked up to a large instrument terminal mounted behind a transparent partition. On the other side of the transparency a small semi-circular chamber lay. Large enough for a man to stand erect the small area had a single disc mounted in the floor and another overhead and parallel to its partner. A small statue of a cat sat on the floor disc. "Not quite up to using real cats yet; but one day I bet you will see people doing this every day."

Erickson manipulated the controls on the panel before him. A deep hum resonated from the chamber building in pitch. The group watched as the cat seemed to glow from within for a second. Like a slowly building wave the glowing became a sparkling that engulfed the small statue. The sparkling cat vanished from the disc. Erickson looked back at the group with a broad grin on his face.

"Now you see it; now you don't!" The scientist declared adding a mischievous wink as he pulled a group of levers down. The same sound dominated the chamber. The cat sparkled into existence several meters from where it had been.

"Now you are going to tell me this is years away from being fielded," Thorpe said.

"No sir!" Both Brack and Erickson cried simultaneously. The industrialist and the scientist looked at one another; finally Brack took the lead in the conversation: "We are already using a variation of this device in ship construction. It has proven excellent in extracting raw materials as well as improving on certain ship building methods. The device allows matter to be energized, held in a kind of stasis and projected to another location. We have also begun transporting some bulk cargo with it. It was a range of ten thousand kilometers."

"One day people will be using it to go everywhere," Erickson exclaimed.

Both Brack and Thorpe gave the scientist an incredulous look. Emery Erickson did not catch the look that his company gave him. He continued in full lecture mode:

"Imagine a day when a starship crew won't need shuttles to explore planets. Doctors could do delicate surgeries never before imagined. Why; once we figure out how to increase the range why even use ships? We can just send our people to new places as an energy beam! Just think of all the possibilities gentlemen!"

"Yes doctor this is definitely an invention to be reckoned with," Thorpe said agreeably. The president turned to Brack who indicated that he was ready to move on. The president bid Doctor Erickson a good day and left in the company of the industrialist and the presidential security team.

When they were out of earshot Thorpe said softly to Brack: "It'll be a cold day in hell before regular people allow themselves to be turned into energy to be shot somewhere in a beam!"

"Oh I don't know sir," The industrialist replied with a knowing look on his face. "I've seen stranger things in my lifetime."

Thorpe shot the industrialist a sharp glance. "Yes I imagine you have sir."

Brack seemed uncomfortable under the scrutinizing look of President Thorpe. The group continued along their way. Brack exited Dr. Erickson's lab and led the way across a walkway to another identical building. There were several moments of uncomfortable silence. Finally Brack, with a cautious look behind him to see where Thorpe's guards were said quietly:

"How long have you known?"

"As soon as you entered my circle of associates," Thorpe replied casually. "Don't worry; your secret is safe with me. I was curious as to how you looked so damn good after all these years. Also there was a Brack who helped finance Cochrane's work on warp drive. I happened upon a photograph of a man who looked remarkably familiar."

"Most men want to know my," Brack stopped for a moment then said: "Secret; I assure you there is none! I just kept living and living."

"I guessed as much when I had you investigated," Thorpe answered. "Don't worry about that either. I used several different agencies and people so that none can piece things together. As you've helped me and my administration I never thought to look further when I found you out."

"You are more generous then some leaders I have known," Brack said. "I'm curious why you didn't try to find out more?"

"Your record to date shows that you have been a friend to man," Thorpe said.

Brack chuckled. "Except for a brief flirtation with radicals in the old twentieth century United States; they called it the sixties." Brack said with a shake of his head. "How could we have known that we were aiding a greater evil?"

"But after that and the problems it caused I turned more to finding ways to help those who had helped me. Despite my immortality I've only managed to prosper through the efforts of my shorter lived brethren. Man has come a long way. You deserve the stars Christophur."

The group entered a building where a large piece of metal in the form of a wall was erected in the middle of the floor. Lasers were pointed at the piece of metal. Power cables ran from the floor to the base of the metal wall. Once again Brack led the group behind a transparent barrier. The industrialist handed out goggles again and gestured for those assembled to put them on. Brack gave some instructions over an intercom system then stopped to explain the upcoming display:

"We have been experimenting at adapting polarized hull plating to more of our ships. Up until now we have only been able to polarize ground-based structures because of circuit routing. We have had some success with a few ships as well. Now thanks to our collaboration with the Andorians and Tellarites we have come up with a new power distribution system. Most of the new generation of Stellar Navy ships will have polarized hull plating. It won't render them invincible but will greatly increase their odds. These are the highest kilowatt level lasers we have."

The group looked on as the lasers emitted their bright blue beams at the metal. Electrostatic discharges formed on the wall's surface. Normally the lasers would cut through metal subjected to such treatment in the matter of a few seconds. Finally the static charges seemed to increase in frequency. Glowing red hot spots started to appear on the wall's surface. Finally after twenty seconds one of the lethal cutting beams burned through the metal to impact on a far wall. Brack signaled for the demonstration to cease.

"As you can see sir our ships will have an added layer of protection against directed energy weapons."

"Well this is something!" Thorpe exclaimed happily. Then the president added in a somber tone. "So are the other things Micah; I just hope man is around to see their further development."

"I believe they will Mr. President," Brack declared. "My money has always been on man."

Thorpe looked around to note that his guards stood away at a respectful distance. "You seem to be counting yourself out of that number my friend?"

Brack looked sad; when he finally spoke he said: "I have seen too many die. It has left me alone. I am like a rock in a stream. I see all of you passing me by; I get to know you, then you have to move on." When he saw Thorpe's look of sympathy Brack rushed to continue. "Don't feel sorry for me sir. It has been a long and rich life. And who knows? We may encounter a long lived alien race that I could be at peace with."

Savannah Georgia, Earth Nov 2156

The big black haired man stood on a table in one of the city's fire stations. To this day fire companies still existed and many still rented their halls for events. The man's greasy lank hair perpetually fell across his eyes causing the man to reach up and put it back in place. Mark Hawkins was a tall young man on his way into middle-age. Hawkins had the ample belly and lax arms of someone used to eating much and doing little. Henry Aaron Stiles I approached the little makeshift band to see what the too do was about. The farmer had been invited to one of these meetings by a friend. Hawkins was busy gesturing and speaking. Sweat soaked through the armpits of his shirt and down the man's face despite the coolness of the room. Stiles listened intently to the man's speech:

"—the pointies ordered us round, then the andies jumped in pretending to be our friends along with the pig-snouts. And look at where we are now! I don't know about you my friends but I'm sick and tired of all these alien influences! We got us a president who was too weak to see what was comin'; if it wasn't for our President Glenn and President Sheibani turnin' over the nukes we probably wouldn't even have those to defend ourselves! Someone had to hide them from the pointies!"

"Aren't y'all tired of this? We are men! And we need to keep bein' men! The Son's of Terra is offering a new way! No more mixin' it up with aliens! My God I heard tell of people sexin' with andies! Can anyone imagine that? What kind of a race traitor would do that? Join us! Join the Sons' of Terra and we will take our place in the stars as men! We won't be takin' orders from pointies or andies we will be givin' them!"

Hawkins drew a breath meaning to continue when Stile's jumped in with both feet. Kendra always said he didn't have an ounce of sense in his head: "Well, well, Mark" Stiles proclaimed in a loud voice. "I see you finally found a job where you can make a lot of money for doin' absolutely no work! Politics! I should've guessed that."

Hawkins seemed to be taken aback for a moment by the unexpected interruption. The man collected himself then replied: "You are a man and entitled to your opinion Henry. Your daughter did us all a good service when she killed those Birdies. Maybe the women folk are the leaders in your family!" This last drew peals of laughter from the crowd.

"Mebbe so," Stiles said firmly. "But I have to ask what you are doin' here Mark? Is there a free meal afterwards?"

Hawkins' face soured with Stile's sharp retort. It didn't help that many in the crowd had a heart belly laugh over the farmer's comments. The speaker replied slowly and deliberately:

"I am here for man. We need a Earth for Earthmen; not a bunch of do nuthin' pointies or pig snouts! What is it you are here for Henry? Don't you believe in the family of man?"

"I sure do," Stiles answered. The farmer looked around the crowd of about seventy-five. He soon settled on another meeting attendee. "Clark Maddox!" The grizzled farmer looked at Stiles. "When your wife had advanced brain cancer where did the cure come from? By the way how is Tammy?"

Maddox looked down at his shoes. He replied quietly until Stiles told him to speak up. "The pointies helped make a medicine for the tumor. You know that Henry. She is fine at home right now as a matter of fact."

"Which is where you should be Clark," Stiles surveyed the crowd again. "Carlos Lopez, how is your soil doin'? Your peanut crop was all but gone last year wasn't it?"

"I know what you are gettin' at Hank," Lopez answered. "Them nice fellers from Andoria said they would put a altered bacteria in my soil. It saved my crop." Lopez hung his head then continued. "And my farm too." Stiles looked around again when Hawkins broke in:

"Okay, okay so some of the aliens have done things. When we are strong we can just take it from them! We don't need to degrade ourselves—,"

"Take it? Like the Romulans are tryin' to do to us?" Stiles strode toward the makeshift speaker's platform. He spoke as he advanced on where Hawkins stood. "Do y'all hear this guy? Didn't we learn anything after three wars and God knows all the other things we visited on each other? Look at this thug," Stiles pointed up at Hawkins. "How any of you remember when the tornado come through four years ago? We all helped each other rebuild, all except for this character. But we rebuilt your house too Mark. Now you come out tryin' to organize the community?"

Hawkins was about to speak when another man spoke up: "He is right Mark. I met a Andie doctor once; right nice fellow. It was hard to look at him with them antenna twitchin' but you get used to it. And he helped my Carla's sister when she had heart trouble. We all thought she was a goner!" There were nods of agreement and the hushed tones of people exchanging stories.

Hawkins could see that his hold on the crowd was weakening. The fat man spoke in a hastened squeaking voice. "Are any of you men? What are you listenin' to this nig—to Stiles for anyway? President Glenn endorses us!"

More than a few people in the crowd started to leave. A few diehards hung on. Stiles spoke to them: "Do you think those missiles were setting out there waiting for the bidies? Hell they been in the ground since after WWIII. The US and Persian presidents were pointing them at each other. How many more have to die for you fools to realize who butters your bread?" Stiles waved his hand at them in a dismissive gesture. "You ain't no better than Birdies! Hell probably worse. They might have some dumbass reason for what they are doin'. You are all plum stupid!" Stiles motioned to Hawkins. "Y'all can have him!"

The farmer stalked out of the hall. The crowd was thinned down to Mark Hawkins and no more than ten angry supporters. The rest of the men Henry passed clapped him on the shoulder. Some of them stopped him to shake his hand. Stiles knew things were on edge but he hadn't realized until this abomination by just how much.


	5. Chapter 5

Modified Bison class transport Moskva, beyond Romulan space, Nov 2156

Mohammed Qaddoumi watched the pinpoint radiance of the stars as his small ship flew through normal space. The rainbow colored streaks endemic of warp speed were no more. Their deuterium was at a dangerously low point. Qaddoumi had elected to drop the Moskva back into normal space to use the last remaining deuterium to perform a relativistic cruise. The nearest star system was over ninety years away; but the engineers had reckoned that relativistic effects would cut the ship's subjective time down.

At least they had achieved their mission; though the cost had been high. The crew of the Moskva had monitored the destruction of the Romulan space station. They had also heard the last desperate communications as the Minotaurs were finished off. Quddoumi had nonetheless waited at the designated coordinates for the retrieval; he had in fact, waited over the appointed time until the approach of several Romulan ships had been detected. What was worse yet is that they could not risk sending a subspace mission detailing their success without attracting Romulan attention.

"What are the options Wiley?" Qaddoumi asked his first officer. Mohammed knew what the options were but he hoped that somehow they would be able to brainstorm a solution.

"We would make the star system in ninety-years. Chronologically onboard the time would be much less. We can extend our food and air through cold sleep. There are provisions for growing plants onboard as well. It is possible that we would make it."

Dunleavy replied.

"I did not think things would come to this pass number one," Qaddoumi stated sadly. "I am thinking about option--,"

Sir, I have multiple sensor contacts!" The non-commissioned officer manning the sensor platform declared excitedly. "Two ships, one is reading low output. The other, the other is strange. I think the low power one is a birdie! The other, the other I'm not sure about."

"And why is that?" Qaddoumi asked sharply.

"It is putting off different electromagnetic spectra," The enlisted man shook his head in frustration. "I just don't know. But—hell I'm reading spectra similar to subspace scanners. They have acquired us! Vectoring our way—two-hundred thousand kilometers."

"Guns track the inbound. Sensors let me know what you can about it." Qaddoumi ordered

The Moskva continued its gait normal space. The bridge crew peered at the viewscreen as the newcomer appeared out of subspace in a flash. Qaddoumi ordered linguacode initiated as this seemed like a new race. The Moskva's optics were out to their limit when a fuzzy image appeared. The image grew clearer as it got closer. The alien ship was a bat-winged vessel with warp pods extended off of the end of either tapered wing.

"Any reply to linguacode Wiley?" Qaddoumi asked nervously. The commander of the Moskva was aware that his ship had one tube and six Amazon missiles as its only defense. Even the point-defense lasers had been removed to make room for fuel.

Communications is getting something," Dunleavy replied as he listened to information coming over his earpiece: "Running it through the computer." Dunleavy walked over to an instrument panel and grabbed the paper rolling out of a slot. "Text is as follows: Surrender something coming out like Rom 'ulùska, something government, maybe empire prepare to be boarded then a spoken word added on: pa tack? I'll have comm crunch the message again."

"Damnit! It sounds like they have mistaken us for Birdies!" Qaddoumi declared. "Number one; send in linguacode something, anything indicating who we are!"

"Should we prepare to fire sir?" The gunnery officer inquired.

"Negative Brewster; these people whoever they are seem hostile to Birdies," Qaddoumi stated. The commander of the Moskva thought for a moment then declared evenly: "Send our surrender number one."

The bat wing ship was now close enough to identify a triangular symbol atop of two curved wave like representations. The whole design was superimposed over a yellow circle. Missiles were actually slung beneath the ship's wings. Gun tubes, rail guns from the looks of them dotted the surface in very many places. The bridge crew realized that this species did not travel lightly when it came to weapons. Figures crawling across the bottom of the viewscreen indicated the bat winged vessel had come to a stop.

"Number one," Qaddoumi said quietly: "Start destruct sequence on the subspace sensor system. They seem to have that technology but let us not be too helpful."

There were no indications of the sensors' destruction. But Qaddoumi knew that the destruct sequence would melt the circuits. A self-replicating worm would erase the Moskva's technical database.

A small boat dropped out of the bottom of the alien craft. It too had a sinister shape; sharp stubby wings with emitter cones of some sort of weapon beneath each wing. The bridge crew looked on nervously. Qaddoumi sat back and awaited what would happen next.

Washington DC, Capital of the old US Republic, Dec 2156

"Another tea sir?" US President Todd Allen Glenn asked his guest politely.

"Yes please," Gholamreza Sheibani replied happily. "That is one thing we have in common: A dislike of spirits. They are bad for the body and sinful as well."

"I tend to agree Mister President," Glenn replied amicably. "But to get down to business; I was wondering how the Sons' of Terra had taken root in Persia? What with the resurgence of your population we may have enough votes to topple Thorpe and his Western Axis party."

"The Eastern Progressive party has been busy Mister Glenn," Sheibani answered. "We have resisted these alien influences even more so than the west! We have allowed no alien enclaves in our regions except for the stupid Saudis and Egyptians. Their day will come for what they have done as well."

"Frankly sir they wouldn't be on US soil either," Glenn sighed and stood up. The US president started pacing back and forth. "But after the mess this country was in after the war the fools then welcomed First Contact! Now look at what has happened. The progressives of that day were right: We should've nuked that base in Montana while the pointies were sitting there with that fool Cochrane."

"Thorpe leaves for Andoria soon," Sheibani said quietly. "Imagine the atmosphere we can create while he is gone? We can stir up the population quite nicely! As the US progressives once proved in the late twentieth century a lie told often enough becomes a truth." Sheibani twittered with laughter.

"And it will not be a lie!" Glenn declared tersely. "There have been lots of feelings that we should never have become entangled with the aliens in the first place. True the polls don't show that, but the feelings are there nonetheless. We will have to create the right setting to bring those feelings out of the people."

"Leave it to me in the east my friend," Sheibani stated, he continued: "Funny how we have come together after all of these years over the aliens—just in time! Men are not ready for these experiences. It is up to us as more affluent, open-minded people to instruct the people when—and if they are ready."

"Yes a return to the old ways is called for," Glenn replied. "This…freedom and openness that took root after First Contact: It is antithetical to good government. People actually get strange notions of their place in society."

Glenn was about to continue when a buzz from his intercom interrupted him. The President of the United States picked up a handset and after some curt replies he replaced the handset and turned on the Oval Office's vidcaster.

"My Chief of Staff says that there is something on I should see," Glenn said apologetically. The vidcaster showed the image of a tiny older Hindu woman. Both men recognized the presidential candidate for one of the biggest voting blocks on the planet. They had both tried to win her over to their cause only to be rebuffed time and again. The two leaders listened to the woman's words:

"—Constitution calls for an election and there shall be one. But I, Bindu Raj Modi, though I will run, do publicly declare my support for President Thorpe and his Western Axis party. The Pan-Indo Alliance is endorsing President Thorpe!" The woman took on a pensive look.

"We, all mankind have a common enemy. President Thorpe has been in the forefront of battling that enemy. Now is not the time to select a new leader! Now is the time to support President Thorpe. We must put aside our petty differences! Earth has seen an unparalleled growth in freedom. Now our military must defend that freedom. And I can think of no leader better suited to command our military than Christophur Thorpe!"

"I ask all people to put aside our differences. I call on the other major parties; the Eastern Alliance and the Western Democracy party to do as I have done and support our leader in this great strugg--,"

"Goddamnit!" Glenn cursed as he snapped the vidcaster off. "This changes everything—that…that impudent bitch!"

Sheibani rose angrlily and joined the US president in pacing. Then the Iranian stopped. He turned to his partner: "We will do as the bitch bids." When he saw Glenn's look of surprise and anger Sheibani continued in a sly tone. "Look we can pick off seats on the Council. Perhaps there is a blessing from Allah somewhere in all of this my friend. Listen; before we were concentrating on defeating Thorpe. Perhaps the path to that defeat is not a decapitation but rather nibbling away his government a piece at a time."

Todd Allen Glenn smiled. "I see your point President Sheibani." The President of the United States extended his hand. "Here's to a new partnership."

Stafford, Missouri, Earth, Dec 2156

The presidential retreat sat in the rolling hills of the state of Missouri in the old United States. After the gassing of Washington DC the deluxe seven bedroom cabin had served as the seat of power briefly. Those same deeply folded hills had also afforded some degree of protection during nuclear strikes. But that had been almost one-hundred years ago now. The ornate cabin was now a presidential vacation home. The snow covered the ground. It had been a harsh winter in the central US. Ninety-one centimeters of snow had fallen since after the ancient western US holiday of Thanksgiving.

Thorpe took a deep breath and expelled it as a visible stream into the frosty air. The United Earth president had grown up in Canada. Thorpe embraced the chill air rather than shunning it. The frigid air wrapped itself around the president. Thorpe also took a certain amount of pleasure in knowing that his guest certainly was not one who liked cold. But Thorpe felt a pang of conscious. His guest was not one of those who had directly refused aid to Earth; even if he was a minister in the Vulcan government.

The Vulcan was old for his race. Thorpe would've guessed Soval was well past his two-hunded and twenty-fifth year. Soval was somewhat shorter than Thorpe. The Vulcan also seemed more powerfully built than many of his fellow Vulcans. Soval seemed to be taking the cold in with no ill effects. But then Thorpe thought, that haughty stoicism of his race would not allow the Vulcan to even give off a shiver lest it show weakness. Thorpe motioned for Soval to follow him into the sitting room of the presidential cabin. A large fire was ablaze in a large fireplace against the far wall.

"This burning of biomatter is grossly inefficient," Soval told Thorpe in the emotionless voice.

"We know that sir," Thorpe replied. "But some things are pleasing to us humans. A fire blazing away in a fireplace during a cold winter day is one such thing a lot of us treasure. But those things won't matter anymore if the Romulans come." Soval looked visibly pained at the mention of the unknown hostile race. Thorpe continued: "I am told that you are willing to make an exchange of technology to us. I wonder first why you would do this when for the last ninety years the Vulcans have stood in our way at every pass?"

"Not all of us are of the opinion that Vulcan must remain isolated," Soval stated. "I'm sure that your intelligence agency briefed you on what T'Pol told your operative?" When Soval noted Thorpe's nod to the affirmative the Vulcan continued. "We see the present Vulcan government holding onto a position as the elder race in this quadrant as being illogical. Certainly chance favors the possibilities of other races far older than Vulcans."

"The isolation resulting from this position is alarming to many of us. As T'Pol pointed out to your operative your collusion with the Tellarites and Andorians has been to the benefit of all of your races. Some Vulcans see this as a gifted child outstripping his parents."

"So you think of us as children Minister Soval?" Thorpe interjected sharply.

"I do not," Soval answered. "Nor do my colleagues. When you proposed an alliance many of us embraced the idea as a way of helping our society. Vulcans have discovered very little lately on our own. We possess superior intellects and yet we see the day when your races will surpass ours. You human have a saying; 'squandering their inheritance'. Many of us see the present generation of Vulcans as turning inward; wasting that which was passed down to us through the ages."

"That is all very well and good Minister," Thorpe replied sourly. "But frankly the human race might not be along much longer to ally with anyone. I've no doubt that you know our tactical situation. Earth has never had ambitions of empire. We never built a large navy. Now we are paying for that lack of foresight. These Romulans," Thorpe stopped and balled his fists in anger and frustration. "How can a race make it into space and yet be so savage?"

"If we transgressed into their territory they could have let us know! Instead of this; this wanton butchery."

"We tend to agree," Soval replied. "But do not think that just because a race has made it to the stars they have somehow become civilized; just look at the Klingons. Then there are our distant relatives of whom we rarely speak. But they perished amongst the stars; still they made it there."

"So you are going to aid us Minister?" Thorpe asked in a pointed change of the subject.

Soval reached into his thick travel cloak and produced several data wafers that he gave to Thorpe. "These contain information on enhancing the ability of your scanners. I regret nothing I have given you will prove decisive. We suspect, for instance that your scientists would soon have discovered the sensor enhancements on their own. The medical knowledge is much more complete than that which we have shared with you before."

"We'll take anything we can get," Thorpe said curtly as he accepted the wafers. "Information on our enemy would be even better. Aiding us in our struggle would be ideal."

"I cannot deliver that President Thorpe," Soval said. The Vulcan seemed to be thinking of his next statement. Finally Soval continued: "We are going to close our embassy and withdraw from Earth." When Soval seen Thorpe's reaction the Vulcan seemed to cringe though the gesture was so small as to be hardly noticeable. "I must ask you to keep that information to yourself. It was not my choice. I spoke before the Council dissenting against this course of action. The withdrawal will be announced next week."

"After I am on the way to Andor," Thorpe answered bitterly.

"I told you sir," Soval replied. "It was not my choice." Thorpe turned away from the Vulcan to walk over to the patio door and look out at the snow covered Missouri countryside. "Some of us wonder; there is a silence from some in the Council and the High Command with regard to the Romulans. We are investigating more but when we leave we will have no way to communicate our findings to you; if any."

"There is subspace radio," Thorpe said quietly; still with his back turned to the Vulcan. "Perhaps the Romulans will allow you to send a message to us; who knows?"

"This is no time for emotionalism sir," Soval said. "Were any of our group to try to send a message it would be monitored. It is said of Vulcans that we are an open society within walls. Others would wonder why certain of us were communicating with Earth. Questions would be asked."

"Then what are you saying," Thorpe turned around and asked angrily. "And yes; I am emotional when it comes to the death of my fellow man. Were the situation reversed humanity probably would've aided even your stiff-necked people."

Soval bowed his head. "Yes, though you are arguing a hypothetical I believe that there is an inherent goodness in mankind. I believe you would've aided us were things as you say, reversed."

"What I am saying sir is that we cannot get a message out. But one of your people were he to come to Vulcan could bring equipment with him to do that. Many of us wonder why the silence about the Romulans. Perhaps some in the High Command suspect these creatures will attack us next and propose to isolate ourselves even more in an attempt to avoid a confrontation. It is a conjecture. I do not know. But if there is more information to be had we could pass it along to an agent. That human could then pass it along to your people."

"We could give your people the equipment Soval," Thorpe answered. "Then you would not need a human intermediary."

"Ask yourself sir," Soval said. "Ask yourself if you would trust one of us given what has happened? I do not need to be in physical contact with you to tell that you do not even trust me now."

"I don't trust you Soval," Thorpe answered. "I won't lie to you there."

"I appreciate your candor sir," Soval said without emotion; "Though it is misplaced. Another advantage for a human agent is that such a person could, how would your people put it; stumble about whereas a Vulcan could not."

"Okay suppose I agree to this," Thorpe answered. "I suppose the UIA could send an agent." Thorpe was referring to the Unified Intelligence Agency that was now comprised of the intelligence agencies of all the old Earth nation states.

"I," Soval seemed to become as close to emotional as Thorpe had ever seen in a Vulcan. "I am opposed to that agency. We would not be comfortable around someone we did not know. And your UIA has been noted for acting independently too many times. Your own administration censured some of the agency's officers for internal spying."

"Secrecy is the beginning of tyranny," Thorpe stated reciting a favorite author of his. "It was not so much the spying as the cover-up surrounding it. Sometimes the state must use measures to protect itself. But those measures must exist in the framework of the law and must be known to all." Thorpe asked: "Who then would suit you?"

"The young military officer that T'Pol has had contact with," Soval replied. "T'Pol has stated to me that he is a man of integrity."

"Very well Minister," Thorpe said at last. "I know that a few humans have settled on Vulcan. We could dispatch him as an expatriate I suppose." Thorpe turned back to the window and the winter scene. The snow and ice reflected Thorpe's mood but deep down his heart was even chillier over the prospects for his people. "If there is nothing else Minister my guards will spirit you out of the compound. Good day."

Taskforce 25 docked to the Tellarite space station Kamaga, Dec 2156

Oulette's stomach took an unpleasant turn when he was confronted with the smiling visage of an upside-down Admiral Maxwell Forrest. Oulette stood in the airlock of his Pioneer class cruiser Fearless which was under artificial gravity. The fifty-some admiral floated in the weightlessness of the space station beyond. The admiral was a tall muscular man for his age. His grizzled head of receding blonde hair was peppered with some gray. Forrest's eyes had a piercing quality to them. The admiral stopped grinning and spoke to Commodore Oulette.

"Watch the first step Pierre; it is a doozy! Welcome to Kamaga! The passageways do not have artificial gravity. Most of the human areas our friends have provided us do have some gravity. Follow me." Oulette watched as Forrest somersaulted in midair and pushed himself along the nearest wall.

Oulette stepped out of his ship cautiously. His inner ear betrayed him for a moment with a dreadful feeling of nausea as he lost perspective on up and down. Then the commodore's spacer's reflexes took over: Oulette turned in midair; not as gracefully as Forrest had, and propelled himself after the admiral. Oulette followed Forrest through the passageways of the alien station passing more than a few Stellar Navy crewmen and several Tellarite Space Force personnel. The commodore slowed as he observed Forrest doing the same. Too late though Forrest reached out and grabbed Oulette by his gold jersey before the big French-Canadian entered a gravity section.

"Wouldn't want you falling on your face Pierre!" Forrest exclaimed. The two officers walked into full gravity. Several other Stellar Navy officers were already present in the briefing room. Oulette recognized several of them.

"We won't stand on ceremony here ladies and gentleman," Forrest said beckoning the officers to be seated. "Don't worry about your ships. The Tellarites have metal foil shields in place. This not only camouflages our presence it also plays hell with normal radar." Forrest looked at the surprised look on some of the captains' faces. "Oh yes the Birdies have tried to get close enough for radar and video shots. We have been lucky so far."

"What do you need us here for Admiral?" Captain Donald Townsend asked. "Surely you would be better served letting us go back to raiding?"

"You've done a hell of a job out there Don," Forrest said. "But you've seen the data as well as the rest of us. The Birdies have a hell of a lot of ships about Topaz and Deneva—or they did; Captain Raja," Forrest indicated a tall Indian officer.

"Rizal Raja for those of you who do not know me," Raja said in opening. "Good to see you again Grizz, Donald. Admiral Forrest has been running a new strategy with the raiders since the Birdies are getting on to them. We find a stellar anomaly to hide in. The Q ship starts it distress call. The Birdies have been sending three sometimes four jellyfish to investigate. When they get close enough we let them have it!"

"I have heard of this," Oulette said with admiration in his voice. "Your group was the one that finally determined that the Birdies self-destruct rather than be captured."

That bit of intelligence was now common knowledge among the out flung elements of the Stellar Navy. What was called Taskforce 8 comprising Raja's Pioneer class Protector and the converted Bison class freighter Spirit of Berlin had engaged two Romulan jellyfish. They had obtained results similar to those that the Jade Queen had several weeks earlier. The surviving jellyfish had also exploded before it could be boarded. This time though, a platoon of marines had been lost as they had drawn close to contact the Romulan vessel.

"Yes," Captain Raja said as he bowed his head; "Would that we had found out before the death of Gunney Harvey and her people." The tall thin Indian looked up, he continued: "But that is not the subject of what I discovered. We had sought to duplicate Grizzly's efforts at Deneva on Topaz. The alignment was far off but my navigator calculated a course that would've allowed us to approach quite close to Jewel." Jewel was the one Minshara class world in the Topaz system. When Raja saw that his fellow officers were waiting for him to continue he did so:

"The Romulan ship force was greatly reduced. Over seventy percent of their ships were not there from what we had observed on a previous pass."

"Meaning that they are on the move," Townsend declared ominously.

"Exactly," Forrest added. "Admiral French thinks that they are going to island hop; like the Pan-Asians did in the Third World War. He is beefing up the forces around Wolf." Forrest searched the room. Oulette seemed visibly unsettled. "What do you think Grizz?"

"These Birdies have never shown their hand before," Oulette explained. "Now all of a sudden these attacks nibbling away at the colonies. It is like they are putting out a big sign saying Wolf is next. Why is that though? Were it me I would go for the big target."

"As would I," Forrest replied. "Earth."

"Are there any recall orders sir," Capt. Matha Howe asked expectantly.

"Recalled to Wolf—not to Sol," Forrest said. When the admiral saw the angry looks on the faces of the ship captains he continued: "I plan to take the Excelsior back—to Earth. If I am wrong it will be a blunder and quite possibly Wolf or Centauri will fall. That is subject to conjecture as the remaining Archers and planetary defenses about both star systems would make another conquest costly for the Birdies. But why spend your capital bit by bit when a massive force could finish the job?"

"The San Francisco orbital shipyard," Oulette recited the possibilities. "The Mikoyan-Bell complexes at Svobodniy and Geilenkirchen, the Cochrane Labs in Montana and Peking; all of our infrastructure."

"Why is French betting Wolf?" Oulette asked. "They might as well jump to Centauri. The island hopping analogy is fine—for a century old surface naval force."

"Intell thinks," Forrest said slowly," That the Romulans thought that the first attack would make us knuckle under. Keep in mind too; and Intell has acknowledged this, no one knows the Romulans psychology. Intell's guesses are sprinkled with anthropomorphizing. But an analysis of the Birdies actions is consistent with that premise."

"Unless they are a group of genocidal bastards," Capt. Townsend added ominously.

"Intell has said that is a possibility," Forrest answered. "But Intell is sticking with their theory based on the fact that they have slowed their attacks. We think with what we have seen them do that they could have jumped Earth from day one; but they didn't."

"Wherever they hit next Commodore," Oulette asked; "How bad is it likely to be?"

"Even with the Archers and the planetary defenses at most all we would accomplish at the colonies is to make the Birdies pay a high price for the real estate." Forrest said. "You can well imagine if the Birdies drop neutron bombs on the colonies the toll on life will be high; on Earth," Forrest stopped; the silence in the room was like a heavy blanket. "The loss of life would easily be in the billions, not to mention the damage to our industrial facilities and the ecology."

"I will go to Earth as well," Oulette declared. "I will not miss this extra stripe on my sleeve."

Maxwell Forrest nodded in grateful agreement.

"We don't have much firepower sir," Donald Townsend spoke up; "But you can count on the Queen Bitch!"

"I will commit the Protector Commodore," Capt. Raja added. The rest of the captains followed suit.

"Taskforce 25 is the squeaky wheel," Forrest said glancing at Oulette. "Grizz your people just got here. What is your turnaround time?"

"We are refueled for the most part," Oulette answered. "The engineer tells me there is some hull plating that needs patched after our hiding in the supernova remnant. The Ironsides and Charleston have suffered similarly. We had anticipated a ninety-six hour layover." Oulette looked up at nothing as he did some mental calculations. "I can have my force spaceworthy in forty-eight hours—perhaps less!"

"We will proceed to Earth in two days then." Forrest stated quietly. "God help us all if we are late—or wrong."

"And when we get there as well," Capt. Raja said ominously. "It is likely that this may be the final stand for man."

United Earth Stellar Navy Cruiser Vigilant, outbound from the Sol system, Dec 2156

The small fleet cruised through the multidimensional region of subspace. The Vigilant was accompanied by Pioneer class Sentinel and the Amarillo class destroyer Sarajevo. The craft had the tanker support of the armed tankers Ra Patera, Pavonis Mons and the Xanthe Terra. There was little of the Stellar Navy left to be spared for another taskforce. But this taskforce was escorting Earth's leader to a meeting.

Jocelyn Stiles rose respectfully as Christophur Thorpe entered the mess hall. The president surveyed the room with the keen eye of the campaigner. He picked Stiles out of the crowd of fifteen or so and walked up to the lieutenant.

"Jo-jo it is good to see you again!" Thorpe exclaimed. Stiles thought the man looked even more sunken and careworn than the last time she had seen him. Thorpe indicated that he wanted to join the navigator. Stiles looked around self-consciously. But then she thought; how do you say no to the Earth's chief executive. Jocelyn motioned for the man to be seated. Thorpe drew a cup of coffee from a dispenser and returned to Stile's table.

"I really like this," Thorpe said as he took a drink of the coffee.

"Really sir," Stiles exclaimed humorously. "You know they use the leftover coffee to clean parts!"

"No not that!" Thorpe replied with a laugh. The president motioned around him. "No guards, no staff, it feels good to be myself. My guards are in their quarters probably cleaning their guns. But I wasn't going to walk around this ship with guards. The military has always been the bastion of protecting our freedoms. I feel safer here than I do when I address the Council!" Thorpe changed the subject abruptly. "How have you been Jo-jo?"

"Good sir," Stiles replied. "This is a different kind of crew. Good people of course but not as tight as it was on the Beagle."

"That was a smaller ship," Thorpe answered. "Strange how it always seems harder to make friends when there are more people to make friends with."

"Do you think we'll have friends after this trip sir?" Stiles asked quietly. The lieutenant knew the question was probably not one a minor officer should be asking her world's leader. But Jocelyn was curious.

"Maybe," Thorpe answered pensively. "I thought these 'Sons' of Terra' would be a problem this year but after Premier Modi's concession and endorsement that is being laid to rest for the most part. I only wish it were more so. So who knows what I can get from the Shahar? We will know in a week."

"I wish you well sir," Stiles replied. The navy officer thought for a minute then much like her father plowed on despite thinking it was best to be quiet. "These Sons' of Terra; my dad wrote me a letter about them. I don't want to believe people are even voting for their people."

"More like Sons' of bitches," Thorpe said quietly; looking around to see that his words did not carry. "War brings out the worst. And there has always been a group of men and women who don't have the guts to put on a uniform but yet they feel that they can dictate policy. I know I never did, but I always respected our military instead of using it for a tool to get elected. These Sons' of Terra people don't think; they react with their emotions; and the worst of those to boot."

"I hope they don't get any seats on the Council," Stiles said.

"I hope so too," Thorpe sighed quietly. The president had different information from his advisers however: The candidates being backed by the Sons' of Terra were likely to get a few seats on the Council; not many thankfully. "Funny how the more freedom people have the quicker they seem to want to put on the chains of government run amok again. But not under my watch Jo-jo."

Langley, Virginia, Earth, Dec 2156, Office of Naval Intelligence

Gupta entered the office of Capt. Erica Soames. The Indian officer snapped to attention and saluted. Soames returned the salute from her seat behind her desk and gestured for the lieutenant to be seated. Soames offered the Indian some coffee and after pouring a cup for Gupta and another for herself she returned to her seat and launched into the subject of the meeting:

"Tara I know you have put in for a shipboard intell assignment. Frankly I think that is a waste. You are an excellent analyst. Anybody can download dispatches and present briefings for captains. You could do so much more. Your inadvertent friendship with this Vulcan for instance; that was a very good move on your part." Soames noted the already dark-skinned officer's pallor grow even darker. "Maybe it is more than friendship?"

"It is a, no; I mean no sir," Gupta replied. The Indian was recalling his accidental meeting with the Vulcan woman in a jazz club in San Francisco. Despite their obvious differences Tarang had nonetheless struck up a conversation with the alien. It was not a romantic interest on Gupta's part; at first. But rather it was that Gupta, like many of his fellow humans had never met an alien before. The Indian had anxiously plied T'Pol with questions about Vulcan and that world's culture. The Vulcan woman had at first showed the characteristic haughtiness of her race; then had opened up more. Tarang was surprised when T'Pol had consented to see the intelligence officer again. That was almost two years ago now. T'Pol had started to exchange bits of information with Gupta only last year.

"Tara," Soames said seriously. "I am an intelligence officer and a woman. So don't try to lie here." The captain let out a sigh. "I'm not going to try to advise you in your personal life. But I don't see the day when a Vulcan and human would ever," Soames let the remainder of her comments die there. "Don't set yourself up for a disappointment with this woman. True a few humans and Andies are partnered; but the Andies are more like us. I mean as far as emotions and feelings."

"I have been professional with her sir," Gupta's face heated up with embarrassment nonetheless he continued. "She is quite lovely and yes I have thought of that. But I too realize on an intellectual level that it will never be."

"Good," Soames carefully observed the junior officer before continuing. "Good because that is part of the subject of this meeting. I have rejected your request for an assignment to a ship. I am sorry. I told you that you could do more and now I intend to tell you how."

Soames outlined the plan President Thorpe had asked her to go ahead with, without Soames' mentioning Thorpe's role in all of it. The captain told an amazed Gupta that his next assignment would be to Vulcan as a clandestine operator. The Indian's mouth dropped open as Soames gave the lieutenant the expected timetable. Gupta was to leave for Vulcan within the next two weeks.

"Sir, isn't this an assignment for a UI agent?" Gupta asked in protest. "I'm a naval intelligence officer—not a secret agent!"

"The Vulcans asked for you lieutenant," Soames answered. "You obviously impressed them. I don't know if this will yield any results. This might be an extended vacation for you and nothing more. But I don't have to tell you Tara—we are losing this war. We are grasping at every straw there is."

Gupta cringed mentally at the captain's assertion. The lieutenant knew the truth of her words. But to hear them thus spoken in the open was unsettling. The fleet was being worn down. The Archers were now few and far between. No one knew where the Birdies would strike at next. The Earth just needed time. Time to build more ships and put more trained people on those ships but it appeared that they would not be granted that time.

"Go home Tara," Captain Soames told her subordinate. "Go home to India and see your relatives before you leave." Gupta could almost hear the unspoken words: While there still is an India. Soames continued: "Don't mention your destination. Officially you'll be assigned to the Wolverton. We'll route your letters to home accordingly. Any other questions Tara?"

"No sir," The Indian replied after a few seconds of thought. The young man rose. Soames got a piece of paper out of a desk drawer and got up as well. "These are orders promoting you to full lieutenant Tara." Soames extended her hand. "Good luck man."

Thank you sir," Gupta took the paper, shook his commanding officer's hand, saluted sharply, turned on his heel and left the captain's office.

United Earth Stellar Navy training base, Hellas Planitia, Mars Dec 2156

Warrant Officer Billy Walters was tired. The squadron had been flying exercises on a daily basis. It didn't help that Commodore Frank 'the bastard' Buchanan had somehow determined that Walters was group leader material. Not only did the young man have to account for his own Minotaur, he now had to take care of seven others. It made Walters pine for the days when Gunny Gibbs was yelling at a young private first class. That was much more desirable than command Walters groused.

"Menendez!" Walters spoke forcefully over the combat network. "Bring it in girl!"

"Lead if I get any closer I'll be in five's exhaust!" Stephanie Menendez protested.

Walters noted that Menendez's Minotaur drew closer to the number five ship as he had instructed. The warrant officer thought that the flight sergeant had the makings of a good pilot in here. Walters just thought that she needed a little encouragement in formation flying: It was after all not easy flying a ship at thousands of kilometers an hour with less than ten meters between craft. Walters thought that just five months ago he would not be taking the measure of another man or woman. Lately he had been doing so on a routine basis.

"Keep it tight group," Walters instructed. "We'll split for the man-to-man when we contact the Birdies. Keep with your wingman; if you go off on your own the Birdies will have your ass!"

The mission for today was to do a slingshot about Phobos come out on the other side in a tight group; split before they were in weapons range and engage the attackers. The hostiles for today were another group of what was fast becoming known as Buchanan's Buccaneers. What the boss as he liked to be called wanted to do with his Minotaur groups was still a mystery to many. Walters' had his suspicions though.

The tough little fifty meter long craft were capable of short warp flights with their antimatter packets. Walters had his reservations about antimatter. The stuff was dangerous; Walters thought that it would never make a reliable power supply. But it worked in his small fighter that was what was important. Walters felt sure that the Minotaurs could raid a birdie base or convoy. But the little ships did not have the legs to make a sustained warp flight. Somehow they would have to be towed somewhere close to the target. Walters' musings were interrupted as his flight of little ships emerged from around Phobos. Lt. Sharon Patelli's group was going against Walters' Group Five. Walters's sensors had pinged Sharon's Group Seven already. That was one consolation: Commodore Buchanan was allowing the groups full sensors. So far Walters realized that was the Stellar Navy's one advantage during this war.

"Okay group split on five," Walters ordered. "Pair off on targets! Drop a couple of packets of mumbo-jumbo and let's go!"

Five seconds later the Minotaur's split apart in four groups of two. A split second after that a bright glittering explosion occurred in front of Walters' group of stubby cigar shaped fighters. That was 'mumbo jumbo' or what the navy had unofficially christened the high speed micro fragments of metal that distorted subspace and regular radars. Lieutenant Patelli's group formed into the typical formation that attacking jellyfish took up before firing their plasma weapon. Today Sharon was the enemy and Billy was the hunter. Invisible laser energy crossed the expanse of space. A flare occurred on two of the Billy's Minotaurs as the lasers set off a small explosive marking a simulated demise for one of Walters' craft.

Damn, Walters cursed to himself that was more than he had bargained for. Patelli should've been more surprised. Then he realized that the lieutenant had caught him in a crossfire. That was not typical birdie tactics Walters knew. But Buchanan had pounded into his people again and again to always expect the unexpected. Okay, Walters thought, he was two ships short; how to turn this predicament to his advantage. Walter's thought for several seconds that seemed to feel like long minutes.

"Group, follow me!" Walters exclaimed. Patelli had deployed her group in two lines. Walters could read that on his sensors now. The Minotaurs had been using the tactics of close range attacks on the Birdies. Buchanan referred to it as getting up close and personal. The lieutenant had deployed a flanking line against Walters' attacking force. Walters dived as close to the surface of Phobos as he dared. Patelli was using subspace and regular radar only if she was playing by the rules. That meant that Walters could shield his group against the bulk of Phobos.

Walters' Group 5 hugged the surface of the unremarkable moon of Mars. They did not receive anymore simulated hits. The little craft accelerated quickly upwards and made a strafing run over Patelli's first group of four Minotaurs. Walters' group registered three enemy craft destroyed. Lieutenant Patelli's other line of fighters could not risk firing without hitting their mates. Walters took advantage of the situation by immediately swinging into the other group before the survivors of his last strafing run could get a bead on his group. Two more of the simulated enemy fell to Group 5. So did another of Billy's fighters.

Walters had another advantage as a Minotaur, not confined by an atmosphere could turn on its axis. Sharon's group could not do that as the jellyfish had so far been observed only doing so too slowly to matter. This allowed Walters' group to let loose with another round of laser fire simulating the launch of the small one-quarter kiloton Corsair missiles carried by the Minotaurs. Two more of Patelli's ships flashed briefly indicating simulated hits on them. A gruff voice came over Walters' intercom:

"Okay that is it!" Commodore Buchanan said disgustedly. "Walters why didn't you hug the surface of the moon the whole way around instead of popping your head up like a goddamned turkey?"

"I'm sorry sir," Walters started to sputter when Buchanan continued.

"Okay you still made a lot of kills but you lost two of your ships needlessly," Buchanan said. "One ship lost is too many right now. The folks back home are paying for these fine craft but they ain't turning them out by the thousands! Okay that is enough over the net; bring it home for formal debrief!"

Walters looked over at his copilot as the men inputted the data in the small ship's autopilot for the return trip. Warrant officer Vince Mason had a wicked looking grin on his face. The young man turned to his pilot: "I hate to say I told ya' so boss; but I told ya' so."

"I figured Sharon would use that line-abreast thing the boss was talking about," Walters explained. Billy was taking this hard enough as is without his copilot rubbing his nose in things more. Buchanan and Mason had been right. It was just that Billy had figured that his opposition for today would use traditional birdie tactics. She had done so on every exercise prior to this one.

"He also said the Birdies have been fighting a two dimensional war and they might learn to do better." Mason replied.

"I know," Walters replied. "Damnit! I should've expected this! I don't know why the commodore ever put me in a command position."

"Rumor has it he drew your name out of a hat; wasn't satisfied and put it back, then drew your name again," Mason chided his pilot. "Seriously Bill you know when to answer up for things. I might've been a little more stronger when I told you to expect something different. But hell I didn't really expect any change myself."

"Guess that is why we are busting our ass training," Walters said.

"Earth hasn't had any fighters since WWIII," Mason answered. "And here we are a cross between an old Mig or US F-series and a gunship. This is a whole new thing."

"Yeah and the boss is right," Walters said. "We are going to have to start thinking in three dimensions to beat the Birdies. They haven't been so far. I shoulda known better today."

"Don't beat yourself too bad," Mason said. "The commodore is going to do that at the stand up. I just want to know how Lt. Patelli split her group so quick; probably hiding in a gravitational eddy. I didn't scan them till it was too late."

"Yeah you got that!" Walters replied. "Okay let's go manual for the return to the barn."

Walters uncoupled the tiny ship's autopilot as they descended towards the surface of Mars. The tiny group had been deployed to this small base for some months now. The spacecraft were hangared in pressurized, reinforced concrete shelters. The men and women assigned to fly the craft were jammed into one shelter that was portioned off for the sexes. Walters, who shared his room with seven other pilots wondered when officers ever got a room to their own.

Hangar 51, Ganymede, Dec 2156

Captain Michael 'Oliver' Cromwell looked at the ship hanging suspended in the cavernous space outside of the maintenance office's transparent aluminum window. The cylindrical rear section was complete. Pylons were being mounted to the cylinder to facilitate the warp pods. The spherical command section was still largely a network of skeletal beams. Semi-complete decks were open to space. Beings in spacesuits swarmed all over the craft which Cromwell had been told was almost one-hundred and five meters long. Cromwell was also aware of some antagonistic feelings from his host.

"Lieutenant Colonel," Cromwell said as he turned to Jonathan Archer. Cromwell clasped his hands behind his back. That helped hide his prosthetic arm. "I suppose I should correct that to Commander; by the way congratulations. Look Cmdr. Archer, I know you were intent on commanding this ship. The trouble is you are Johnny-on-the-spot, what with your knowledge of these ships. In other words—I'm dispensable; you are not."

"If you just knew how long I worked for this," Archer replied angrily. "First the Vulcans held my father back; now that I'm on the brink of realizing his dream my own people are holding me back!"

"The pointies just didn't hand us knowledge," Cromwell said defensibly. "In a way you can't fault them for that. We had after all just emerged from a world-wide killing spree."

"Look Comm--, look Jonathan," Cromwell said. "This war didn't help things. I know it is the president's hope that you can turn these things out en masse. I believe Thorpe, as you do, would rather be exploring than conducting a war but there you go. It isn't going to make you feel any better if I say we all have our role to fulfill. But that is all I have."

Cromwell turned back to look through the transparent sheet of metal. "God man, I can understand why you wanted to take her out! The design is certainly different. From what I've read of the specs she is a ship to be reckoned with; or soon will be when she is complete. Is it true that the command hull can separate from the rest of the ship?"

"It is," Archer said. His voice lifted out of its angry monotone when Cromwell got him talking about his design. "It can be used as a lifeboat in an emergency. It has chemical thrusters that would allow it to make planetfall; a one way trip I'm afraid. But if there is a habitable planet around it would give the crew an extra chance at survival."

"I had thought of going with a saucer design but until we come up with some kind of unobtanium alloy or maybe a system of force fields that sort of shape won't support the stresses imposed upon it."

"I can't imagine such a ship," Cromwell said with a smile. "I suppose I am rooted in the old navy though. Is it true that she may have a top speed of 4.2?"

"It depends," Archer replied. "Mavik Dis is a great engineer but I wish Trip Tucker was back here. We need to re-work the warp field geometry and there will have to be space trials--,"

"Damn short ones from what I was briefed," Cromwell interrupted.

"We'll get her out of here if I have to push her," Archer answered. "It isn't going to do any of us any good if you get out there and encounter a design problem after two or three light years. I understand the rush captain--,"

"Call me Michael or Olly," Cromwell said agreeably. "We can drop the ranks for now. I lost all my prim and properness after my experiences with the bastard."

"I've heard stories about Commodore Buchanan," Archer said. "They make him out to be larger than life."

"Once in awhile a person comes along who is indeed, larger than life," The—the commodore was the first one to go up against the Birdies after their sneak attacks. He didn't ask he didn't wait for orders from the admiralty. He just went after them."

"Taskforce 12?" Archer asked expectantly. The commander indicated Cromwell's arm. "Is that where that happened?"

"As a matter of fact it is," Cromwell replied tersely.

Archer could see that the captain was uncomfortable talking about what happened. That surprised Archer as the only way he found out about Cromwell's prosthesis was from the captain's efforts to hide his right arm, which Archer though, looked no different from his left arm. But the commander supposed a person would have problems after something like that. Archer fell silent for a moment. Cromwell broke that silence.

"I'm not sure that you do understand the rush. From what I've been briefed the X has some exotic design elements in it. The industrialists are saying three, possibly four years before these ships can be turned out in any number. Nonetheless," Cromwell stopped and looked around the room to make sure they were sealed in to where no one else could hear. "Nonetheless the president wants this ship to hit space as soon as possible."

Cromwell turned his back on Archer as he continued. "We really don't know anything about the Birdies. What is their psychology, their physiology, do they play darts? The point is we need to find out more about them to kill them. Any expedition to their space would have to be quite covert. Right now we would need several tankers to go there and come back. That makes the risk of detection too high."

"But one ship with a range and speed never before imagined could make it," Archer said, completing the captain's thoughts. "So that is it? I suppose you plan on trying to circumvent their space before making your entry?"

"As much as the constraints of time will allow," Cromwell answered as he turned back to face Archer. "By the way; what I've just told you must never go beyond this room. From what I've been told the mission crew is coming out here in three months."

"She'll be ready for trials by then," Archer replied.

"Have they thought up a name for the X yet?" Cromwell asked.

"I was hoping for Enterprise," Archer said. "My great-grandfather was a deck officer on the old US carrier."

"Did he?" Cromwell started to ask then stopped.

"He survived the sinking," Archer answered. "The survivors washed ashore near Sevilla. They tried to make their way north to the Western lines but ended up fighting with the Spanish resistance against the Eacos who were occupying Spain. He made it back finally."

"Good to hear then," Cromwell answered. "Perhaps the president will approve of that."

"Actually I've heard through the grapevine that Thorpe wants to call it Daedelus," Archer said.

"Really?" Cromwell asked, obviously surprised. "Is Thorpe a mythology buff or something?"

"Not that I know of," Archer replied. "I actually heard it from our Andorian engineer. Daedelus sounds like an Andorian word meaning 'valiant explorer'. Daedelus also sounds like a word in the Tellarites' tongue meaning 'go forth'. Since there is a similarity and this is a multi-species project I guess that might end up being the name of this class."

"Interesting the similarities we share with these aliens," Cromwell said wistfully.

"I suppose I'm resigned to not taking her out," Archer stated sadly. The commander took a long look at the X, he turned to Cromwell then. Archer extended his hand to Cromwell. "Good luck sir no matter what! You'll be the first captain of the first in the line of November series starships; maybe 'n' will be a lucky letter for us."

Paris, France, Dec 2156

Giselle Mariel Picard sat stunned thinking of what the man and woman had told her. They had approached the woman in her office at the university. She ran her hand absently through her curly tresses of dark brown hair. To be going out in space! It all seemed so surreal to the pretty French mathematician. Just two hours ago she had been a theoretical mathematician. Now she was supposed to be something else.

The stone faced man and woman had told her acceptance of their proposition was purely voluntary. For awhile Mariel had thought that the whole thing was a joke instigated by her fiancé Lt. Alvin Crosby. But a small voice inside of her told Mariel that Alvin was not one for light-hearted practical jokes. No, the voice had told her, if Alvin wanted her to laugh then he would expect that of her. The mathematician had even asked the couple who had put them up to the joke. Mariel had then been shown very impressive looking credentials. The government operatives had inquired of Mariel if she would be interested in a proposition; one that could have dangers associated with it. Picard's curiosity had gotten the better of her. The two stern individuals had sworn Mariel to secrecy and promised dire consequences were she to divulge any of what they were going to tell her.

There was apparently to be a mission to find more out about the Romulans. The United Earth government was assembling a team of experts for the journey. The female half of the government agents had unabashedly told Mariel that Hoshi Sato was their first choice. But that individual had broken an arm and a leg in a climbing accident in Brazil. Sato would be unable to go anywhere for several months. Mariel had listened intently as the agents told her that she would receive a physical and psychological examination if she volunteered. The ship would leave in March they had said and it would be gone for several months. The mono-facial agents had told the French woman to think about it. Mariel was surprised, when seemingly out of nowhere she heard her voice agreeing to go. The agents had given Mariel a building number for a clinic on a Stellar Navy base outside of Marseille. The couple had given her a date to be there and then reiterated that she was to discuss the matter with no one. Then the mysterious agents had left. Her office intercom buzzed:

"Miss it is your fiancée," The mechanical receptionist had informed her in its flat mechanical voice. Mariel picked up the handset, her hand was shaking.

"It is so good to hear from you Alvin," Mariel exclaimed happily.

"Okay, okay fine," Crosby said hastily. "Look honey you know where I work. I know you had a visit today. Let's leave it at that for now." She heard his sharp intake of breath. "I'm not allowing you to go." Picard bowed her head and ran her hand through her hair as she fell silent. After a few moments Alvin spoke again. "Are you there? Look this is dangerous I only have your interests at heart."

"But Alvin this could mea--," Mariel sputtered out.

"Shut up and listen to me!" Crosby sighed on the other end of the line. "You know that there should be open communication between us Mariel. I can shuttle to Paris tonight. That is if you don't understand your role here."

"I am going Alvin!" Picard was surprised to hear that same voice that had volunteered her for the mission.

Mariel shuddered inwardly as she heard Alvin utter another sigh. That sigh usually was accompanied by dour consequences. The line was silent for several seconds finally Crosby said: "I'll be there tonight. I see you just don't understand. But you understand what will happen to you?"

"Look Alvin," The tiny voice protested. "I am going. And I am to have a physical in three days. So I would advise you not to do what you are thinking. You know there will be questions about marks and such?"

There was a silence for several minutes. But Mariel could hear his angered breathing. Picard was about to cut the line off when Alvin spoke at last. "I see you are being stubborn. Okay maybe I can't stop you from going. But I will be going as well and—you will pay for this at some future date." The line went dead.

Picard buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She hoped that Alvin would not be angry with her while at the same time wishing he would get angry enough to leave. The little voice was at it again. The mathematician turned her thoughts to what she would tell her parents. She supposed she would learn more at the base clinic. Mariel thought that she would wait until after the exam to tell her parents. Undoubtedly these people were good at coming up with stories for people. That seemed to be the way of things in some of the WWIII mysteries one of Picard's colleagues at the university favored. The professor had been a kindly man; of course Alvin had soon forbidden her to have anything more than professional contact with the man.

Talhava, Capital City of the Andorian Sovereignty, Season of the first Freeze, Earth year: Dec 2156

The Shahar stood upon the balcony of his residence. Being outside at this time of year was not recommended for even younger Andorians much less an Andorian of Rastan's advanced age. The tall blue-skinned alien's antennae straightened up as they registered the opening of the balcony doors and a familiar footfall. Rastan turned and greeted Shran who paid the ruler the proper courtesies. The ambassador plainly wanted to go back into the relative warmth of the residence though. Rastan turned about and took a last look at the ice covered majesty of his home. The Shahar wondered how any being could not fail to be moved by such beauty. The wind gathered up frozen ice crystals and threw them in the sky where the weak sunlight broke the crystals into a hazy rainbow. The rainbow colored curtain vanished in the wind as fast as it had been formed. Rastan turned and stomped into his residence.

"You would tell me that Thorpe is on the way?" The Shahar said without ceremony.

"That is so Shahar," Shran replied mildly. "He will be here within another rotation. The Caldonè is already planning to seal the spaceport. They do not want Thorpe or any of his party to meet with you."

"I will go where I please," Rastan proclaimed. "I will meet with Thorpe."

Shran looked visibly pained. "The Caldonè's political guard has sealed your residence." Shran looked down at his boots in a very human like gesture. "I never suspected that they would go this far. Once the people find out," Shran's voice trailed away.

"The people will be told what Lahana and her associate chooses to tell them," Rastan replied. "That is if we allow them to have their way." Rastan saw Shran's look of surprise. "I have been suspicious of Chrut and Lahana's intent for sometime now. Never before has a military body existed outside of the Guard; until those two proposed the Caldonè's Guard force. They are not even made up of real Guardsmen; instead most of them were recruited from prisons."

"What do you propose Shahar?" Shran asked. The look of disgust on the ambassador's face over Rastan's disclosure was apparent.

"The crew of the Al' Tana is on standby are they not?" Rastan asked Shran. He was inquiring about the crew of the Shahar's personal cruiser. The craft was a converted Andorian battleship now used primarily to relay the Shahar and other Andorian dignitaries on good will missions.

"As always Shahar," Shran replied. "And there is a phalanx of battle troops aboard."

"I think it is time for them to make a presentation at my residence," Rastan said sternly. "It has been awhile since I was last entertained by a demonstration of our Guardsmen's prowess. Shran looked troubled. "You wonder what is next? If I sit in the residence quite likely I will be the last Shahar of Andoria. Further I believe some in the Caldonè will deliver us at the feet of these Romulan pirates. That must not be."

"I have stood idly by for too long my friend. I am a soldier at heart. When I was selected for this position I thought that the will of the people was preeminent. I felt it was wrong to use my position to intervene in the government's decisions. I sat in sloth while I watched corrupt politicians twist the very cloak of our society. Now these same ice worms purpose to deliver Andoria into the hands of invaders while turning their backs on friends—no more!"

"Once we are aboard the Al'Tana I will use the emergency frequency to speak to all of Andoria. For better or worse it is time for that next dreadful step. But that is a better choice than leaving our heritage behind. Go now Shran. If I try to call them or leave then we will be discovered. I suggest you use the passageways through to the old Guardsmen's Hold rather than going through the public ice tunnels."

"In the meantime announce my intention to issue the Call to the Hunt. Our political friends will be confused and doubt dubious but they will be thinking of how to twist that around."

"I will go at once Shahar," Shran replied offering the ruler the correct courtesies. The ambassador left Rastan's quarters with a purpose in his step.

UESN Cruiser Vigilant in orbit of Andoria, Dec 2156

Admiral Herbert French sat in the command chair nervously cracking his knuckles and playing with his beard. The small presidential taskforce had detected several Romulan pickets. Their subspace sensors had helped to distance the taskforce from detection by their adversaries. But it had also meant going radio silent. Subspace radio was still relatively new and tended to be omni-directional. The force of earth ships had only just now announced themselves to Andorian control authorities.

The reply had been over three hours in coming. Finally they had told French that his ships could enter orbit for a twenty-six hour period; then they would have to depart. President Thorpe had not fared much better. The executive had at least been persuasive enough to obtain landing clearance for a ship's boat. But the earthers had not been granted any additional time.

"This was a fool's errand to start with!" French exclaimed from the command chair.

"I simply can't believe Shran would practically beg us to come here," Thorpe said ignoring the portly admiral; "And then we are rebuffed." Thorpe turned to Admiral French. "Try the frequency I gave you admiral."

"I have instructed the comm chief to do so," French replied officiously. "There was no reply."

"Sir," The NCO at communications spoke up. "I'm getting a signal now. Not on that frequency but on another the president gave me. It is high powered directed AM but there is a good deal of distortion."

"Let's hear it!" Thorpe exclaimed. The president of the United Earth government had been furnished with Andorian ambassadorial frequencies via his friendship with Shran.

The communications NCO put the message over the bridge speakers immediately. The admiral shot the enlisted man a venomous look. There was a great deal of static in the background:

"Christophur, Christophur I know you are on your way. I can't speak for long without risk of detection. You have the atlas of our world. I'm going to send some coordinates. We need help; if you could send a ship's boat that would be excellent. Was that boat to be carrying some of your marines; that would be even better. I'll pass along some safe passage instructions to get you through the radar nets."

The bridge crew listened as Shran recited a set of coordinates and some flight instructions. Lt. Jocelyn Stiles copied the series of numbers down. The transmission ended abruptly. Thorpe paced about the narrow confines of the bridge. Admiral French followed the president's movements with his eyes.

"According to computer reference the coordinates are for a Guardsmen base in the equatorial region close to Talhava," Stiles supplied as the Vigilant's computer matched the numbers to a location.

"You are not thinking of putting marines ashore sir?" French asked Thorpe. The incredulousness in the voice of Thorpe's military chief of staff was apparent.

"Shran has never lied to me," Thorpe said softly; speaking more to himself than those around him. "I do not believe he is doing so now. It was my mistake to not come here sooner. I have all let this thing run on for too long." Thorpe turned on French. The resolve in his eyes was there for all to see. "Ready the marines admiral!" Thorpe turned to Stiles. "Shran knows you Jo-jo. You were concerned about not seeing action; well here is your chance—with Admiral French's permission of course; the marines need a pilot."

French nodded bitterly at his navigator. "Why not?" The admiral asked no longer concealing his anger and doubt. "Go lieutenant! We will likely be at war with two worlds now!"

Stiles hadn't flown anything except for a shuttle simulator aboard the Beagle for many months now. The lieutenant had almost forgotten one of her greatest joys from her Air Force Academy days. The Vigilant's navigator had maneuvered the little ship out of the Pioneer class cruiser's shuttle bay and performed an almost flawless atmospheric insertion. Jocelyn had peeled back her lips in a large grin when she had felt the first bites of Andoria's atmosphere on the wings of the shuttle. Stiles had shut off the small artificial gravity generator. An old academy flight instructor had told her that the absence of the artificially generated gravity made the small ships livelier and easier to handle. This pleased Jocelyn but did not please many of the hardened Stellar Navy marines sitting behind her.

Stiles racked the small ship into almost ninety degrees of bank. The lieutenant was turning and banking through invisible corridors according to Shran's instructions. Stiles giggled quietly when she heard several marines retching behind her. It did not help the marines when the tiny shuttle encountered the frontal passage of a large weather system. Jocelyn had trouble focusing on the shuttle's instruments as the tiny craft was tossed about by turbulence. Her co-pilot was a Star Fleet Academy graduate.

Ensign Pat Kibler looked behind her quickly. "How is everyone back there? We're having a little trouble with the inflight movie and the drink service has been suspended."

The two pilots snickered at the gruff replies made by some of the marines.

"I have a visual on that base sir," Kibler said as she ran her hand through a curly mop of blonde hair. "Looks like several long buildings; actually looks like a big ice rink. But that rink looks like the one we want." The ensign turned back to the shuttle's instruments. "Two-thousand meters AGL; the next turn is in four klicks then begin a final descent." Kibler looked out once more briefly. "Damn, a whole city is under us?" She said quietly. "I don't know if I could live underground—turn thirty degrees starboard; activating thermal imager."

Stiles rolled the twenty meter long craft into a turn to the right. The earth ship started a fast descent toward a circular ice field. Several small squat buildings were possibly in evidence; it was hard to tell as they were buried under snow mounds. A brisk wind was creating a blinding snowdrift. The shuttle vanished into the billowing snow. Seconds later another drift was created; this one from the retro-thrusters of Stile's landing shuttle as the ship settled to the ground.

The cold was like an all encompassing blanket. The marine sergeant had no sooner rolled the hatch of the shuttle up than the humans inside had felt the oppressive blast. The marines hung in the relative safety and warmth of the shuttle. Jocelyn cinched the hood of her heavy Stellar Navy jacket down around her face, put on some goggles and led the way out. Thorpe had neglected to add that Jocelyn was also the senior officer among the group.

Stile's boots crunched under the packed snow of the Andorian base. The lieutenant looked around until she caught the flashing glint of a powerful directed light. She motioned for the platoon to follow her. Ensign Kibler had drawn the duty of staying with the shuttle. Stiles walked over seventy meters to the entrance of the low building. Despite numerous layers of uniform clothing and a built in heating system the lieutenant felt frozen through and through by the time she met Ambassador Shran. Stiles did not want to think of the minus thirty-four centigrade reading that she had gotten off of the shuttle's instrumentation before she had left the ship.

"Chocolate it is good to see you again!" Shran said. "I had a feeling that we would meet again. Get your people in here and I shall explain what has happened."

The group of Stellar Navy personnel quickly entered the building. Stiles checked her wrist chronometer to read a temperature just above 10 C in the building. But after the short walk through the Andorian winter day that temperature felt almost tropic to the navy and marine personnel. Shran started walking indicating that Stiles and her people should follow.

"Wait a minute sir," Stiles protested. "The president took an awful risk landing marines here. I have to know more before I commit any further." Like it or not Stiles had become Thorpe's presence on the ground here. Communications were no longer possible lest the local authorities were to become alerted of the humans' landing.

"Very well chocolate," Shran answered. The Andorian ambassador went on to explain that he had preceded to the Guardsmen's base as the Shahar had ordered him to do. When he had arrived Shran had discovered that the Caldonè had ordered the base evacuated and the Guardsmen dispersed to their home units. Without any military support it was not possible to break the Caldonè's hold over the Shahar's palace.

"You expect us to shoot Andorians?" Stiles asked. The lieutenant was skeptical.

"Your group of twelve should be enough to get us back into the residence and the Shahar out," Shran replied. "I counted no more than twenty of these worms around the residence." Shran produced a sidearm. "I am armed as well chocolate."

Jocelyn was silent while she considered her options. Why did Thorpe send her down here she asked herself angrily? If she followed Shran she might well instigate a war that earth could ill afford. But on the other hand if she got back in the shuttle Thorpe's hope of gaining allies would come to a swift end. She was aware of the Sergeant Cady's expectant glance and Shran's appraising look at her. Damn, some leader she was turning out to be she thought in frustration. Jocelyn was about to order the marines back to the shuttle when she recalled her father's words to her when they had been in the farmer's fields in Georgia: You may find friends in unexpected places. Stiles looked at the blue-skinned ambassador.

"Lead on sir," Lieutenant Stiles told the Andorian. She glanced back at Sergeant Cady and his marines. "Sergeant, ready weapons and move out!"

"Yes sir!" The marine replied as he pulled the charging lever of his Beretta Mark XI down and back. His platoon did as their leader had. The group of humans, led by their Andorian guide walked a short distance becoming aware that they were descending down a long ramp.

"We will have to go through the old city tunnels chocolate," Shran said by way of explanation. "They are hardly traveled anymore. Should you or your people see water dripping either stop or get out of the way quickly. It is usually burrowing ice worms. They can cause severe burns should they touch you." Shran continued with his advice: "Go slow and do not get ahead of me. Parts of the floor may be weak and one can fall through."

"That sounds great sir," Stiles replied sarcastically; "Anything else that we should know?"

"The worms can be quite tasty served in the liquid you humans call Tabasco," Shran said seriously.

UESN cruiser Vigilant, in orbit of Andoria, Dec 2156

"Mister President," The blue-skinned interpreter spoke slowly as he listened to the Andorian woman named Lahana and in turn rendered the politician's speech into Terran English. "We regret this unfortunate incident. The Shahar has become quite ill. We Andorians are prone, as are your people to a sickness in old age that affects the mind. Such has happened to Rastan."

"Then perhaps a visit to a sick friend ma'am?" Thorpe suggested helpfully. "I met the Shahar one other time. I count him as a friend. I know Andorians sit with sick friends as we humans do at times."

"That is not possible," The interpreter continued mildly. But Thorpe was aware that Andorians had many of the same speech resonances as humans. Lahana's words in Andorian had been quite sharp. It helped that Thorpe had taken the time to learn the speech of the ice dwellers. The president was not going to reveal that fact to this politician. "The Shahar values his privacy in his illness."

"If the Shahar has a sickness of the mind then how can you know what he values ma'am?" Thorpe asked as solicitously as he could manage. Thorpe was getting a greasy, unclean feeling that he frequently got when he spoke to some of the more greedy members of his own World Council.

"We know what is best--," The interpreter stopped. Lahana was speaking emphatically to the linguist. "Our healers know what is best for Ras—the Shahar."

"Very well ma'am," Thorpe said in a resigned voice. "My people inform me that there is an engine problem. We would like to stay in orbit for another day if possible?" It was a lie but so was the interpreter's last statement. What Thorpe had heard Lahana say was that she knew exactly what was good for the old fool.

Lahana's antenna drooped in the Andorian equivalent of a suspicious glance. But then the politician seemed to soften. The interpreter spoke after a short conversation by the office holder: "You may stay no more than twelve of your hours. We do not want to involve our world in your war so you should be leaving our system by then President Thorpe." Thorpe agreed to the terms and motioned for the communications NCO to cut the circuit. Admiral French sighed loudly as he rocked back in the command chair.

"We should signal our people on the ground before this gets any worse," French said angrily. "All hope is lost here. The Andorians have wizened to the facts as you should have sir. This foe is beyond our means. We need to press back to Earth and sue for--,"

"Damn you Admiral!" Thorpe turned sharply on the portly admiral. "You should say that this foe is beyond your means." Thorpe surveyed the bridge. His instincts as a politician told him this conversation should be held in private but his instincts as a man said otherwise.

"You have done nothing but defend. I've read the intelligence briefings. Some of our boys and girls have carried out successful strikes against the Romulans. But you have done more to hinder rather than help those people! I refuse to sit back while these aliens murder our people and threaten our world! You sir, have apparently decided to surrender since after the first plasma cannon was fired."

"I have the training to tell the difference between a losing battle and one that can be won," French declared as he rose out of the chair. "You do not! You will lead us all into death!" The admiral turned and left a silent bridge.

"Sir," Chief George Lowery spoke into the silence. "I am getting an English translation from the embassy saying that leader of theirs was supposed to give some kind of a speech."

"Okay the president will ask you for information when he wants it Lowery!" Cmdr. Helen Thomlison said from the command chair. The woman had taken French's place after the admiral's angry march off of the bridge.

"That is fine commander we won't stand on protocol here," Thorpe said. It had become obvious to the president in the weeks since the voyage started that Thomlison harbored much the same feelings for Thorpe as French had. Thorpe looked at the middle-aged graying woman in the command chair. "Thank you chief and if you have anything else to add that is helpful please let me know."

The chief executive of the United Earth government excused himself from the bridge. Thorpe stopped in the narrow passageway just outside of the bridge. The man visibly shuddered. It was quite likely Thorpe realized that all of Earth's hopes were pinned on the actions of a young military officer. It had been a mark of Christophur Thorpe the politician that he had always picked good people for his staff. His wins in the political arena and his legislative victories Thorpe felt were largely the responsibility of the excellent team he had assembled. He hoped his judgment had not wavered. Thorpe had gotten a good idea, or so he thought, of Stiles the officer, and person the day she had shown up in his office that first time. Despite Stiles' appearance then of a saddened young girl Thorpe had detected strength in her character. The president also knew that a weak person could never have brought the Beagle home. He hoped the lieutenant would bring something even better out of this mess.

Talhava, Andoria, just over and outside of the palace of the Shahar, Dec 2156

Jocelyn felt naked out on the surface again. That was quite a contradiction in terms as Stiles considered that if she were literally naked she would freeze to death in a matter of minutes. Andorians by and large lived underground. The surface for the most part was only used for personal transportation during what Shran called the Season of Lightening. Stiles equated that to high summer on Earth. Only then was the surface temperature tolerable for travelers. The ambassador had suggested that Stiles and the lieutenant's marines make their approach on the surface and fall upon the Caldonè guards from overhead. Jocelyn had been skeptical but Shran pointed out that as far as the Andorian troops were concerned the Guardsmen had been neutralized by their masters. No one knew of the arrival of the Earthers.

Shran had led them through a meandering maze of underground tunnels. Their poor condition had easily persuaded the humans that these were the old tunnels. A marine had kicked a large chunk of ice into the blackness that lay beneath a shattered opening in the floor. They all counted several seconds before they heard the sound of an impact.

"Some say the drop in places is so long that one would die of hunger before they hit bottom," Shran had informed them with a human like grin. The Andorian had led them further along until they had started up another icy ramp. They had then walked a kilometer or so along the surface until Shran stopped before a huge geyser of steam.

The steam rose from a large vent. Shran motioned Stiles to come over. The ambassador stood beside the large vent which was at least fifty meters long and wide. A ladder lay beneath a hinged grill. That grill was also locked. Stiles pointed her Beretta at the lock: She squeezed the trigger firing a hyper-accelerated armor piecing slug at the lock. Shards of metal flew from the site of the impact.

"I was going to suggest that it was so old it could easily be forced," Shran said referring to the grill.

"Don't worry," Stiles replied with a grin. "I just, always wanted to do that." Shran stood in silence as Jocelyn kicked the hinged entrance up turned to her troops and said: "Let's get moving!"

The humans descended some fifteen meters. Ambassador Shran was the last down. An old styled hinged door lettered in ornate Andorian script was just off to one side of the service ladder.

"Please do not shoot here chocolate," Shran advised Stiles. "Just beyond this door is an unguarded entrance to the residence. The residence itself sits beneath a domed ceiling. It is about one hundred and fifty of your meters from the door. The Caldonè's Guards are arrayed around it. From what the Shahar told me they are not trained soldiers. I observed many of them slouching about their posts. But they are out in the open. Some will have to be killed outright for us to gain entry."

"How did you get out of there sir?" Stiles asked suspiciously.

"Dubious of me?" Shran asked. The Andorian's antenna stood erect. He continued in a mild voice. "A valid question though. They let me pass. They will not let the Shahar pass."

"Three of my people are snipers," Cady proclaimed. "We can clear the ones we can see, hundred and fifty meters ain't nothing."

Jocelyn thought for a moment. "Okay sergeant, deploy your snipers." The lieutenant spoke in a louder voice. "The rest of you provide suppression fire should we need it; armor piecing rounds—semi-auto only. I don't us to shoot off all of the ammo. Got it?"

There was a chorus of 'yes sirs' and 'aye-aye'. Shran opened the door. Stiles followed the Andorian as the group entered a long cavernous hallway. A large set of doors at least six meters tall lay at the other end of the hall. The raiders walked about sixty meters to the doors. Stiles pushed at the doors surprised to find that they parted easily. The lieutenant peered into a dazzlingly illuminated underground cavern.

The residence of the Shahar lay as promised about one hundred and fifty meters away. Stiles could make out the tiny figures of people standing around the large eloquent building. Between the doors and the walls of the residence miniature trees were planted in a lawn of reddish colored grass. Despite the growth there was little cover.

Stiles motioned to Cady who in turned signaled his marines to deploy. The small group of humans slid through the partially opened doors. Small muffled sounds like a quick release of air were heard as the marine snipers went about their deadly duties. The Stellar Navy group fanned out as they approached the entrance to the residence of the ruler of Andoria. The group drew close to the large crystalline looking doors. That is when things started going wrong.

A flash caused Jocelyn to stop and look. That saved her life as the wall of the residence where she was about to walk exploded in a shower of particles. Stiles dived and rolled for cover. The lieutenant figured out part of the source of the flash: One of the marines was staring listlessly at her left arm which was now on the ground. A laser flashed close to where the enlisted woman was standing rooted. Stiles rolled at the woman; knocking the marine's legs out from under her before another Andorian laser would finish the job.

There was another thin, deadly red laser directed her way. Stiles depressed the trigger of her Beretta: The target system's floating recticle veered to the right and up slightly. Jocelyn followed the floating pip until it turned green. The lieutenant squeezed the trigger again. A short burst of 9.9mm armor piecing rounds was shot out of the barrel of her weapon. Stiles was rewarded with two things: The feel of the Beretta jumping in her hands and the sight of an Andorian in a purple uniform spinning away in an explosion of blue blood. The political troops were wearing purple uniforms. No doubt that was a subdued color as far as an Andorian's vision went. It was not so for human eyes for which the uniforms stood out in sharp contrast to the gray white walls of the Shahar's residence.

Stiles was pleased until she realized that this was no academy simulation range. Those beings exploding in blue bursts were real people. But so was Private Davis who, finally realizing what had happened to her started screaming. A pencil thin burst line of a laser sizzled over Jocelyn's head as she opened the wounded marines medical kit, found the right auto-injector and slammed it home in the meaty part of the woman's thigh. There Stiles thought, Becka would be able to move and all of the marines cares would be gone briefly. The drug, a little souvenir from Colonel Green's progressives was a combination pain-killer and psychotropic. Stiles looked through the Beretta's sights again.

Three figures in garish purple uniforms rose and ran stooped over for the next cover. Stiles squeezed the trigger to fire when two of the Andorians disappeared in a wet burst of blue. Cady called to Stiles. The marine sergeant was by the door of the residence. Stiles was trying to figure how to drag Davis along with her when another marine landed beside the lieutenant. Together they dragged the wounded woman toward the door. There was another flash of red and a sizzle. This was getting frustrating Stiles thought angrily. She aimed the Beretta again.

Once more the targeting system guided her aim when it detected another laser burst. The ground was fairly flat Stiles knew; but there was enough contours in it to afford low spots where a person might hide in. The shooter could hide from a shot along the same plane Stiles knew. But they could not hide from an attack from above. Jocelyn flicked the ammo selector and fired. The Beretta let out a shot bark as it discharged a flight of explosive-seeking ordinance. The area over which the laser shot had come from was filled with five small explosions. Stiles heard a scream; she couldn't tell if it was a man or woman but a curse followed in an alien language followed by wailing. Another volley of exploding ordinance came from someone in the landing party. The wailing stopped.

The large carven door extended out from the residence. Stiles and the marine had dragged the wounded Davis to one corner of the entrance where they crouched down. Across from the lieutenant behind the opposite corner Sergeant Cady peered around and gave Stiles a sign that all was clear. The door opened ponderously and silently. Jocelyn brought her Beretta to bear. The navigator of the Vigilant looked up, and up at a tall old Andorian male. Somewhere Stiles recalled reading that the ruler by title only of Andor was quite tall. Stiles stood up and found herself looking up still. The Shahar did not just stand a head over Stiles it was more like two heads and then some. Shran stepped from the other corner where he had been kneeling in the protective cover of the residence along with Sergeant Cady and the rest of the marines.

Shran approached the ruler open-handed in what Stiles guessed was some sort of courtesy. The two aliens spoke in their common language. The tone and intensity of the conversation led Jocelyn to believe that both beings were in a hurry. Stiles had been told time and again that she should not anthropomorphize aliens but she had also been told that Andorians and Terrans shared common emotional traits. Finally Shran turned away from his leader.

"The Shahar was threatened by Chrut and Lahana," The Andorian ambassador said angrily. "They sent additional troops. We must leave here now." Shran was interrupted when Sgt. Cady brought his Beretta up. Shran turned quickly and looked off into the distance.

"No!" The ambassador exclaimed. "They are Imperial Guardsmen—at least I hope that they are." Shran yelled to the troopers in his own language. There was an exchange and then the Guardsmen made their way to the Andorians and humans at the door.

The newcomers wore nondescript black uniforms and approached openly. They made no hostile gestures when they saw the group assembled at the entrance of the Shahar's residence. Each Guardsman lowered the weapon that he or she carried as they neared Rastan. They made the same gesture as Shran had made toward the Shahar. The humans looked around as the aliens spoke emphatically in their language. Finally Shran turned to Stiles once more.

"I am going to stay here with these soldiers," Shran said solemnly. "Word got out of what had happened earlier from some supporters of the old ways. These Guardsmen took it on their own to come to the defense of the Shahar. But Lahana has dispatched more of her gangsters. I propose to stay. They will not know the Shahar is gone while we hold the palace."

There was more talk amongst the Andorians. Stiles interrupted the conversation when she asked: "Do you have a way out of here ambassador?"

"You must get going chocolate," Shran said forcefully. "Do not worry about us. Word will spread of what has happened here today. I hope we will be relieved. Go now! The Shahar must be protected. Anreja tells me that the Al'Tana will dock with your ship in orbit. The Shahar's staff aboard his ship has been told of what is happening."

"He is kinda old," Stiles said in a quiet voice to Shran. "I don't mean to insult anyone but will he be oka--." The tall Andorian ruler walked over to the drugged Private Davis and picked her up as a human might pick up a light sack of groceries.

"I am ready," Rastan said to Stiles in heavily accented English. The Shahar turned to Shran. The two Andorians conducted a short conversation then Shran turned to Jocelyn.

"Keep the Shahar safe chocolate!" The ambassador said sternly. When he saw her look of concern he added in an almost human like fashion: "You'll see me again chocolate." Stiles had almost expected the ambassador to wink.

The group headed off toward the entrance they had used to get in to the domed compound. Stiles found herself walking fast to keep up with the ruler of Andor despite the burden of the wounded marine that the Shahar bore. Not too bad, Stiles thought. Davis was wounded but one of her comrades had recovered the grisly remains of her severed arm. The docs could repair something like that Stiles knew. Still it would have been better had no one been hurt the lieutenant thought.

United Earth Stellar Navy cruiser Vigilant, in orbit of Andor, Dec 2156

The war had taken up so much of Christophur Thorpe's life that he had forgotten that it was the ancient western holiday of Christmas this day. Thorpe had purchased a necklace of Tellarite opals for Maggie for the holiday. Both westerners still celebrated the ancient holiday though not as vigorously as their ancestors had. Thorpe remembered in frustration that the gift was in his office safe back on Earth. Maggie would have to wait. Still it was only Christmas, Thorpe thought; were Thorpe to have forgotten his wife's birthday or an anniversary then he would be in serious trouble indeed! The president of the United Earth government got up with the intention of going to one of the ship's gymnasiums when his intercom chimed.

"Mr. President we have a problem with the Lahana woman," Admiral French said harshly. "They have discovered the landing party. I told you--," Thorpe hit the privacy button muting French's voice for several seconds.

"I'll speak to D'ehsela Lahana from the bridge admiral," Thorpe answered after he released the privacy control. Thorpe thought that he really had no interest in hearing any more of French's rants. When the admiral called with more protests Thorpe hit the override and announced that he was leaving for the bridge.

Minutes later after making his way through the network of gangways and passages, Thorpe arrived on the bridge of the Vigilant. Weeks aboard the Pioneer class cruiser had made Thorpe an expert at where places were on the cruiser. The president was not as quick as a regular navy officer or enlisted person. But he was not as young as one of those people either. French sat in his command chair like a pompous king of old, Thorpe thought. The president quelled a biting remark he had for the admiral.

"Do you still have the D'ehsela?" Thorpe asked instead. When French, after a few long seconds replied that they did; Thorpe instructed the admiral to put the Andorian woman's visage on the viewscreen. The president turned to the picture on the screen. The interpreter was present again.

"Greetings D'ehsela Lahana," Thorpe said in clear unaccented Andorian. "My servant tells me that you have a problem?" Thorpe indicated French when he said servant. "I would be glad to discuss any problem that you are having with you. I would assist you anyway that I could. May we land and discuss the problem?"

The Andorian woman was clearly taken aback. She started to speak to the interpreter then hastily dismissed the young Andorian. Lahana turned back to a smiling Christophur Thorpe.

"I see," The Andorian politician said after a few moments. "It is of landings that I wish to speak to you of."

"We can be there as soon as you give us clearance mistress," Thorpe interrupted politely. "How is the Shahar? Has his conditioned changed? I hope if it has that it is for the better?"

"Rastan is fine," Lahana snapped back. "You have landed troops on Andoria! Some of our noble warriors have been killed!"

"Are you sure madam?" Thorpe asked solicitously; still smiling broadly. Thorpe was a nervous bundle of emotions now. If there had been killings how were his people? Christophur did not want to think of Jo-jo or anyone dieing. Too many had taken the final out lately.

"Do not toy with me!" Lahana answered. The blue-skinned woman was losing control. "You, you must leave our space—now!"

"Sir an Andorian ship is moving to intercept!" The sensor operator cried from her station.

"Battle stations!" Admiral French said forcefully.

"Mistress we will leave but we beg of you to wait," Thorpe said. "Let us see if these are indeed our people!"

"Leave now human—while you still can!" Lahana exclaimed.

"Sir," Chief Lowery said from communications. "I'm receiving an English text from that ship."

"What does it say?" Thorpe and French each asked in one voice.

The paper ejected from the chief's console. "Earth ship, this is Al'Tana permission to come alongside and dock? We come to the aid of Andor."

"By all means!" Thorpe exclaimed. Then realizing his error in protocol the president turned to Admiral French: "With your approval admiral."

"You would just override me if I said no," French said. "You realize that this could be a trick that would allow them to get close enough for a kill shot?"

Thorpe nodded grimly. The gigantic broad spear shaped craft made its way closer to the Earth president's cruiser. The other ships of the presidential taskforce had layed off of one of Andoria's many moons. The Vigilant was all alone.

Talhava, Capitol City of Andoria, in the old city tunnels, Dec 2156

"If we get out of this alive sir I ain't ever skiing again!" Sergeant Cady declared. Stiles and her team of marines were crouched down while they reviewed the video from their journey through the tunnels the first time. Cady looked around nervously. "I think we came through that tunnel over there sir. That ambassador was in a hell of a hurry. But I remember thinking that one support looked like it was going crumble at any time."

"Most of this place looks like it is going to crumble at any time," Stiles whispered back agreeably. "But I think you are right and so does the playback." Jocelyn stood up and was prepared to lead the way when glint of something in their direction of travel caught her attention. The navy officer dived back into hiding a split second before a then red beam sizzled into the wall of an ancient stone archway.

"Trouble by the dozen!" Cady exclaimed as he glanced around the corner. "And I do mean dozen sir!" The marine sergeant had gotten a pretty fair count of their adversaries.

Stiles turned to Rastan. "Is there another way out of here sir?" She could tell that the Andorian was slowly interpreting her words into his own language. Finally the Shahar replied:

"There is," The Shahar stopped there for several seconds leading Stiles to wonder about the health of the elder leader until he continued. "It means travel surface. You humans freeze."

A red beam exploded a piece of masonry near the small group. Another beam joined that. Stiles motioned for her group to move back. The lieutenant turned to Rastan: "Freezing doesn't seem so bad now. Lead on!"

The tall Andorian moved with a speed that belied his advanced age. The Shahar still carried his wounded charge. The marines; led by Stiles followed the elderly Andorian through a twist of icy poorly natural and manufactured corridors. Despite the physical exertion Stiles could feel a growing cold. She realized that they were getting close to an entrance. The group struggled on for twenty minutes. The light was brighter here Stiles thought. Snow was present on the passageway floor and increased in volume as they went forward. The roof of the passageway gave way where it had collapsed. The rugged pile of stone made for a treacherous walk but the group was soon walking up a partially collapsed ramp onto the surface of Andoria.

Stiles realized that the corridor that they had just emerged from had no branches. Jocelyn turned to Sgt. Cady. "Do you have anything to foul up the trail Sarge?"

"No problem sir!" Cady exclaimed with a big grin. His Beretta XI had an additional attachment beneath it. Cady turned and made the ancient announcement: "Fire in the hole!"

The marine let loose with a single 20mm seeking grenade. The small self guided explosive burrowed into the ground below the surface above the supports of the corridor that they had just exited. An impressive explosion brought several tons of rock and debris down effectively blocking the tunnel.

Stiles looked at her directional gear: "This way to the shuttle!" The little directional device also told her that they had several kilometers to go. Stiles stomped off into the frigid air of Andoria toward the direction of their rescue wondering if perhaps the Shahar may have been right. They may well freeze before getting to their destination. Jocelyn thought briefly of Beka Davis. Maybe all the humans needed a shot of the happy-making stuff Stiles mused.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a high speed thumping sound. Stiles had heard the sound before but she was unsure of where. Cady instructed his people to fan out. Jocelyn thought she had a good idea of the bearing for the sound. The navy officer peered in that direction until she could make out a shape increasing in size. The sound increased. A helicopter! Stiles had flown one at the academy once. The ancient design was still in use in certain places on the Earth.

The craft that approached them now was much bigger than any helicopter Stiles had seen before. The officer dived for a snow bank when the big craft fired several laser bursts at them. Stiles could make out more of the flying ship: A large body at least twenty meters long lay under shielded rotors. Several laser emitter cones were mounted on weapons brackets. Several other protruding tubes that looked like a variety of weapons lined the craft's fuselage. The helicopter powerful downdraft was creating a blinding snow drift as it approached the hapless humans and the Andorian leader.

Suddenly the warplane blew apart in an impressive fireball. Stiles felt the air literally sucked from her lungs as the concussion of the blast hit her. The Vigilant's little Sinjan class shuttle flew through the remnants of the fiery wreckage; heeling up abruptly as it hovered over the landing party. The small craft extended its landing struts and descended to come to rest not more than twenty meters from Stile's team. The refugees ran for the safety of the Stellar Navy shuttle as its hatch rolled up.

"Anybody here call for a taxi?" Ensign Pat Kibler asked.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asked. Jocelyn had instructed the ensign to stay put until the team's return.

"That gunship got poking around," Kibler answered defensibly. "I was afraid if I stayed on the ground there I would be spotted. The andies have the same imaging equipment that we do." Kibler noticed the giant Andorian with the landing party: "Sorry about that; the Andorians." She added hastily.

"No need to apologize pink," Rastan said in thickly garbled English.

"You probably were spotted in the air!" Stiles said as she waited at the hatch for the marines to board.

Kibler smiled broadly. "I was watching their civilian traffic. I did an interrogation of their IFF; made up a mock signal and flew into their local traffic pattern. You know that there is a big aerodrome just over that rise we saw on the way in?"

The last marine boarded. The marines were busy strapping themselves in. Stiles lowered the hatch. "Didn't they get suspicious?"

"Sure did sir!" Kibler answered. "They radioed me. I don't understand Andorian but the little language cruncher in the computer does. I looked up the words for radio trouble and called them back. I'm pretty sure I got the pronunciation right. Either that or I told the controller that my mother's underwear was on fire. I'm not sure which but I didn't get challenged again!"

Stiles was strapping herself in her seat. She took a final look back to see that everyone was settled. The Shahar looked like a man sitting in a child's seat as he pressed himself into a chair made for shorter people.

"Kick the tires and light the fires!" Stiles exclaimed the ancient flyer's call.

The small Stellar Navy shuttle climbed up slowly at first then gained speed. Stiles was aware that she was not flying according to Shran's directives anymore. But the navy officer was aware that any element of stealth that they may have had was now probably gone; especially after Kibler's destruction of the gunship.

"Uh-oh sir," Kibler said. "I'm getting a few nasty sounding calls and—we're getting pinged by a search radar."

When Jocelyn glanced at the ensign and saw the look on the girl's face she asked: "How bad is it?"

"Oh it's not that sir," Kibler replied shyly. "When the imager picked up all that ultra-violet I figured there was shooting. I didn't want to but…" When Stiles chided the woman to go on Kibler continued. "Am I going to have to pay for that ship I blew up?"

Stiles was stuck for an answer when the pilots heard loud human-like laughter behind them. "That one is free!" Rastan exclaimed.

"Contacts!" Kibler announced. "Four contacts coming from underneath; speed mach 3.5 on an interception vector!"

"Heletiv!" The Shahar exclaimed then added in English. "Interceptors."

Stiles looked at the shuttle's altimeter. The shuttle was passing twenty-one thousand meters. The edge of space would be coming up in fifteen thousand meters. Jocelyn pushed the thrust levers up to full military. The shuttle's little engines were rated for five minutes at that burn rate. The mental math did not look good. The Andorian air-to-ground interceptors would close on the Sinjan class shuttle just as the little earth craft entered space.

Jocelyn recalled reading about those interceptors too. They had a name, something like spear in Andorian. Their thrust and maneuverability were rated as the very highest. It did not help either that Andorians had a higher tolerance to g forces. Their antennae gave them an excellent sense of balance and spatial orientation; like a human with two sets of inner ears for balance.

"More contacts ahead!" Kibler exclaimed.

"Damnit!" Stiles cursed. She was out of options. Stiles armed the shuttle's one small defensive rail gun and locked the floating target recticle on one of the ships above them. Stiles wondered as the targeting pip floated out of the heads-up display. "What the hell?" She wondered aloud.

"They are splitting up!" Kibler exclaimed. "It is like they are opening a hole for us."

"Vigilant to shuttle," A friendly voice came out of the speaker grill. "Looks like we have friends; bring it back to the barn."

"The bogeys coming up are slowing sir," Kibler stated as she looked at the shuttle's radar. "They are peeling away, heading back."

Stiles looked out of the shuttle's transpaprent aluminum viewport to see four dart-like craft take up formation around the Stellar Navy shuttle. The navy officer guided the little ship by instruments until their rangefinder indicated the Vigilant at less than five kilometers. The little dot, distinguishable as a Stellar Navy cruiser seemed to grow in size as the shuttle got closer. The English lettering was plainly in view when Stiles switched over to a visual approach. Jocelyn looked to her left to see the first sliver of the Procyon sun as it rose over the horizon of Andor. Stiles returned her attention to the docking.

Andorian battleship Al'Tana, Dec 2156

Despite the large size of the Andorian battleship the interior was much more cramped than that of the Vigilant's. Andorian crewmen pressed themselves against walls to allow Thorpe to pass. The earth president had agreed to meet with the Shahar on that ruler's personal vessel. Thorpe did not know rather that bode well or bad. He knew that he would find out soon. Thorpe stopped at a large hatchway. Two deadly looking Andorian Imperial Guardsmen looked impassively at the human. Thorpe could see a little surprise peep out of their carefully controlled visages when the United Earth president greeted the Shahar's guards in unaccented Andorian. The guards bowed slightly and allowed the earthman to enter.

Rastan sat in a large ornate chair that looked as if it had been carved out of ice. The Shahar's head was bowed as if asleep or in deep thought. The chamber was illuminated only by the light reflected off of the rings of Andor's primary planet and the light of the far distant stars. Thorpe's head was bowed and his hands were at his side palms outward. Thorpe greeted the titular ruler of Andor in that being's own tongue. Thorpe thought that Rastan was asleep so long it took for the Andorian to reply.

"I had thought of all the reasons to tell you no," The Shahar said in Andorian. "I had thought long and hard about my role as a titled ruler. I thought that the position of Shahar should be no more than that of a reminder of traditions. I never thought to intervene in our government. I trusted to the wisdom of elected officials. I thought as many in the military do; what leader, elected by the people would seek to betray those same people?"

"That lesson was seen on earth," Thorpe answered. "We never learned from it either. I have some people on the Council who desire contact with the Romulans. How quickly they forgot about the dead on our colonies. They are thinking of all the reasons that we are responsible for the war."

"Those that initiate a fight for no reason are the ones responsible for war," The Shahar replied. "And it is the responsibility of individuals such as us to see that they are not permitted to do that." Rastan rose out of his chair. "I offer you my help; such that one who is ruler by title only may help."

Thorpe put out his hand and Rastan took it. The two leaders shook hands.

Talhava, Capital City of Andor, The chambers of D'ehsela Chrut, Earth year Dec 2156

"So he has left," Chrut said to his visitor. "We can use that to point out to the people the Shahar's deteriorating mental state. Perhaps the fiction you constructed for that fool of a pink-skin president held more use to it than you suspected at the time Lahana."

"I do not know," The Andorian D'ehsela replied. "My inner mind says that Rastan may yet be of danger to us. We should've conducted a publicity campaign to discredit the position of Shahar a long time ago. I fear that in disguising our real feelings for the traditions' of the masses that we have put all that we have worked for in jeopardy."

"What of the fool Shran?" Chrut asked. The political guards were the purview of D'ehsela Lahana and Chrut was more than happy to keep it like that. The Andorian feared the recruits in that security force. Chrut had heard stories of many of their crimes: It was frightening to think that they were the guardians of the Caldonè and also a little exciting. People in opposition now had things to fear.

"As soon as our forces rush the residence that will be the end of the ambassador," Lahana replied. "Shran will have had an unfortunate accident."

"Fatal I take it?" Chrut asked pointedly. At his companion's indication to the affirmative Chrut continued: "And Shran's family?"

"The pink-skins say something," Lahana thought for a moment recalling: "Loose ends."

The politicians' discussion was interrupted by a call from Chrut's personal aid: "The Shahar is using the emergency bands to speak!"

The two Caldonè members looked at one another. A dreadful sense of impending disaster befell Chrut. Somehow he knew that Lahana shared this sense of doom. Chrut activated the chamber's viewscreen. The visage of Rastan greeted the two Andorian statesmen. The Sharhar was aboard his personal battleship. Rastan stood framed by a large crystalline composite window beyond which lay the magnificent sight of Andor.

"—need not fear being submerged among others. We Andorians rose out of the ice. Where else have we seen life flourish and prosper against such odds? We sought the stars and we achieved those. When we sought the company of others we found it. True we had a conflict with the Vulcans. This was regrettable. Our meeting with the human brought that sad episode to rest. One fear has prevented the People of the Ice from allying with the humans:

A fear that we would no longer be Andorian; so let us look to this fear as the warriors of old looked at their fears. In rejecting the alliance look at the Andorians we have become: We have abandoned our friends. One of our most sacred laws is that we will not leave a soul to the ravages of the ice. But we have left the humans to the ravages of the Romulans. How can those who break their vows expect any less from the Romulans?

When they crept up on the humans they did not announce their intentions. They struck without warning as a C'Lethot might pounce on an unwary traveler. Will we of Andor be the next unwary traveler? I say that we will not be! I call upon the Imperial Guardsmen to repudiate the cowardly actions of the Caldonè! I call upon the Caldonè to censor and if need be expel those who have committed this act. We cannot be Andorians by discarding our honor.

I am leaving in my ship for Earth. I call upon the reserves in the Imperial Guard to come as well. We must stand against the Romulans. We must honor our pledges! To Earth!"

The broadcast ended; immediately communication circuits lit up on Chrut's desktop communication unit.

Vulcan Starliner L'Streva outbound from Earth Jan 2156

The pictures of Gupta's family were carefully laid out on the cabin's small desktop. Tarang knew that this would be a long assignment. The intelligence officer also remembered the chilling implication of his commanding officer; for Gupta to see India while it still existed. Things were bad as far as the war went. It frustrated Gupta to no end that he had not been assigned to a warship. If this was the twilight of humanity as indeed many in the military were thinking it might be then Gupta wanted to die feeling that he had defended his home and family. Some spy he was turning out to be Tarang mused. Here he was just starting his adventure and he was missing his mother and father.

Gupta looked fondly at a photo of him and family taken last year. The lieutenant's revelries were intruded upon by the cabin entry chime. The Indian opened the door to see T'Pol. The Vulcan woman looked up and down the corridor then asked Gupta if she could come in. The human invited the Vulcan in. Gupta bade her be seated on the cabin's only comfortable chair.

"I trust that you are comfortable lieutenant?" T'Pol asked.

"As comfortable as I can be in a room where the lower end of the temperature is twenty-eight C," Gupta replied. "But other than that I am okay."

"It is quite cool in here as is," T'Pol said. "But one would expect that in a room occupied by a human." Noticing Gupta's desk display T'Pol continued: "Is this your family?" When Tarang nodded she said. "You resemble your father. I am told that I neither resemble my mother or father. That is logical as I am a blend of both. Even we Vulcans discuss whose appearance a child favors."

"That is very interesting," Gupta answered somberly. The Vulcan woman could clearly see that the human was disturbed.

"Is this what is called homesickness?" T'Pol asked.

"I suppose," Gupta replied. "I'm sorry T'Pol. I have been away before; at the academy then the old United States. But now it is different. I wish I was back in New Delhi. I wish there was something I could do to protect my parents and my brothers and sisters." The officer looked at his Vulcan guest although his eyes were elsewhere. "I'm sorry T' Pol; you didn't come here to hear me have an emotional episode."

The Vulcan looked pained if Tarang could ascribe any emotion to the woman at all. She looked at Gupta who was still wearing his reading glasses. A peculiar look came over her face even for a being with suppressed emotions.

"I did not know," T'Pol said, indicating Gupta's glasses. "You look different with those on. We Vulcan's have a drug therapy that does away with dependence on visual aids."

"I just need them for reading," Gupta replied taking the glasses off. "There are still stigmatisms on my world that can't be fixed medically." The officer looked at T'Pol. "There; is that better?"

"It did not—bother me," T'Pol replied. "I was surprised." The Vulcan noticed a book in one of Gupta's open suitcases. She rose and looked closer. "May I?" She asked. Gupta nodded and the woman picked the book up and started going through the pages.

"How long have you been studying Vulcan?" She asked the intelligence officer.

"About two years now," Gupta replied; which was about how long he had known T'Pol.

"Have you tried speaking the tongue?" T'Pol asked in Vulcan.

"It is difficult," Gupta answered slowly in Vulcan. "There are no," Tara thought for a moment trying to grasp the concept in Vulcan. "No double meanings and such as in Hindi and English and—I conjecture all earth language forms have."

"Your pronunciation leaves much to be desired," T'Pol replied flatly, still speaking in her homeworld's language. Then seeming to realize that she was speaking to an emotional human being she continued: "I did not mean that as an insult. You need to speak our language more to learn. I can be your," The Vulcan woman hesitated for a few seconds. "Your teacher; if you so desire."

"I do desire," Gupta replied slowly in the alien language. Then not wanting any ambiguities coming out of his last statement he added. "I would be honored if you taught me more."

"I will do that then," T'Pol said as agreeable as a Vulcan could sound.

"I'm surprised that you are here," Gupta said slowly trying to get the pronunciation and diction correct. "Did the embassy not close last week?"

"It did," T'Pol answered. "Some of us were left behind to perform final closing procedures. There was a security inspection as well as minor cleaning tasks to perform."

"I am," Gupta searched his memory trying to come up with an approximation for the word 'glad' in Vulcan: "Pleased that you are here now."

"As am I," T'Pol answered. "Although we must keep our acquaintanceship private while we are on the liner."

"I will," Once again Gupta was at a loss as he mentally reviewed Vulcan words and ideas. "Perform as if I do not know you." Tarang added quickly. "Perhaps you can help me with the menu in the food dispensary. The alphabet is written in a form that I have never seen before."

"Yes," T'Pol answered. "We Vulcans have a common language even more so than humans or Andorians. But there are still a few ancient dialects and usage forms that have found there way into this era."

"The Lotat vegetable casserole was good but that plomeek soup!" The intelligence officer's disdain was on his face.

"It is a traditional morning meal," T'Pol informed the Indian. "I had the same reaction when I tried oatmeal."

"So," Gupta said in a change of topic. "What do you think that I can help you achieve?"

"One thing was only recently brought to my attention," T'Pol said in her flat unemotional voice. "You may not know of the Syrranite movement on my world?"

"I do know of it," Gupta replied in his stumbling Vulcan. "They are a group of traditionalists, or pacifists. I am unsure of which."

"I am surprised," T'Pol answered. "Most outworlders do not know many details of our society. You are correct; Syrranites are so named from their leader Syrran. You must be aware of who Surak is if you know of the Syrranite movement?" At the human's nod T'Pol continued. "Syrran is believed to have recovered the katra of Surak from an urn."

"Katra?" Tarang asked.

"The undying consciousness of a Vulcan," T'Pol replied by way of explanation. "A soul would be a good analogy; although a katra would be so much more. Katras may be carried from one person to another. Syrranites believe they are closer to the teachings of Surak because his katra still speaks through Syrran."

"My pardon T'Pol but I cannot see how this is useful in any way," Gupta said haltingly.

"Since the Romulans have attacked your people the Ministry has been ordering Syrranites to report for rehabilitation," T'Pol answered. "The same," T'Pol hesitated. "The same sources who are being secretive about the Romulans are the same Vulcans behind these mental screenings. Also a Syrannite temple and archeological dig was evacuated by the High Command. We do not know why a," Again the Vulcan took a few moments before she continued: "We do not know why an ancient religious temple is of interest to our military."

"How can I possibly find out anything that a Vulcan cannot?" Gupta asked in English.

"You will have freedom of movement," T'Pol replied.

Naval intelligence had set Gupta up as a trader in exotic fruits and vegetables. Gupta had a large amount of credits at his disposal that had very briefly left the lieutenant thinking about a career change. The intelligence officer would have no clock to punch so to speak. Gupta supposed that there was much to T'Pol's assertion. The man had studied Vulcan culture since his accidental meeting with T'Pol of two years ago. Gupta had as good a grasp on the desert world as any of his fellows the Indian believed.

"I see your point," Gupta said simply in Vulcan.

"Very good," T'Pol said. "I advise you also to make use of the physical facilities on this ship to help acclimate you to our climate. The equivalent pressure altitude at what you humans refer to as sea level, on Vulcan is two-thousand four hundred and thirty-eight meters."

Gupta nodded and thanked his guest. T'Pol made for the door of the cabin after agreeing to meet Gupta briefly in the food dispensary to teach the Indian how to read the menus.

Presidential Taskforce; enroute to Earth, Jan 2157

. The Vigilant and her Stellar Navy escorts Sentinel, Sarajevo, Ra Patera, Pavonis Mons and the Xanthe Terra had company. Four Andorian warships accompanied the small taskforce. The Shahar's Al'Tana was joined by the cruiser Lavec, and the Andorian destroyers Crontik and Samozu. The combined human alien fleet streaked by the rainbow colored lines of the stars created by the fleet's entry into subspace. The fleet had had been underway from Andoria for ten days now.

Karl Ebenstark looked carefully at his cards. The presidential assistant had not done a whole lot on this trip. That made Ebenstark both relieved and frustrated all at the same time. Relieved to have a small break; the war had made his normally long days even longer. Frustrated because he would've liked to have been doing something; anything to help Thorpe with the war effort. Besides drafting a few letters and speeches for their return to Earth the assistant had did little except for playing poker in ward room 7.

"So how does an ex-marine make it to presidential assistant Karl?" Sergeant Masumi Satiei asked. Ebenstark had told his poker buddies to abandon the formal 'Mr. Ebenstark' when addressing him.

"I wanted to finish out the rest of my term being productive," The German replied. Ebenstark was hoping that the straight he was working on would become productive for him.

"What happened that you weren't productive anymore?" Gunnery officer Lt. Felix Nicholson asked.

"I'll have one card," Ebenstark said coolly then continued. "My inner ear and sinuses were shot." When several of the card players asked how that happened the president's aide continued. "You may have heard of the Cutty Sark?" Several of the navy and marine personnel around the table let out cries of exclamation in reply to Karl's question.

"You weren't one of the guys who," Chief Teresa McNeil paused a few seconds before continuing her question: "One of the guys who breathed vacuum?"

"Yah that was me," Ebenstark laughed: "Though one does not breathe vacuum very well."

"What happened?" Nicholson asked. Several of the other navy and marine personnel lambasted the lieutenant for his ignorance. After the roast of the young officer died down Ebenstark told his tale in a low voice.

"I was assigned to the transport India Star. In those days as these a transport accompanied colony ships with a ready supply of deuterium. Of course the trip from earth to Wolf took several months then as well. Keep in mind that subspace radar could only tell so much in those days and Wolf was relatively unexplored."

"We came out of warp and of course we hit the meteor debris right away. Captain Nguyen was held responsible although I truly believe he could not have done anything to prevent what happened. Those were the established n-space exit coordinates. The Sark was holed in several places. The Star was severely damaged yet we remained serviceable whereas the Sark was done for. It wasn't long before Commander Keefe called us with the news that the Sark's reactor had been hit; his captain had been killed—sucked out into space. It was overheating with no way to dump it or shut down the fusion reaction."

"Capt. Nguyen called down to us with the information that the airlock and cargo locks of the Sark were not accessible for docking. My platoon and I suited up. I was a newly minted lieutenant then. I was one of those kids who came in as an enlisted man and then went officer. We made the crossing. I'll see your bet and raise five."

"We found most of the colonists alive which was a miracle in itself. But access to their suits was all but cutoff for most. And we were running against the clock; Keefe wasn't even getting readings from the power room anymore. We suited up as many survivors as we could and guided them over on the safety line. We even went as far as sealing people in pressurized cargo containers and putting them out that way."

"Looks like it is time to show our cards! As luck would have it--bad luck; we evacuated all but five souls. I could not have that after all we had accomplished given the time we had. I called the doctor on the India Star and asked him about our crossing unsuited. I gave up my suit for a colonist. Four of my marines followed suit. Doctor Nelson had told us to start a slow decompression to ready ourselves. When the last colonist was safely across and the air was growing painfully thin that is when we crossed; eyes closed the air expelled out of our lungs. I tell you I still have nightmares about pulling myself along that thin line!"

"I hope this doesn't give you nightmares Karl," McNeil said as she laid down a full house. Her hand was the strongest out of all the players.

"Achh!" Ebenstark declared. "It is only money." The short haired beefy German replied with a grin. The presidential aide took up the loose cards and organized them into a pile. "My deal."

"Wow so you went from that to politics?" Lt. Kevin Felder from engineering asked as he looked at the first card turned up.

"I had hemorrhaged badly from the crossing," Ebenstark confessed. "Still I was luckier than Matsoi who let go of the line somewhere in between." A pained expression crossed the aide's face briefly. "So my career as a spacer was over. BuPer gave me the choice between a desk assignment and medical retirement. I chose the desk."

"Let us see what we have," Ebenstark said as he dealt out another series of cards: "Possible flush for the pretty chief, no help for the lieutenant, and a pair possibly three-of-a-kind for our engineer, nothing for you sergeant and three-of-a-kind for the dealer!"

"How did the desk get you into politics?" Sgt. Satiei asked as he looked at his hole cards.

"BuPer as you know is run by evil people," Ebenstark declared. "Even Satan is known to fear the operations of the Stellar Navy Bureau of Personnel! My assignment was as a Military Liaison officer to President Mustafa. I worked for him until my term in the marines ended. Politicians are known to show favoritism to their friends; sometimes far more than is warranted!"

"Here we go again!" Ebenstark said. "I bet ten. Mustafa introduced me to a Canadian Councilman—Christophur Thorpe. I had never seen myself in politics but there was something about Christo—the President; like he was ordained for greatness." Ebenstark looked at the card players' expectant looks. "I'm not campaigning for the man; just telling you what I sensed the day I met him. I'll see your bet chief and raise you another five. So here I am twenty-five years later."

"I wish he coulda got more help from the Andies," Felder said with a frown on his face. The Shahar had called for his military's assistance but with the exception of the Al'Tana and the three Andorian ships making the voyage back to earth with the taskforce none of the other Imperial Guard units had responded. The small fleet had gone radio silent after picking up a significant amount of Romulan activity.

"Who knows," Ebenstark answered. "Perhaps, as in this hand this is the beginning of a landslide." Ebenstark replied as he laid down four deuces on the table. The officers and enlisted people around the table groaned and threw down their cards as the presidential aide scooped up the pile of credits.

Langley, Virginia, Earth Jan 2157

"I swear that this weather makes London seem positively tropical!" A thoroughly wet and distressed Captain Erica Soames declared as she removed the navy rain slicker. "I might as well not even have been wearing this. The wet snow is blowing sideways!"

Her staff was already standing around the briefing table in the vault area. Erica went to her office quickly and found a towel that she ran through her hair. The intelligence captain thought that it was a good thing that she swam during her lunch break. At least she had towels and a change of uniform with her. She ran to join the briefing despite her disheveled condition.

"Okay so this is the new birdie?" She asked no one in particular.

"Yes sir," Chief Frank McCoy answered. "We are calling her 'the Chowder' with your permission of course sir," When Soames nodded her ascent the enlisted man continued: "One-hundred and twenty-six meters long; as you can see from the video stills typical birdie paint job, three warp nacelles—kinda looks like a bullet with wings." The NCO said pointing out the out flung wings atop the leading end of the Romulan's hull.

"We think the wings may contain laser emitters," Lt. Alvin Crosby interjected. "I know it is fuzzy but if you look closely it looks like an emitter."

"Could also be an antenna array of some sort," McCoy volunteered.

Looking slightly miffed Crosby replied tersely: "I suppose so."

"The thing is sir," Lt. Tom Vanwinkle added. "Is that Taskforce 25 tracked over thirty-two of these things plus a large force of cabbages; now both Topaz and Deneva are showing only a garrison force. The Birdies are on the move in a big way."

"Hell of a time for President Thorpe to go to Andoria," Soames said bitterly. "Still I suppose it is a mixed blessing that he took French with him; we would probably be surrendering already if the admiral got this news. What did come from the admiralty?"

"Same old stuff," Crosby replied and recited mechanically: "It is our conclusion that such a large force is indicative of a strike against Wolf 359 or Centauri. There are sufficient assets in place to protect those colonies. We believe," Crosby spoke in a more natural voice now, "Admiral French's belief that it is not a move on earth."

"What have we got here?" Soames asked. "I've read the reports but how bad is it? Has French dispatched anymore Archers?"

"No, thank God," Vanwinkle answered. The newest officer on Soames team was a graduate of West Point in his mid twenties. The lieutenant was one of those unfortunate men with a thick head of prematurely graying hair. "We have twenty-three Archers devoted to the defense of earth, two squadrons of Minotaurs and a small group of the new Archer upgrades."

"The Curran class?" Soames asked. At Vanwinkle's nod she asked him to continue.

"The Valiant and Courageous are on station about Luna," Vanwinkle said. "And we have the remaining armed tankers as well as the presidential taskforce when it gets back next week. The tankers are slow but better than nothing. The missiles from America and Persia are in place in orbiting defense batteries." Vanwinkle trailed off then added: "But with those plasma weapons the Birdies can stand off and pick off defensive platforms."

"Christ," Soames said quietly. "That is it?"

"The colonies aren't much better off," McCoy added. "Wherever the Birdies hit next we are likely to get the worst of it."

"Bloody!" Soames cursed. "I can't believe French allowed us to get this spread out!" She looked up then added apologetically. "I am sorry boys. That was unprofessional of me. Admiral French is fighting an alien enemy who so far we only know the name of. I doubt anyone could do better."

The assembled officers and enlisted man knew that their CO was honoring military protocol; no more or less. They had all expressed less than stellar opinions of the abilities of Admiral Herbert French themselves.

"The last communiqué from Commodore Forrest said that he thinks a strike on earth is likely," Crosby said. "Didn't anyone forward that to the admiralty?"

"French and his people see Forrest as a renegade and throwback," Soames stated sadly. "So anything Forrest says has been disregarded. In a way it is fortunate; as Forrest was put out in charge of the outer squadrons a year before the war. It was French's way of telling the commodore to go to hell essentially. Thankfully though; that put one of our better flag officers where he could do the most good."

"Okay boys," Captain Soames mustered as much of a smile as she could; given the dire news that came from the briefing. "Keep up the good work and keep your eyes and ears open; anything else?"

"Sir, have you heard from Tara?" McCoy asked in a friendly manner.

"Lt. Gupta is on his way to the Wolverton," Soames said. The woman hated lying to her staff but she knew the intelligence officer's old adage and took it to heart: A secret was no longer secret when another person knew it. "He got the assignment that he wanted."

When it appeared that all were satisfied the briefing broke up. The intelligence staff started on their individual ways to complete assignments. Soames spoke up abruptly: "Al I would like to see you in my office for a moment." The lieutenant followed his superior officer into her office. Soames closed the door and after inviting Crosby to take a chair she sat herself behind her desk.

"Alvin what the bloody hell possessed you?" Soames asked angrily. "What is going on over Jupiter is one of our most closely guarded secrets! And you—you call your fiancée on an open comm channel about it! When I heard the recording I came close to having you seized and thrown in irons!"

Crosby was silent for a few moments before replying defensively. "I don't want to see Mariel hurt is all sir; I love her."

"I didn't hear that Alvin," Soames said flatly. "You know I am loathe to interfere in your personal life but I have to ask you lieutenant; do you have a problem?"

"No sir!" Crosby answered. Sweat started trickling down his forehead despite the coolness of the captain's office. "You misunderstood what you heard. I…I was just upset when I found out. The woman I love was asked to go on a dangerous situation."

"And about marks?" The captain asked pointedly.

Crosby was caught flat-footed. He gaped open mouth for several long seconds before replying: "Things got out of hand once. It was all harmless; Mariel bruises easily and we were just rough-housing."

"Look Alvin," Soames said. The captain plainly had doubts and they showed in her facial expression. "You are going on that mission. Right now if I had a better qualified officer or enlisted person I would pick them over you in a heartbeat! But I am going to need my best intelligence officer for this."

"In the meantime Lieutenant Crosby I have scheduled you for an appointment with a flight surgeon. This is not a request—it is an order. So help me if I find out you are even a minute late for this appointment I will replace you on the mission—and have you reassigned! I don't like what I am discovering about you Al; but I'm willing to concede that it might all be a misunderstanding and give you the benefit of a doubt."

"Thank you sir," Crosby answered haltingly. "I'll do as ordered."

"You are damn right about that mister!" Soames snapped. "You are dismissed Al. Get out of my office."

Savannah Georgia, Earth Jan 2157

Henry Aaron Stiles hated this time of year. At least the barn was somewhat temperate. Stiles went about cleaning the stalls. The farmer hated the trips to the outside that he had to make. But he would never finish his chores by staying in the barn. At least this was a good time for him to catch up on a lot of little repair jobs that he had neglected through the summer and then the fall harvest.

A young man from town had signed on to help the farmer. Stiles counted himself lucky. The boy was old enough to work but not old enough to join the military. Paul Johannsen had taken a good bit of the menial chores off of Stile's shoulders. It was almost time for the lad to return to school. Henry groused that he would miss the extra help. At least he was caught up enough for the trip to his brother's. Stiles finished putting his tools away and walked back to his home. It was early evening and yet growing dark. Henry thought for what he considered must be the thousandth time in his life how much he detested this time of the year. Kendra was inside. The farmer's wife was cleaning her hands over the kitchen sink. She dried her hands on a towel and drew her husband close to her. The couple kissed then Henry went to the sink to wash.

"Busy today?" Henry asked his wife. Since Doc Hadley had went away with his reserve unit Kendra once again found herself in her old profession of veterinarian. Stiles' wife was frequently away at the other farms making the rounds that Hadley had once conducted.

"Nothing serious," Kendra Stiles replied. "Marvin Thompson's mare Jenny is ready to drop her foal. But I think it'll be at least another week. Sarah Jenkins brought that cat of hers, Otis in for an exam. Besides bein' to old to scrap with younger toms he is in pretty good shape."

"Anything come from the kids?" Henry asked. The farmer had been there all day but had not checked the terminal or the paper mail.

"Henry Jr. is bein' assigned to some marine unit on Mars," Kendra answered. "He sent a video; it is on the terminal if you want to see it later."

"Durn right I do!" Henry Sr. replied. The farmer grew quiet. "I'm glad the boy is getting assigned close. I mean I guess we are a target here too. It is just that," Stiles voice died away.

"I know baby," Kendra said hugging her husband close to her. "This war; I guess just feeling they are closer somehow means they wont--."

"I know hon," Stiles said. He was thinking it though; if their children were close they would not be likely to die. Henry knew it was irrational but the farmer needed something to hold onto. The news about the war was not good.

"Speaking of being close," Kendra said as she drew apart from her husband. "I wish you would not go away next week."

"Wayne invited me down," Henry replied. Wayne Stiles was Henry's younger brother. "I think him and Kelli are worried about Kevin. He graduates from that there Starfleet Academy in the spring—then you know he will be off to a ship. I don't know what I can do. Maybe just getting' together sharin' a few laughs will help."

"And sharin' a few drinks of Mr. Jack Daniels," Kendra proclaimed slyly.

"It would be insultin' not to drink with my brother!" Stiles exclaimed in mock protest.

"Yeah you two nearly insulted yourselves out of Wayne's boat the last time," Kendra said reproachfully. Then the woman broke out in a grin. "Okay I guess it is for a good cause baby."

"I just wish you were going too!" Henry exclaimed. The farmer really did wish for that too. Despite the worried tones in his brother's voice Henry had thought twice about going when Kendra told him that she would be staying behind.

"Just my luck that Hadley got called away," Kendra answered. She continued: "If I go be my luck that every animal in the county will need a vet!"

"Guess you are right," Stiles replied sadly.

"Oh I have to tell you," Kendra said conspiratorially. "Zelda Thompson told me that no account Mark Hawkins is running for selectman from our district! Can you believe that? It is those Sons' of Terra."

"More like sons-a-bitches," Stiles said quietly. Kendra nodded despite her contempt for her husband's occasional curse word.

"Like I always said baby," Stiles proclaimed. "Cain't do physical work, don't have the brains that God gave a cockroach but have a mouth bigger than the Mississippi; only thing those kinda people are good for then is politics."

"Seems like we could do better," Kendra Stiles said, clearly upset at the information. "We didn't learn anything from the last war I guess."

"We'll see come Election Day," Henry answered. "I know we don't think about it as much as my Granddaddy did but it is still true; we are Americans, we won't elect someone that full of hatred. That kind always finds some other way to sneak in the chicken coop."

"Not this time I hope," Kendra Stiles said with conviction. "That would almost be as bad as the Birdies wiping as all out. We would become just like them."

United Earth Stellar Navy Destroyer Xiaguan, outside of the Alpha Centauri system Jan 2157

The one-hundred and twenty-six meter long Stellar Navy destroyer proceeded through subspace. The vessel had been on patrol for many days now. Captain Ronald King looked at the subspace scanner readings that he had ordered presented on the small viewscreen. They had seen nothing for more than a week now. King was suspicious. He remembered flushing habus out of the bush as a child growing up in his native

Philippines. That had been a game; this was far more serious than hunting for deadly snakes.

"We are pretty far off the beam sir," Commander Gordon Albright said quietly to his captain. The bridge of the destroyer was not a desirable place to conduct policy discussions.

"Gordy, your captain is indulging an instinct," King replied softly.

"Are you acting on Forrest's last dispatches?" Albright asked.

King nodded. "We will stay out of our normal patrol route for another day. Then we will return to take on more deuterium and head out again."

"Sir," Albright said as quietly as possible. "What if the Birdies jump Centauri while we are off of our regular route?"

"I'll take responsibility of course Gordy," King replied. "We can still warp back in if that happens. Look we are so damn thin now one more ship wouldn't make much of a difference. But if—as Forrest thinks the Birdies are going to make a run on earth. This one ship could sound the alert."

King looked at the clipboard in his hands. "Gordon, double-check with Chang on the fuel figures."

"I already have sir," Albright replied. "I figured that you wanted to bag enough deuterium to make a run to earth—if we needed to do that. You are right—we can stay on patrol out here another day but after that we are well below our reserve for Sol."

"You are just too damned smart for your own good Gordon!" King exclaimed with a grin. "We'll have to put you into one of these seats permanently." King said indicating the captain's chair.

Albright smiled. The commander had always wanted a ship of his own. But suddenly the thought of leaving the Xiaguan sent a shudder of regret through the thin Canadian officer. The little destroyer and its crew had become a second home to Albright. Albright's smile vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

"Don't worry Gordon," King said sympathetically. "I'm no pointie; I can't read your mind—except on this one occasion. It happens to every one of us. We spend a big part of our lives in these tin cans. So when it is time to move to another can it is natural to miss the one you call home. I had the same feelings when I was on the Ironsides. I almost turned down the orders. But I'm here now!" King added this last with a broad smile. The captain continued. "You get a ship of your own and everything changes. It is still family. But it will be your family. So many of us spend all this time exploring; we do not take wives. This may be all the family you ever know Gordon. It is time for you to assume the role of father."

"You make it sound pretty horrible sir," Albright answered. He was smiling but inside a lot of what King had said stirred up feelings in him; feelings of lost opportunities and loves common to many who chose the stars.

"I would not trade anything I have done for another life Gordon," King answered; all trace of humor gone from his voice. "I have no regrets." King rose from the chair. "All except for one; I need some sleep. I'll relieve you in nine hours Commander Albright." King announced formally as the captain left the bridge for his quarters.

Presidential Taskforce one hour from the Sol system, Jan 2157

Christophur Thorpe sat back in the uncomfortable bunk reading a favorite book of his. The way the author presented them the themes of good and evil were clear and evident for those with eyes to see. Thorpe still felt a twinge of sadness when the scientist killed the protagonist's alien companion. Thorpe had always portrayed the black-skinned alien in his mind's eye with the face of a good-natured smiling seal as the author had plainly wanted to happen. Although Thorpe knew as many Canadians who had grown up by the sea knew; seals could be nasty creatures given the chance. The president was about to flip to the next page when the alert klaxon sounded.

Thorpe slipped his shoes on and headed for the bridge. Although he knew that he was no military officer Thorpe was after all the civilian head of the United Earth military. Thorpe pressed himself into the walls to allow the personnel who would fight the ship to get to their stations as speedily as possible. Thorpe chuckled inwardly at how accustomed the crew had become to their commander and chief. Several officers and enlisted people greeted Thorpe with a casual 'good day Mr. President'; as if they were politely greeting a stranger at a mall. The president soon arrived at the bridge hatchway and entered.

The president shrunk back against a wall while he allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the Vigilant's bridge. Thorpe could just make out the silhouette of Jocelyn Stiles at the helm. French was visible as a ponderous dark spot defined by his bulk. Commander Helen Thomlison was visible as a thin slip of a woman. Thorpe's eyes adjusted after a minute. The president could make out more details now. He knew that the admiral had seen him enter and yet the man said nothing. Thorpe took the initiative:

"What is going on Admiral French?" The president asked politely.

"We have received a message from a craft identifying itself as the Xiaguan," French said in a tense voice. "They have relayed some sort of information about a large Romulan force inbound for Sol."

"How many?" Thorpe asked pointedly.

French hesitated for some time. When the admiral spoke at last it was to Stiles and not to the president. "The engineer reports enough deuterium for a cruise to Centauri. Lay in a course lieutenant." The admiral finally turned to Thorpe then.

"The Xiaguan reported a force of one-hundred and forty-one ships Mr. President," French said at last. "We cannot possibly accomplish anything there now except to die with the defenders. The Vigilant and the rest of our ships have enough deuterium--."

"You are planning on abandoning our homeworld to these Birdie savages?" Thorpe asked loudly. The president's face was a mask of rage.

"There can be no hope of winning here!" French answered. "This would be an ideal time for you to open a dialogue--."

"He is right Mr. President," Commander Thomlison added fervently. "Look at the odds here."

"Exactly," French proclaimed agreeably. "Now is the time for you to open a secure channel to the Council; instruct them to surrender and sue for terms. A battle is sure to result in massive destruction on our world!"

"Who is next in line of command after you two?" Thorpe asked in a chilling tone indicating the admiral and the commander.

"That is quite enough of this madness," French answered. "I will not be relieved to be replaced by…by an engineer! Summon the marines to the bridge with their weapons!" French turned to the communications NCO:

"Chief prepare to send a broadband signal. I am going to end this madness and quite possibly save our world."

"I'm working on it now sir," Chief Lowery replied. It was apparent that the man was caught up in the power play that was taking place.

Several minutes passed when French said to the communications NCO: "Don't make any mistakes here! The president needs to be calmed down. This ship is under my command. You better understand where your loyalties lay chief. That goes for all of you!" The admiral declared in a threatening voice.

Sergeant Masumi Satiei stepped onto the Vigilant's bridge in the company of a marine private. Both marines were in full battle gear; Beretta XI's at the ready. Admiral French immediately ordered the marines to escort the president off of the bridge and to take him to sickbay. Both Satiei's and his companion's mouths dropped open.

"Sergeant," Thorpe said gently to the marine non-commissioned officer. "I am the civilian head of the military. Admiral French is attempting a coup of a sort here. I would like you to think about what you doing here."

"If you do not remove the president I shall have you arrested!" Thomlison spat out shrilly.

"Sergeant," Thorpe said in an even toned voice. "Our world is going to be attacked by a Romulan fleet. Admiral French here--,"

"Do not listen to anything he says!" French's puffy cheeks were visibly red even in the darkened bridge of the cruiser. "This madman has done enough! Trying to resist now is foolish! Now remove the president! I have had enough of this nonsense and I am certainly not going to debate with an unsophisticated enlisted man! Do as you have been ordered—now!"

"Yes sir!" Satiei exclaimed in reply. "I think I get what is going on here." The sergeant leveled the berretta at the admiral. "My family is on earth. I don't know what a fight would do but surrendering doesn't sound so good. And he is right sir; the president is our boss. You're right; I'm not as sophisticated as you are admiral but I read the Constitution in school. I don't remember it saying anywhere that an admiral can remove the president." The marine turned to his companion. "Matson you keep an eye on the commander. I don't want to shoot either of you—but I will if I have to." The sergeant turned to the United Earth president. "What are your orders sir?"

The private accompanying the sergeant looked scared but she followed Satiei's lead; the private leveled her weapon at Commander Thomlinson's midsection. The bridge was quiet for several seconds. The only sounds were the persistent whirring of the air circulators and the instrument panel cooling fans.

"Escort the admiral and the commander to their quarters," Thorpe instructed the marines. "And put a guard at each of their doors."

"I am not going to treat--," French said in protest.

"Please be quiet admiral," Thorpe answered forcefully. "You have said quite enough."

The two officers left the bridge reluctantly in the company of the marines. The quiet persisted after their exit. Now that Thorpe had control again what to do with it he wondered? French could be right; the president thought in desperation: Maybe surrendering would save their world from a scathing Romulan attack. Even Thorpe could see that their forces were overwhelmed. There was no help in sight. But if he did surrender would that mean a Romulan landing on earth? If that happened then it would be over. Thorpe could run to the colonies but what then? The resources did not as of yet exist on Centauri or Wolf 359 to build a huge industrial base.

"Who is the senior officer?" Thorpe asked reluctantly.

The bridge crew looked around finally Chief George Lowery spoke up: "Sir the engineer Lt. Cmdr. Galloway is the next in line. The gunnery officer and operations chief are junior officers. Most of our senior guys were funneled off to cover other ships. The senior officer on the bridge is Lt. Stiles."

Thorpe looked at the lieutenant who reluctantly returned the gaze. The president had been aboard the Vigilant long enough to get to know its command staff. Russ Galloway was a fine engineer Thorpe thought. But he had come up as an enlisted technician and then went to officer's candidate school. Thorpe had no prejudices when it came to officers and enlisted troops; if there was an enlisted man or woman who could lead the ship Thorpe would not think twice about putting that person in the center seat. But Galloway just lacked fighting experience. Thorpe realized with some trepidation that he was on the edge of a panic attack.

The events of the last few weeks had culminated in this disaster. Thorpe had prided himself on his decisiveness but how was one to weigh the future of their race Thorpe thought. The president gripped the arm of the empty captain's chair as the bridge started spinning around him. Somewhere in the distance he heard a voice asking for relief at the helm. Christophur felt strong hands seize him. The bridge was a pinpoint of light surrounded by darkness when Thorpe heard someone telling him to breathe. Another voice called from the distance telling Thorpe that the subspace radio was ready should he want to use it.

Thorpe saw Stiles kneeling down next to him. The president was aware of the young woman's look of concern. Given the way he felt Thorpe could well imagine why he merited that concern. The most powerful man on earth sat on the deck leaning back against a spare console. Thorpe's face felt hot and he was unable to catch his breath. Thorpe thought it a most disconcerting feeling.

"What do you want me to do sir?" Stiles asked.

Thorpe thought for a few seconds. Surrender was not the answer. Once that was done mankind would lose forever he thought. There were probably more experienced officers in the small taskforce but the last readout had put them less than forty minutes from earth. Thorpe also was aware that French had selected many of the captains lately. How many of those would concur that this was a losing battle; blanch and run away? Thorpe had always picked winners he reminded himself. A resolve filled the president.

"Take over Jo-jo," Thorpe answered weakly. The president noted the arrival of the ship's surgeon. He felt a mask cover his mouth and nose. Presently Thorpe was breathing easier as he tasted the dry tang of pure oxygen. "Do what you can."


	6. Chapter 6

Patrol Cruiser Squadron 17, in the shadow of earth's moon, Jan 2157

Lt. Pat 'Patch' Edgerton sat back in his small command chair looking glum. First this news about an attacking fleet and now orders from the Vigilant organizing his force into some kind of flying wedge. Edgerton thought that last transmission was welcomed news. Too many off the senior officers were trying to fight three-dimensional battles with two-dimensional tactics. Edgerton had studied the wedge attack while he was a plebe at Annapolis.

The Archers would organize into a formation resembling the head of a spear. Although adopted from an old infantry tactic this gave the Archers overlapping fields of fire increasing their overall firepower. Whoever was running the battle from the Vigilant had also instructed the squadron to turn on the Birdies when they tried enveloping them. That was something new that was floating around the academies. The Valiant and Courageous had taken up station protected by the bulk of the earth.

We are supposed to warp into these guys boss?" Ens. Mark Wilkerson asked. The skepticism in the officer's voice was apparent.

"That's the plan Mark," Edgerton replied. Edgerton realized what his subordinate and friend was thinking. The little Archer's buildup coils would have to recharge. They would be in the thick of things trying to fight their way out. "So far close-in fighting has been a weakness for the Birdies."

"Yeah two-to-one odds at least," Wilkerson answered. "This is more like seven-to-one odds! And no sensors either."

Both statements were painfully true. The enemy ship count had been relayed by the Xiaguan before that ship had gone silent. An undefined area was then seen on subspace sensors. The zone had looked like a creeping fog more than anything else. That fog according to the information from the Xiaguan was where the Romulan fleet was. Somehow the Birdies had blocked their subspace scanners.

"Radar contact!" Chief Ellen Potter announced; "Relayed from the Saturn observation post. That cloud or whatever we are calling it will be here in fifteen minutes. Damn I wish we coulda met them further out."

"At least they didn't manage to block our radar," Edgerton exclaimed. "Whoever is commanding this thing is betting on the earth and moon as natural defenses El. If we would've warped out to meet them all that would've happened is that we would've been lined up for a slaughter. Like it or not the fight has to be here." The lieutenant looked at the small display between the two pilots. The cramped bridge of the Archer was a bridge in name only. Cockpit would have been a better word. Edgerton could easily reach either of his pilots as well as having an auxiliary control panel before him in the event that he had to fly the Archer class Maxim.

"That probably means that their radar is working as well," Potter said dryly. "That evens things up for them."

Sol system, lunar orbit, Jan 2157

The ships stretched into normal space in a flash of light. Their green hulls were lit with the light of the sol sun reflected off of the surface of the moon. Flashes of light showing the launch of ground to space missiles appeared on the lunar surface. The ships made their way past the moon with the exception of a few. These ships turned and after several seconds plasma beams belched out of the top of their hulls. The tortured landscape of the lunar surface was made more so as rock and metal were blasted and incinerated by the vicious beams. The missiles rose quickly like hyper-accelerated darts. The emissions of their exhausts stopped as their fuel supply ran out well short of the intruding Romulans. Invisible Romulan lasers lanced through space picking off the anti-ship missiles as they went along their flight paths; little more than uncontrollable debris now.

When those ships were done their destructive business they proceeded on. The main Romulan group of Cabbages and Chowders rounding the curve of the moon were confronted by the sight of the blue earth hanging in the space beyond. Romulan ships made minor course corrections as they headed on. Suddenly a group of ships elongated into existence between the earth and the Romulan force. The small sixty meter long twenty man Archers plunged into the Romulan group. Three of the little patrol craft were not lucky as they emerged from warp directly into a collision with three Romulan vessels. Both the Archers and the Sabinus class cruisers involved in the collisions were destroyed.

Space filled with the trails of Amazon missiles. Several Sabinus class cruisers exploded; consumed by the nuclear fireballs of an Amazon missiles. Two of the newly seen Chowders or Veronus class Romulan cruisers were caught by nuclear blasts sending them rolling uncontrolled through space. Two more Archers were destroyed. The earth patrol craft were being surrounded. The surviving group of fifteen Archers blasted their way out of the envelopment—and turned ninety degrees to pursue the Romulans who had tried to enclose them in a sphere of death. Like a knife peeling along the skin of an apple the Archers' concentrated firepower scored telling blows against the Romulan attack fleet.

UE Stellar Navy cruiser Vigilant, Earth orbit, Jan 2157

"Let's go!" Stiles ordered. Without the benefit of subspace sensors they could not get a radar picture of what was happening on the other side of the earth. Their only information was telemetry from the Archers. The little ships were taking a pasting. But according to data received they had destroyed over twenty Romulan ships so far.

The small presidential taskforce and their Andorian escort accelerated from a low earth orbit causing them to slingshot out on the other side of the blue planet beneath them. The big capital ships started firing missiles and lasers in an attempt to foul the Romulans targeting system.

"We're on the other side," Chief Lowery announced from navigation. The enlisted man had mentioned serving with a Capt. Oulette and having to know several jobs. Stiles was just glad that he was there to take the helm after the president's collapse. "Forty-thousand kilometers too contact." The chief announced.

"The mumbo-jumbo is fouling the radar sir," Chief William Kiser announced from the sensor station. The accelerated micro fragments of metal turned the radar display into a haze. Kiser made a few adjustments compensating for the speed and refractory properties of the fragments. The haze vanished displaying the solid returns of enemy ships.

"Ten thousand kilometers to contact," Lowery announced.

"Friendly IFF sir!" Chief Kiser exclaimed.

"Incoming message sir," Lt. Sachiko Matsudaira said from her post at communications. The officer had replaced Chief Lowery shortly after he had left communications. "They are identifying themselves as Marine Attack Squadron 12—Buchanan's Buccaneers."

"Closing too five-thousand kilometers!" Lowery announced. "The mumbo-jumbo seems to be working. They are turning too with their plasma beams but not scoring any hits!" The NCO paused then exclaimed: "Missile range!"

"Narwhals standing by to fire!" Ensign Tanika Butalia exclaimed from the gunnery position.

"Smaller contacts on radar," Kiser warned from his post at the sensors; "Looks like they are launching some kind of fighter."

"Fire!" Stiles exclaimed. Jocelyn gripped the arms of the command chair firmly. The president had no sooner collapsed than things had rushed to this dreadful climax. Stiles had briefly contemplated turning command over to one of the other captains in the taskforce but by the time things were hashed out the Romulans would have been over earth. And Thorpe had looked into her eyes and told her to take over.

"The Mons has been destroyed," Kiser proclaimed bitterly. "The Sarajevo is turning in an erratic manner. Damnit they got the Courageous!" The enlisted man spat out angrily.

"I'm getting comm from the Sarajevo now sir," Lt. Matsudaira said. "They are reporting a near hit. One warp nacelle is destroyed and leaking plasma. Capt. Brown reports their impulse is down—thrusters functional."

"Impacts showing on radar," Kiser exclaimed. "Seven Birdies destroyed!"

Just over a hundred to go Stiles thought pessimistically. The Stellar Navy cruisers and the patrol craft were giving their all. There was just too many Romulan ships to contend with.

"Helm stay with them!" Stiles ordered. "Don't let us get any less than a thousand meters from any of the Birds." Stiles hoped that maneuvering the lumbering cruisers as close to their adversaries as possible would make the Romulans think twice about using missiles or their plasma beam. Stiles had no such intentions herself with missiles. The Terran and Andorian ships as few in number as they were compared to the Romulans were letting fly with everything they had.

Marine Attack Squadron 12 between the moon and Earth Jan 2157

Damn it Bill I had a haircut already!" Warrant Officer Vince Mason shouted. His pilot Warrant Officer William Walters was twisting the little marine fighter craft for all it was worth. Mason's exclamation had referred to Walters' near pass of one of the spherical Romulan fighter ships. The sphere had been reduced to metal scrap by a corsair missile.

"We can't let those things get through to the big boys!" Walters said, meaning the few Stellar Navy capital ships in the battle. Walters turned the Minotaur about on its axis so that it appeared to be flying sideways. "Get that bastard!" Walters ordered as a Romulan fighter appeared on the heads-up display. Mason fired a scathing burst of invisible lasers from the blunt nose of the Minotaur. The marines had a split second image of the spheroid attack ship separating into two halves before exploding. Walters turned the ship forward again relative to their flightpath. Another sphere ship came into view. Mason fired a corsair missile at the craft. The decompression alarm sounded in the marines' helmets.

"How bad?" Walters asked his copilot. The young pilot knew that his little ship had been hit. Walters glanced at the instruments quickly. They still had thrust and power.

"Looks like a laser hit," Mason said turning around in his seat as well as he could given that he was strapped down. "The mechs will have some burnt padding to replace and a hole to patch; power looks good, weapons on line!"

Mason looked up and immediately shouted despite the fact that he knew that his normal speaking voice carried clearly over the intercom: "Christ Bill jink out of here!"

"I see it!" Walters shouted back. The viewscreen on the pilots' displays were filled with the image of a green Romulan Sabinus class cruiser. The ornate yellow bird of prey painted on the craft was plainly visible. And it was growing in size as the Minotaur's momentum carried it to a collision.

The marines vision blanked over as the little fighter's internal gravity compensator barely kept up with Walters' frenetic maneuvering. Walters pushed the little ship for all it was worth. Despite numerous warnings about flying by the seat of the pants; the old adage referring to relying solely on one's physical senses to fly, Walters realized they could not turn away from the collision. The 'seat of his pants' told the marine to accelerate; in an attempt to vector past the Cabbage. The small craft passed the Sabinus at no less than twenty meters.

Vince Mason knew that it was probably folly to do so but regardless of that he fired the twin lasers at the hull of the Cabbage as they passed. So great was the relative speeds of both craft in relation to one another they were soon five kilometers away from each other. The gash of Mason's laser hit was evident near the top of the Sabinus close to its plasma beam emitter. Plasma escaped from the rent in the hull of the Romulan ship. A split second later the cruiser exploded. Walters and Mason still recovering their senses after having their inner ears and stomachs twisted around received a further jolt when the nuclear blast wave hit their Minotaur. The Minotaur speeded up as it received the sharp impact of the exploding Cabbage.

"I think I blew that thing up with a laser shot!" Mason exclaimed gleefully.

"Keep your eyes outside!" Walters ordered as several Romulan spheroid fighters showed on the Minotaur's threat warning system. "Send video playback of that shot over the net. You musta hit some kind of weak spot."

"Sending now," Mason replied. The warrant officer also had time to fire a corsair at a Romulan sphere ship that they had locked on their radar. The little sphere maneuvered wildly; escaping the missile.

UE Stellar Navy Cruiser Vigilant, Jan 2157

"The Sentinel has been destroyed sir!" Chief Kiser announced. "We are down to eight Archers!"

"Stay with them Chief Lowery!" Stiles ordered. So far the tactic of staying close had worked for the embattled Stellar Navy ships and their Andorian partners. But Jocelyn knew that the end of the fight was in sight. They were still badly outnumbered at over ninety Romulan ships. The Andorian's had lost the Lavec and the Crontik. At least they had been able to evacuate the Crontik before it had blown up.

"Engineering what is your status?" Stiles asked over the intercom. "This is Lieutenant Miller sir; Lt. Cmdr. Galloway was blown out into space when that fighter strafed us! Decks 11 and 13 aft of section four are completely depressurized. I switched over to auxiliary reactor cooling. I think we can get primary cooling back in ten minutes."

"Do your best engineer," Stiles said in as positive a voice as she could muster.

"Things don't look good," President Thorpe said causing Jocelyn to jump in fright briefly. She hadn't seen the man enter. Thorpe's pasty white color was apparent even on the darkened bridge of the Vigilant. The ship's surgeon was with the executive. The doctor was clearly concerned about his patient.

"Sir I," Stiles started to say as the earth president held up his hand.

"There never was much hope I suppose," Thorpe said. "I made the doctor pipe the battle through to sickbay. I'm not a military man but I have some idea of what has been going on. Thorpe bowed his head. "I guess there was really nothing anyone could have done." The president took a ragged breath and turned to Lt. Matsudaira. "It is time to open up a channel to the Romulans."

Stiles could see tears running down the man's face. The bridge became silent again for the second time that day. The muffled reports coming over the intercom and the whir of equipment cooling fans were all that was to be heard.

"You did everything you could Jo-jo," Thorpe said at last in a barely audible whisper. "Thanks."

"More unknown contacts emerging from behind Earth," Chief Kiser said sadly. "I count thirty-nine bogeys on radar."

"Damn!" Ensign Butalia said as she hung her head. "How many ships do the Birdies have?"

"Comm traffic," Lt. Matsudaira said; the woman paused with a puzzled look on her face. Stiles asked the communications officer what was wrong. Matsudaira replied: "Comm traffic is voice on the SN-Imperial Guard exercise frequency." The lieutenant put the transmission over the bridge speakers:

"Stellar Navy ships this is Ambassador Shran speaking for the Andorian Imperial Guard. We come on behalf of the Andorian Sovereignty to honor the pledges of our government. We are sending recognition codes—now."

"Codes coming across," Matsudaira said anxiously. "Codes confirmed!"

"Do you still want to send that message Mr. President?" Stiles asked with a grin on her face.

Andorian Battleship Al'Tana, near Earth orbit Jan 2157

"You are late!" The Shahar exclaimed then relented. "It is good to see you."

"As it is to see you Shahar," Shran replied. "We had to maintain communications silence. These Romulans have scouts in observation positions. We would have risked detection had we known about the attack." Shran said apologetically.

"Understood," Rastan replied. The ruler of Andoria sat back in the battleship's command chair. "But you are here now; and this may well be the pivotal time my friend."

"We are still greatly overmatched," Shran said with conviction. "But you should withdrawal Shahar. We can continue the battle. Much has happened since your words to our people. You should seek safety. You will be needed on our world."

"I was a party to betraying our birthright once before Shran," Rastan replied. "I will not do so again. I have come to honor our pledges as well. I will remain." Rastan looked at the viewscreen and asked: "And what of our people?"

"The actions by some in the Caldonè have not only been repudiated—those D'ehselas have been driven out." Shran stated. "Many people were horrified by the lies that were told."

"We remain Andorian Shran," Rastan said in a voice full of satisfaction. "That has been the victory that we will gain from this." Rastan's eyes were bright as he said. "But now we have a battle to attend to! Let us to it! I will speak with you again General."

Shran looked surprised by the change of his title. But Rastan allowed Shran no time to answer as he cut the communication circuit. The Shahar turned about in his chair. Rastan had not felt this alive in ages he thought. Shran's forces were relieving the humans allowing the few surviving Stellar Navy ships to reform. Rastan surveyed the viewscreen to see three Romulan ships separate from their main force.

"Helmsman turn and pursue!" Rastan ordered. "Order the Samozu to lay a pattern of starbursts before us should they attempt to fire at us."

The two Andorian warships turned to bear on the two Romulan Sabinus class cruisers and the Veronus that was with them. The Andorian destroyer fired a volley of miniature high velocity conventional explosives between the Andorians and Romulan ships. Romulan missiles hitting the field of particles were themselves shredded to scrap before they could hit their target. Two missiles expelled by the Al'Tana accelerated through an empty corridor in space. One missile was destroyed but the other; a high yield conventional explosive warhead hit one of the cabbages sending huge fragments of the destroyed Romulan in all directions.

Orbital platforms fired missiles only to have them defeated by Romulan neutronium pellets. Romulan lasers made short work of several platforms; cutting two of the orbiting defensive stations into pieces.

More missiles were fired by the Romulan survivors. The Al'Tana and the Samozu fired missiles as well. The deadly darts passed each other in space. The Andorian missiles exploded short. The nuclear fireball of an Andorian planet-buster missile caught the Romulan Chowder destroying all three of the craft's warp nacelles. The wounded Romulan continued on for several seconds then exploded. A single Romulan missile hit by the Andorian shrapnel weapon continued on with an erratic spin on its flight. The missile's warhead exploded short catching the Al'Tana in its blast.

"Damage," Rastan demanded. The bridge of the Andorian battleship had shaken violently. The lights had gone out briefly. Subdued emergency lighting was on. Barely enough for a human to see anything it was more than enough for the Andorians aboard the great ship.

"The missile tubes have sustained physical damage from an exploding power conduit," The engineer's voice came out of the speaker grill of the Shahar's chair. "Laser power lines have been severed."

"Sir, the Samozu has been hit," The Andorian communications technician reported.

"Show me!" Rastan said. The viewscreen presented the image of two pieces of an Andorian destroyer. Shuttles were leaving the hopeless ship. The image was just sharp enough to show lifepods being ejected. "Some have escaped!" Rastan said approvingly. "What is the Romulan pirate doing?"

"They have ejected a device," The warrior manning the sensors stated. "Subspace sensors are partially restored. It is a high-yield nuclear device—planet bound trajectory."

"Weapons, starburst?" Rastan asked quickly. "Do we have anything left to fire?"

"One left Shahar," The Andorian at the weapons console replied. "Without the missile tubes or lasers that is all."

"Fire to intercept that device!" Rastan roared.

"They are firing another!" The Andorian sensor technician bellowed.

The Shahar of Andoria looked at the Romulan ship. Rastan was a warrior in his heart; he always had been he realized. This battle had stirred the old fighting spirit in the Andorian. Rastan had begun thinking of himself as a living corpse while he languished in the Imperial residence. Now he felt alive as he had not felt since his youth.

"Thank you Thorpe," Rastan said quietly so that none of the others on the Andorian bridge heard. "Helmsman, new course—go to maximum impulse."

The Romulan Sabinus' first missile was reduced to fragments in a glittering explosion by the Andorian starburst. The second missile continued unimpeded arcing over the horizon of the blue earth. The Sabinus' green hull lit by the sun darkened to blackness as the far larger bulk of the spear-shaped Al'Tana blotted out the sun's rays. The ships were moving at relatively similar speeds when the far more massive Andorian battleship plunged into the hull of the Romulan ship like an arrow cleaving into soft wood. Torn metal splintered off into space. Both ships briefly became one immense piece of wreckage before one of their fusion reactors exploded briefly creating a second sun over the earth.

United Earth Stellar Navy Cruiser Vigilant, between the Earth and the Moon, Jan 2157

"What's the count?" Stiles asked tensely.

"Five Archers are forming up with us." Chief Kiser replied. "The Sarajevo is drifting off—they're done. Attack group 12 has eleven Minotaurs left. The last three Currans are joining up. Romulan ships numbered at eighty-three."

"Open a channel to the Archers and Currans," Stiles said. "Shran is being surrounded out there. We'll form into a wedge again and cut through their weak point." After Stiles had relayed her intentions to the Archers and Currans she continued: "We'll break the Andorians out the same way they did us and form up again." Stiles talked to the Commodore Buchanan telling him to form up on the Vigilant; the Stellar Navy's last Pioneer class cruiser in the system. She would take the big ship in again with its dwindling supply of Narwhal anti-ship missiles.

"Engage!" Stiles commanded. Jocelyn watched the viewscreen as the small patrol craft stretched away into subspace. Stiles raised her hand to order her own ship to warp when Chief Kiser said:

"Friendly IFF coming over low lunar orbit; I'm reading the Fearless, Excelsior, Ironsides—Christ it looks like a big chunk of our outer squadrons!" The chief paused in confusion. "I'm reading fifteen navy ships and eleven other ships—unknown."

"Go to navy common," Stiles directed Lt. Matsudaira. When the lieutenant had indicated that she had done as instructed Stiles spoke: "Stellar Navy ships this is—this is the er…the commander of the Vigilant. Please identify yourself."

"Commodore Maxwell Forrest," The reply came over the bridge speakers; "Encoding IFF's on Red 7. The unknowns you are tracking are Tellarite Defense Force ships. Looks like we got here just in time for the party! Say again your identity."

Stiles looked at the president of the United Earth government. Thorpe sat at an observer's seat and after a brief pause and some instructions from Lieutenant Matsudaira the president closed the circuit to the Excelsior.

"This is President Christophur Thorpe, Commodore Forrest," The president said in a confident voice. "I trust that you recognize my voice but I'm sure if not that we are sending whatever codes you need." Thorpe looked to Stiles who nodded after conferring with Matsudaira. "Admiral French has been," Thorpe paused an uncomfortably long time. "Admiral French has fallen ill and has had to be relieved." Thorpe closed the channel and said softly to himself: "For the duration of the war."

"Codes received and verified sir," Forrest answered; "Standing by for orders."

Thorpe looked at Stiles who was shaking her head. "You've been coordinating this whole thing Jo-jo," Thorpe said. "It'll take Forrest a few minutes to figure things out and in that time how many ships are going to be lost? We are still outnumbered from what I can see."

Shaking her head still Stiles opened the ship-to-ship link. "Form an attack line on a vector perpendicular to where the Andorian fleet is trying to break out. We'll catch them between your force and the Andorians. We'll respond to the stragglers."

"Acknowledged Forrest out," The disembodied voice replied.

Between the Earth and the moon, Jan 2157

Once again the Archers played their deadly game. This time the Romulans were firing despite the nearness of their own cruisers. A Romulan missile narrowly missed an Archer. It did not miss the Romulan Chowder cruiser however. The space between the opposing fleets became littered with missiles and pieces of blasted ships. The Andorian fleet emerged from a group of Romulans that now found themselves under the guns of the Stellar Navy's returning squadrons and their Tellarite allies. Two Romulan Sabinus class cruisers escaped the melee and were turning about when Narwhals from the Vigilant destroyed them both.

Boxy Tellarite ships surrounded by their human allies slowed. Large space doors slid open revealing row upon row of small needle sharp objects. The Tellarites fired salvo after salvo of these; fired in groups the small merculite rockets accelerated to near light speeds. The hardened tips contained only a small conventional explosive; no more than an ancient human made ninety kilogram bomb. But flying close to the speed of light the small missiles gathered immense mass. Several salvos missed their targets. The first Chowder cruiser to be hit by the rockets was suddenly engulfed in a myriad of tiny explosions that resulted in the complete disintegration of the warship in a mere matter of seconds. Several Cabbages suffered similar fates.

The Romulans ships were rapidly losing their numerical superiority. Thirty of the green ships formed into a line while twelve turned to the combined Andorian, Human and Tellarite grouping of ships. These dozen Romulan ships accelerated toward the massed defenders. Most of the Romulans fell prey to missile strikes. Those four that did not exploded less than five kilometers in most cases from the defenders. Several vessels; human, Tellarite and Andorian were engulfed in the suicidal blasts.

A single Veronus; one of the retreating members of the group of Romulans leapt into subspace when an Archer slammed into the craft's warp nacelles. The Romulan ship slipped back into normal space briefly as two of its warp pods were torn off. The spinning pods along with the wreckage of the Archer were consumed by the blast of the Chowder cruiser as it turned into a small sun. Of the thirty Romulan survivors that had attempted to warp away six of their ships were destroyed in a concerted attack by the vengeful force of Currans and Archers.

United Earth Stellar Cruiser Vigilant in orbit of Earth's moon, Jan 2157

"Sensor interference is gone," Kiser chimed in. "I show the Birdies on a general heading for Deneva."

"Pursuit sir?" Chief Lowery asked anxiously.

Stiles looked over the man's shoulder to see that he had already entered the pursuit course in and was ready to engage. Jocelyn thought for a moment; no one knew the size of the Romulan Navy. This might've been their first wave for all anyone knew. There were three combined navies here. How would they work out the details? How many of them had tanker support to follow the Romulans. There were too many questions.

"Negative chief," Stiles said. "Stand down from battle stations." Stiles turned to Chief Kiser. "Continue scanning." The lieutenant spoke up: "Good job all of you! They threw all those ships at us and look at what happened!"

"Message from, uh from everybody," Lt. Matsudaira said. The communications officer recited the litany of calls she was receiving: Commodore Forrest was asking to come aboard as was Shran and a Tellarite Shavma. Ambassador O'Donnell was calling from a Tellarite ship asking to meet with the president. Messages were coming from earth, the lunar and Martian colonies as well as news agencies. Finally Matsudaira mentioned a coded message coming in on the secure presidential frequency. Thorpe planned a conference with the victors in one hour. The president excused himself to take the secure message in the privacy of his cabin.

"What about Admiral French?" Stiles asked. The lieutenant was visibly uncomfortable in the command chair of the Vigilant.

"You'll have to sit there a bit longer Jo-jo," Thorpe said apologetically. "Frankly Admiral French will not be stepping on the bridge of a military ship again—good day!"

Thorpe walked off the bridge with the Vigilant's surgeon in tow. Despite his near-death look of no more than half an hour ago the president walked with a determined pace. Stiles turned to the minor ship business. The lieutenant had learned of the various small details that made up command of a spaceship from her brief experience on the Beagle. Stiles started pulling reports from the ship's computer when a strange feeling hit her. It was just small; like the first gentle drops of a rain before a cloudburst. Stiles shook her head trying to clear her mind. Jocelyn looked down at the first page of the damage report. There would be much work to be done to get the Vigilant back into fighting shape.

"Sir; Commodore Forrest is inbound in a shuttle," Matsudaira said as she toyed with her communication's earpiece. "He is asking permission to board."

"Granted," Stiles said. Great, Jocelyn thought; just wait until Forrest found out he was taking orders from a lieutenant during one of the most critical battles ever fought. There was that strange feeling again. It subsided as Stiles figured that as soon as Forrest put her back on the helm things would be more relaxed.

"Ambassador Shran is now asking to board," Matsudaira stated. "I suppose I should queue up all these calls!" The oriental officer smiled and laughed. "There is a Commodore Oulette and an Ambassador O'Donnell as well."

Stiles flipped through the damage report quickly. When she got to the section on the Vigilant's shuttle bays she made sure that they were relatively undamaged. Jocelyn had kept a good running tally in her mind during the battle but the after-action damage control parties could turn up problems. The lieutenant was relieved to see that thus far that was not the case; the bays were all operational. Stiles indicated to Matsudaira that she should clear all the dignitaries and officers in.

Hangar 51, Ganymede Jupiter orbit, Jan 2157

"Hey everyone the vidcaster is back up!" A Tellarite barked out in English.

Michael Cromwell and Jonathan Archer had ordered the construction gangs and technicians to the hardened portions of the installation. The Romulans had bypassed the base. But the Stellar Navy had never conducted a wholesale advertising campaign on Hangar 51. Like its US Air Force predecessor in the Nevada desert the policy was: It is there; that is all. Then again it was obvious from what the Stellar Navy people had monitored during the battle that the Romulans had been going for earth.

"Changing identification technique?" Cromwell asked as the two officers headed for the installations largest mess facility.

"What do you mean Mike?" Archer asked in return.

"First time I've ever heard of the series letter being put on the outside of a ship." Cromwell said. Despite the battle taking place the two men had nonetheless pursued a conversation that had centered on starship design rather than the possible impending destruction of their world.

"A nod to my old service," Archer smiled and replied; "And aviation for that matter; series letters were always posted on the fuselages of aircraft. So I recommended that for a new identification system rather than the arbitrary system in place now. Since I'm sitting on the drawing board here a lot of new changes are going to happen." Archer added playfully: "You got command—but I'm building your ship!"

Cromwell was about to reply when the door to the mess hall opened. There was the sound of much cheering. Archer and Cromwell entered the scene of a raucous celebration. The tank of the vidcaster was plainly visible showing the visage of a business-like newscaster. Strangely the two officers both thought, the entire staff was celebrating; even the aliens among the humans. They soon found out the reason for that however.

Mavik Dis trod over to greet the two Stellar Navy officers. The Andorian clapped both humans on their shoulders. "We are with you pink-skins! Andor has gone to war with earth and Tellar against these Romulans!"

"When did this happen?" Both men asked simultaneously.

"It is on the vidcaster," Dis replied. The Andorian led the humans through the crowd so that they could better hear what was coming out of the device's speaker.

"—still sketchy but we are now confirming that a large force of Romulan ships was repelled by a multi-planetary force of ships including Andorian and Tellarite ships. The Andorian embassy has issued a statement five minutes ago declaring that a state of war is said to exist between the Andorian Sovereignty and the Romulan Empire. No word has been heard from the Tellarite embassy in San Francisco; but video confirms the presence of Tellarite defense force ships among the combatants.

We still have no word on the devastation in North America. Sources in St. Louis have told us that a large flash was observed around 2219 Greenwich Mean Time from the vicinity of the southeastern US. All communications out of the US states of Florida, Georgia and Alabama have ceased. United Earth military forces have dispatched relief workers to the region but word from the American president Glenn is that the help is slow in coming.

The holographic picture switched to a sour looking President Todd Allen Glenn.

"This is a travesty! We may have won a victory but had President Thorpe not allowed our military budget to be diverted to other purposes then perhaps we wouldn't be in this mess."

Glenn seemed to soften somewhat then continued in magnanimous tones:

"Now is the time to heal our wounds. People need the government's help to continue. We wait for words from the United Earth president--."

"These blokes never stop campaigning," Cromwell said sadly. "I do believe they would try to use their own mothers' funerals to gain votes."

They watched as the picture switched over to a satellite view of North America. The southern region was clear with the exception of an ugly grayish-black cloud over the Florida panhandle.

"It doesn't look good," Archer commented dryly. The commander had seen photos and video of that type of cloud cover before: From images taken after the opening shots of the earth's third world war. "Trip has family in Florida. Damnit I hope they are okay."

United Earth Stellar Navy Cruiser Vigilant in Lunar orbit, Jan 2157

Forrest and Oulette made their ways past repair teams. Their sister ship had not escaped the battle unscathed. Forrest had seen the neat slice running amidships as their shuttle had docked. It made the commodore wonder if all the decks of the Vigilant were pressurized. The two flag officers proceeded slowly as the Vigilant's transportation lifts were shut down. That confirmed Forrest's assumption that parts of the ship were still open to vacuum. Still the two officers arrived at the bridge hatchway in less than five minutes. Both men were experienced commanders of Pioneer class vessels and knew their way around the nearly two-hundred meter long ship.

Forrest emerged onto the darkened bridge. A few seconds later a crewman at the sensor station noticing the flag officers announced their presence on the bridge. Both men knew many of their fellow ship captains so the dusky woman standing beside the command chair was a complete stranger to both of them. Forrest walked up to the woman with a friendly grin on his face when he recalled seeing her somewhere before.

"Commodore Maxwell Forrest, Cap--," Forrest had extended his hand in greeting. The woman had done likewise revealing the lieutenant stripes on her sleeve. "Lieutenant, I suppose your captain has stepped out."

"I know you!" Oulette exclaimed. "I remember the videos shortly after we left." The French-Canadian thought for several seconds then continued. "Stiles is it not?"

"Yes sir," Jocelyn replied. Forrest started at the sound of her voice.

"You're the one who issued the attack orders when we got her," Forrest said sharply. When the young woman looked away from him Forrest added: "Something tells me you weren't relaying those from a superior officer either?"

"Uh no sir," Stiles replied slowly. "Things got kind of crazy here and well a, the president put me in charge."

"I see," Forrest replied. The commodore could tell that the woman was expecting at the least a chewing out at the most a reprimand. Forrest decided to alleviate those fears. "Well you did a good job. I had a little time—darn little to review what happened before we got her. If it wasn't for you holding the line I don't think any of us would be here. I think with what happened today and on the Beagle you can expect to lose those lieutenant stripes for some more stripes. We need fighters if we are going to win this war."

"Sir I," Stiles started when the intercom interrupted her.

"Lt. Stiles," Christophur Thorpe's voice came out of the speaker grill. Everyone on the bridge could hear the man's breathing. It was a long time before he spoke again when he did he said: "I need to see you in my quarters as soon as possible."

"Sir Commodore Forest is here," Stiles started to say when the president continued:

"Okay but this is important—and it may involve you."

Stiles replied that she would turn the bridge over and comply. Jocelyn cut the circuit and started looking around when Oulette said:

"I think I'm in a position to perform a bridge watch. Now run along lieutenant!"

UE Stellar Navy Yeager class shuttle in descent from earth orbit, Jan 2157

Lt. Charles Tucker wondered how much longer he would be in the Stellar Navy. The officer in charge of the shuttle hangar had been reluctant to allow Tucker to inspect the vehicle despite what Trip had thought of as a pretty darn good fabrication. All he needed was to get in the hangar then he would be on the way to earth. It would've only been theft of navy property. But after the hangar officer's petty bureaucratic meandering the offense had went from simple theft to one of assault against a fellow navy officer. Trip wondered how the rations in the navy's penal colony in New Zealand were these days.

Trip looked with trepidation as the shuttle passed over North America. He had seen clouds like that before in history class. As the Yeager's outer skin kissed the thin atmosphere Tucker did a radiation check: It was much too high a count for this high up in the atmosphere. That was if things were normal. The readings were completely consistent with the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. Tucker started lowering the nose of the ship then brought it up gradually.

"Whoa Trip ole' buddy," The naval officer said to himself. "Take it easy; be a hell of a thing to burn up on reentry and everyone turns out to be fine."

The shuttle slowed as its hull glowed red from the friction of the descent. The Yeager had a small impulse drive but was dependent on chemical thrusters for atmospheric flight. The glowing gradually subsided. At twenty-four thousand meters Trip slowed the little ship even more. Tucker knew he had not checked out on atmospheric operations for quite some time. He tried to take his time but that awful cloud was impressed on his mind. The shuttle dropped to fourteen thousand meters. The onboard radio came alive then.

"Condor 1 to Stellar Navy shuttle what is your business over US airspace?" Trip checked his threat warning system; two blips appeared behind him. The Annapolis officer considered himself an American despite the blurring of nationalities since First Contact. Still; it amazed Trip to no end that the US still maintained its own small air force. Tucker guessed based on the speed of the blips that he was being challenged by old F-383's Condors. America's last fighter was mach four capable and highly agile.

"This is navy shuttle 12 joining the relief effort," Trip lied.

"Negative shuttle 12," The interceptor pilot answered. "We have no information on you. For your own safety join up and follow us. The zone you are about to enter is contaminated."

Trip slammed his fist down on a console. He glanced out of one of the side viewports to see a solid black dart like interceptor. Tucker knew that the Yeager was no match for a Condor in the atmosphere; and Tucker was not going to shoot at his fellow earther. There had been too many people doing that lately Tucker groused. Still there were possibilities here.

"Condor 1 what is the closest you can let me get?" Tucker asked his faceless escort.

"I have orders to escort unauthorized aircraft away from the blast area," The pilot replied. "I have no information on you so you will be escorted to the SN base in San Diego. We'll form up on your port and starboard. Follow us."

A continent away Trip thought morosely. This was last minute desperation time. "Look my family is from Panama City. This flight ain't exactly authorized."

There was a long wait. Trip knew that such things were magnified when people were agitated but his chronometer confirmed that a minute and some change had passed. The voice finally came out of the speaker grill:

"Yeah you sound like you're from there. My wingman has family from Destin. Okay buddy we're taking a detour. I'm not going to let you sit down there; you can read the rads for yourself. I'll probably catch hell for this but—we're all human beings. The emergency teams are setting up in Georgia and Alabama. I expect that thing is vertol capable?" The pilot asked referring to Trip's Yeager class shuttle.

"Just give me a clearing and a patch of firm ground!" Trip replied happily.

"Okay buddy," The unnamed pilot replied. "Turning starboard; descending to twelve-hundred meters. We'll follow you down. Once you hit twelve-hundred you are on your own. It's VFR over that area so you'll be able to make out the camps they are setting up. I hope your family wasn't there."

"So do I," Trip said to the empty shuttle cockpit. Then acknowledging the transmission he continued: "Thanks—whoever you are."

"Maj. George Riker," The pilot replied. "Look me up sometime after all of this is over."

Sinjan class shuttle on descent over the southern states of America, Jan 2157

Jocelyn knew that there was a reason for the feeling. She had known as soon as she saw Thorpe's face. Stiles supposed it made her a crony of the president but the man had then made a ship wide announcement about the Romulan hit on Florida. Thorpe had told her that he knew that her family was close to the hit but that they should be okay. The president had then contacted Oulette on the bridge; who then authorized as many people as he could to be released should they have family from that area. Jocelyn's passengers were silent for the most part; doubtless thinking about their loved ones. Stiles hoped that her family was alright. There was no reason for them to have gone to Florida. Still she had that feeling of trepidation. Stiles had an uncle who lived in Panama City.

The shuttle had clearance to go where Stiles needed it to go. The president had assured the lieutenant of that. Forrest had conferred with Thorpe quickly before Stile's departure. She had met the commodore at the entrance to the shuttle bay. The man had handed her a navy jersey and told her it might help should she run into any problems with the navy bureaucracy. Jocelyn didn't know how a jersey could help. That was until she unfolded the jersey that she saw the two solid stripes separated by the broken hashes. So it was that Stiles found herself piloting a shuttle while wearing an oversized captain's jersey. Forrest could have checked her size Stiles mused.

The skies were relatively clear as Jocelyn circled the farm where she had grown up. Stiles wondered why tents were in her father's fields. Stiles checked her instruments. Jocelyn looked up to see three tiny dots. Two of the dots rose out of view. Stiles switched to a tactical display as one of the dots was apparently unmoving—and getting bigger. The threat warning system activated with a turning message. The new captain threw the shuttle hard to starboard as a larger Stellar Navy shuttle flew past her Sinjan class boat. Stiles guessed they had cleared by no more than fifty meters. That was far for two friends passing one another on a street; but too close for aircraft. The radio in the shuttle came alive with a male voice.

"Geeze watch where you are flying that thing!" The southern North American accented voice complained.

"You too!" Stiles shot back.

"Are you landing here?" The male voice inquired.

Jocelyn thought for a moment. Given the circumstances there was no reason that she should not land near her parent's farm. Her mother and father must've allowed relief workers to set up on their land. Jocelyn knew that her parents would be the first to step up in an emergency like this. Stiles looked below her while telling the pilot of the other shuttle to circle away from her. She soon found a spot by a brook. Stiles remembered her parents taking the kids for picnics along the clearing there. That would be an ideal spot to put down on. Stiles relayed her intentions to the other pilot and told him to make his approach as Stiles settled her shuttle ten meters over the clearing. The little Sinjan class shuttle no sooner touched down on the Georgia farm land than the bigger Yeager class shuttle settled over a spot fifty meters away.

Jocelyn rolled the hatch of the shuttle open. She told her passengers where to reach what she assumed were the tents of rescue teams. The camp was just a shot one-hundred meter jog past a stand of tree. Stiles stepped out of the shuttle and started walking to the other shuttle from where a lone man in military maintenance team coveralls emerged. Stiles had not thought much of men since the death of David but as she drew closer to the blonde haired man she thought that he was quite handsome. He was also somewhat angry looking.

"You need to watch where you--," The man, whose soiled coveralls bore a dirty nametag with the title of lieutenant commander on it. He stopped short when he saw the stripes on Stiles sleeve. For her part Jocelyn was not even aware of those hashes. "Sorry sir. I guess the big sky theory never did work well."

Finally realizing why the man was somewhat in fear of her Stiles asked: "Are you part of the navy relief team?"

The man seemed visibly uncomfortable. Stiles was immediately reminded of her brother; when he would try to hide things from their parents only to be discovered by the all knowing all seeing senses of the older people. He continued after a deep breath. Stiles suspected a confession was in the works somewhere:

"Sir, I'm, my family is from Panama City. I was working on Mars when word came over subspace radio warning of the Romulan attack. I sort of borrowed an impulse shuttle to get back here."

The man bowed his head guiltily. Stiles closed her eyes for several seconds. If the lieutenant commander's parents had been in Panama City, Stiles thought: Panama City along with most of the Florida Panhandle was gone. When Stiles had reported to the president the executive had looked profoundly sad in a way that seemed to epitomize that emotion. Jocelyn had wondered what had happened when Thorpe had told her that a Romulan missile carrying a fusion warhead had detonated over the Florida Panhandle. Thorpe had rambled on; his head buried in his hands as he talked of untold millions dead. Finally he had told Stiles that because her parents lived close to the blast area that she should go check on them for her peace of mind. Stiles agreed. It had taken all of her willpower to not run to the shuttle bay after Thorpe's news and just take a shuttle.

"Did," The lieutenant commander stopped briefly then continued. "I'm sorry sir, Lt. Cmdr. Trip Tucker. Do you know what happened? I was overhead it looks like the bomb hit pretty close to home."

"Panama City along with most of the Florida Panhandle is gone Lt. Cmdr. Tucker," Stiles said softly. The man seemed to jerk as if hit by a physical blow. His eyes were visibly moistening. "Do you know if they were there for sure?" When Tucker shook his head Stiles said, "Then don't assume they are gone. Let's see what is going on sir." Stiles vaguely realized the lieutenant commander might wonder why a captain called him sir but Stiles had been a lieutenant less than an hour before. "This is my family's farm. Let's go and see what is going on. Maybe there is news." The two turned and walked toward the tents. The sun was up in the east but a pallor of dark black clouds climbed into the sky to the southwest.

Gathering Forces

UE Stellar Navy cruiser Vigilant, Lunar orbit Jan 2157

The group of aliens and humans sat around the small battered table in the Vigilant's command conference room. The old United Nations logo dominated the center of the battered table that had seen many meetings.

"I lost eleven ships Christophur," Shran declared. "From what Tas Shavma has said and your own people we cannot possibly go on the offensive until we have better consolidated our forces."

"I tend to agree with General Shran," Admiral Maxwell Forrest said. The flag officer had arrived for the presidential briefing to discover that he was now commander-in-chief of the United Earth Stellar Navy by order of President Thorpe. "We have to think about the danger to Andoria and Tellar now that they are in the fray."

The Tellarite Shavma piped up in his native language. The members of the meeting looked at Ambassador Kelly O'Donnell as the Tellarite fell silent. O'Donnell had been studying the Shavma's dialect. O'Donnell had also discovered that the Tellarite officer had a working grasp of Terran English: He did not, however choose to speak the human language.

"Tas has said that you should attend to your mud pits as Tellar will attend to theirs." O'Donnell translated. The Tellarite spoke some more. O'Donnell looked intently at the alien officer. "Tas says that Tellar has smaller holdings and as far as Tellar itself it is ringed with merculite rocket batteries. He asks for earth's assistance with the new advanced Hercules interceptor. He says that in return Tellar will furnish merculite rockets for Terran orbital defense platforms."

"We're only just now rolling those out," Thorpe replied pensively referring to the high speed anti-ship interceptor. Had the new missile been in place it would've nullified the Romulan advantage of their plasma weapon. It was unfortunately too large a missile to be carried by any Stellar Navy ship. "But we'll share what we have."

"Andoria will need no such aid," Shran interjected. "Our system wide defenses were based on warring with the Pointies. We already have an equivalent to your Hercules as well as large laser platforms."

"Admiral Forrest those rockets of the Tellarites are pretty impressive," Thorpe started to say.

"We thought about adopting a similar weapons platform ourselves," Forrest interrupted politely. "Merculite rockets take a lot of space and energy up. Once they are fired they are gone. As I'm sure Tas will confirm the largest Tellarite ship can fire no more than four volleys."

"G' wes, sh'tu," Tas said quickly.

"Actually that was English," O'Donnell said translating: "Yes, true."

"I see," Thorpe said. The president rubbed the bridge of his nose and his eyes wearily. "Intell probably has nothing new."

"I suspect that the Romulans committed a large part of their deployed force to this battle," Shran said. "As Admiral Forrest pointed out they moved swiftly on your colonies in the beginning then started random attacks against your remaining colonies. All of their actions pointed to an attack on Wolf 359. I suggest that they returned to their swift attack strategy to put earth out of the war—once and for ever. If this was only a small part of their forces why didn't they send more for the death blow? No I believe they committed a large part of their navy to this attack.

In fact their communications with both Andor and Tellar seemed to be asking for an armistice. I think their ultimate goal was to eliminate us one at a time. The only thing that puzzles me is that they sent no such message of supplication to the Pointies."

"That we know of," Forrest said with suspicion in his voice.

"Actually I do not know for sure that they did not send such a message to the Vulcans," Thorpe said. "But," The president paused then continued. "We have a contact in their government. That contact did not say rather the Romulans had opened communications with the Vulcans. But I believe if he or she would have known then they would have told us."

"Where does all of this leave us admiral?" Thorpe asked his new chief of staff.

"If our new allies are willing to commit we can do a better job holding what we have as well as starting to take the war back to the Birdies." Forrest said. "The new ships should be launched in six months is that not so Mr. President?"

"I'm to see my industrial advisor in two days," Thorpe replied. "I'll try my best to see that you have the ships to fight with Admiral Forrest."

Tas spoke up. The group listened and then looked at the portly ambassador. "Tas says that in answer to your question Mr. President of course Tellar will commit." O'Donnell licked his lips nervously.

"I take it he added more Kelly?" Thorpe asked.

"He says; what kind of fool are you to think that the Tellarites will jump in the slime with you only to run away?" O'Donnell said as his face reddened in embarrassment. "Of course Tellar will commit." O'Donnell added on his own. "Their congress has called for war sir. I expect their embassy to issue the announcement any time now."

"Andor is with your people as well Christophur," Shran added. "I believe we have demonstrated that amply."

They all bowed their heads. "The Shahar's sacrifice will never be forgotten sir," Thorpe said to the Andorian. "Who knows how many more missiles that Romulan ship carried?"

"Fortunately you did not find out Christophur," Shran answered. "But it is decided then. We now have to think of integrating our forces."

"And our planets," Thorpe added hopefully. Shran stood silently for several seconds as did the Shavma.

"A new alliance," Shran said at last. "I believe the votes exist in the Caldonè for that now."

"Creel Zarn asked me before I left to tell you Mister President that he has coerced a number of his elected officials." O'Donnell said. Tas made several grunting noises in his language. "Tellar is willing to enter into a new alliance."

Karl Ebenstark took that moment to enter the war council. The presidential aide spoke up immediately: "Sorry gentleman. Sir you should turn on your viewscreen. It is the news from earth."

Thorpe nodded and activated the small conference room's wall viewscreen. The president was familiar enough with the spaceship's communication equipment to find the correct frequency for the earth news agencies. A disheveled looking newscaster stood in the foreground of a field of tents. Behind the woman the sky was black though the sun clearly was shining.

"Camps are being set up all around the perimeter. Navy teams in radiation gear have started to enter the area. Several people have volunteered the use of their properties to set up field hospitals for refugees who survived the bombing. We are on one such property in Georgia. Our news team recorded this a few minutes earlier."

The group recognized Jocelyn Stiles in an oversized uniform jersey. She was appealing to a crowd of dirty looking refugees. The cameras panned in closer to show the hollowed out blank stare that many of the survivors had. The camera returned to the new captain. Stiles was yelling angrily at the crowd at first:

"I heard a lot of you folks saying you envied the dead! That you wish it was you too. What do you think that your dead relatives and friends would say if they had lived? Would they want you to die? We come out of world war three and people thought that was the worst thing that ever happened. But here we are; the environment was fixed and life was better than ever. We almost lost this world again but we have friends now! And some of you people want to give up! I'm gonna go on fighting and so is the rest of our navy and marines. You need to go on fighting here too! I know it hurts. Hold on to each other because that is all any of us could ask for is our friends. But don't fall down in self-pity. Get mad, get angry; we beat the Birdies today and you know what? We are going to beat them tomorrow and the day after that.

They are sitting around on their world and they don't even know that one day; not too long from now their sky is gonna be full of ships—our ships. It is gonna happen as sure as the sun rises in the morning. They wanted this fight and they got it. But we are the ones who're going to finish it! And they are gonna pay for what they have done. That is what y'all have to live for. Because those people who died shouldn't have had to die in vain. You need to live for them—that will be your payback to the Birdies."

People in the crowd seemed to wake up out of their stupor. There were a few small cries of 'yes' and 'damn right' that built up slowly. The vacant look went away in the eyes of more than a few people who suddenly found themselves embracing the person next to them or shaking their hand. Thorpe turned the display off.

Forrest rocked back in his chair. "I think I was wrong about making her a captain. Anyone who can light a fire under people's ass like that should be commanding a squadron."

Savannah, Georgia, Earth, Jan 2157

"You need to slow down mama," Jocelyn Stiles told her mother. The woman was managing one of the field hospitals that were set up on the Stiles property. "You are a vet. These people need a people doctor."

"Hush child," Kendra Stiles said as she bandaged an old man's head. "I'm a healer and right now they need anyone with medical experience."

The younger Stiles got up and physically blocked her mother. "It's been a day mama. Don't you think I know why you are doing this?" Jocelyn's eyes teared up. "He was down there—you know it and I know it."

"No!" The older woman exclaimed. Kendra Stiles looked at the gate in the little fence in the front yard. Jocelyn realized that she was waiting for Henry Aaron Stiles to come walking through that gate; a story of his fishing exploits with his brother at the ready. Jocelyn was hoping for the same thing but down deep where it counted she knew that her father would never walk through that gate again.

Stiles' mother leaned against a post by the back porch. She was facing away from her daughter. The younger Stiles could hear the woman's sobs. Finally she said: "I know it too baby. At first—at first I thought he got out. I thought the old fool—I thought he was on the way home in that damned old truck of his; makin' a spectacle of himself as always." Jocelyn walked up behind her mother and put her arms around the older woman. "But he ain't ever comin' home again!" Kendra Stiles cried out. The woman was no longer holding back her tears. And neither was Jocelyn.

It was possible Jocelyn thought, that her father was alive. There were some survivors who were of course not at the epicenter of the explosion who were pouring out of Florida. People on the eastern outskirts of Tallahassee and the western edge of Pensacola were finding their ways north. It was possible that her father had been heading away from Panama City before the blast. Rescue teams were only just now setting up stations in Florida and the southern borders of Alabama and Georgia to act as clearing houses for survivors. Stiles thought that perhaps her father could have made it to one of those. But deep down where it counted she knew he didn't. Jocelyn couldn't explain the feeling anymore than she could explain her odd feelings aboard the Beagle before she had found out about David's death. The women were interrupted in their grief by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

Charles Tucker exited the house in clothes for a bigger man. Kendra Stiles had commented upon seeing the lieutenant commander that he needed a change of clothes—and a bath. The navy officer was anxious to try to get to Florida but he seemed to realize that would take time now.

"Thanks for the loan of the clothes ma'am," A freshly bathed Trip Tucker said to Kendra Stiles.

Kendra Stiles collected herself then replied: "Think nothing of it child. That mechanics getup you had on was stinking to high heaven."

"I guess there is no word?" Tucker asked referring to news of survivors. "You know sir," Tucker said to Jocelyn Stiles. "You being a captain and all you should be able to get us down there. I know there can't be anyone left from Panama City but we could check out the outlying areas. Navy suits are rated for that much radiation."

Stiles was about to say that the rescue teams were running the show when she saw the look of appeal in her mother's eyes. Jocelyn realized that Kendra Stiles did not share her daughter's sense of foreboding. Her mother wanted her to do something as well as this lieutenant commander. Stiles thought quickly. She had been a lieutenant no more than a few hours ago. If she stepped on some toes and broke some rules what was the worst that could happen to her Jocelyn wondered; she would be broken back to lieutenant? Stiles looked at her mother and Tucker.

"I'll get us in," Captain Jocelyn Stiles said at last. "Mom you should stay here." When she saw her mother about to protest Stiles spoke up quickly: "We might have to go close to where the radiation is bad. We'll be suited up," She said meaning her and Tucker. "But you aren't checked out. Besides they need you here. It looks like the weather is calling for calm winds so the decon teams can start to work before any bad stuff gets blown anywhere. But in case that changes everyone will have to pack up and move."

Kendra Stiles grudgingly agreed to her daughter's terms. History from earth's Third World War was impressed upon Terran children now. Whole population centers that had been spared from bombings had nonetheless suffered the effects of fallout later on. Towns around Atlanta had lost significant numbers of people when fallout had blown over the outlying towns. That was a story that had been repeated in many other countries around the world.

"You ready lieutenant commander?" Stiles asked Tucker.

"Call me Trip sir," The officer replied. "Yeah I'm ready."

"Trip huh?" Jocelyn replied with a tiny smile. "I hope that don't refer to how you fly."

Stiles bid her mother goodbye as did Lt. Cmdr. Tucker. The naval officers headed away toward the clearing where they had landed their shuttles. Kendra was starting to feel events closing in upon her when a family was deposited from a large ground vehicle. The man was helping his wife Kendra Stiles assumed. The side of the young woman's face was badly burned. A small boy was with the couple. The youngster's right arm was bent at a peculiar angle. Kendra walked over to help them.

LaBarre, France, the vineyards of Lucien and Helene Picard, Jan 2157

The last rays of the winter sun descended below the horizon. Lucien Picard stood looking out at his family holdings. The vintner said a silent prayer for the people of North America. Picard realized that these aliens might well have targeted France for bombing. No one knew what the Romulans were like Lucien thought. For all anyone knew their plan might've been to kill everyone on the earth. The cloak of night followed the setting sun. Picard heard the door open behind him.

"Are you coming in Papa?" Mariel Picard asked her father.

The broad shouldered man turned to his daughter. Helene, Lucien knew was busy in the kitchen. It was time for a discussion Picard thought. Lucien asked his daughter to put on her jacket and join him for a minute. Mariel closed the door and then emerged several minutes later wearing her coat and gloves. The woman joined her father; the two stood silently side-by-side for several minutes. Finally Lucien Picard broke the silence.

"I wish that you would not leave," The man said while looking at the tips of his shoes.

"It is very important Papa," Mariel replied. "And I have been away to school and such and outings with Alvin."

The elder Picard sighed at the mention of his future son-in-law's name. "I realize that Giselle," Picard hardly ever used his daughter's given name unless the discussion was of a serious nature. "I also suspect there is more to this trip than being sequestered at some sort of research facility. But if, as you say it is to help beat the Birdies then we must all do our part. I will miss my little rabbit." Lucien said recalling an event from Mariel's childhood. It had seemed like only yesterday that a huffing Mariel had demanded a rabbit as a pet. When the small fluffy creature had gotten bigger, smellier and meaner the girl had rapidly lost interest leaving Picard and Mariel's older brother Georges to attend to the foul beast as the men had christened the pet.

Mariel laughed. Lucien Picard had always prided himself on his ability to make his daughter smile.

"I know that you must leave Giselle," Lucien Picard said sternly. "You are a grown woman and you have your mother in you. I would sooner convince the stone of the cottage to sprout wings than to get you to change your mind. But it is not that of which I wanted to speak to you of." Picard sighed. When he saw his daughter's look of curiosity he continued:

"Is there a problem with Alvin and you? I do not want to intrude upon your happiness Giselle but there is something not right. Has Alvin?" Picard sighed and continued. "Our family has been somewhat sheltered; but there are abusive people Giselle. We never spoke much to you of this." Picard saw his daughter's look of surprise. "I know you are a grown woman and have heard of these things. But you have never seen them thank god—at least I hope." The old man fell into silence for a moment. "Please do not get caught up in something like that." Lucien took a deep breath and sighed. "People don't change Giselle just because you want them to—wishing for a thing does not make it so. Before I married your mother I left my shirts lying about—I still leave my shirts lying about."

"Why are you discussing this with me Papa?" Mariel asked.

"Because you are my daughter and I love you Giselle," The elder Picard replied. "I do not want to see you hur—I want what makes you happy."

"I am happy Papa," Mariel said. "Alvin has done nothing like that--."

"Are you two going to stay out there all night?" Helene Picard asked from the doorway. "It is time for the president's speech. Of course I can move one of the speakers out here if you want to listen while you turn to ice."

"We are on the way!" Lucien Picard replied. His wife, satisfied closed the door. Mariel started on the way in when Lucien gently seized her arm: "Only you can decide your happiness. Do not let others take that from you Giselle." Picard released his daughter's arm and the two walked inside.

A cheery fireplace threw out less heat than it might. It nonetheless was a welcome sight to Picard and his daughter. Helene Picard fiddled with the vidcaster. An image of the sun descending into a red sky filled the holographic tank. The image changed to one of a Tellarite before some walls. Words beneath the Tellarite informed them that the image was from those aliens' embassy in San Francisco. The being was gesturing forcefully and speaking:

"This act will not go unpunished! There is only one solution for murderers! They must be made to pay for their crimes. The people of the Tellarite Alliance will answer the call of vengeance and justice. My government has informed me that Tellar has declared war upon the Romulans. We will commit a large portion of our navy to the fight against these killers. Tellar will join this," The Tellarite, the scrolling across the screen identified him as Ambassador Halaav, hesitated searching for words. The ambassador continued after a moment: "This federation of planets along with Andor and your world. Together this alliance will smash these murderers."

The image changed to one of a business-suited human speaking French. Helene had chosen to listen to the French news services. The Tellarite was still gesturing away and speaking behind the news reporter.

"There you have it; Tellar has entered the war as an ally of earth. This follows the announcement of the Andorian ambassador to President Thorpe." The newscaster fell silent as he listened in his earpiece. "I'm being told that the president is ready to make an announcement. We are switching to that now."

The image changed again to one of a tired and haggard looking Christophur Thorpe. But Lucien detected a feeling of strength in the man that belied his physical appearance. The set of the president's face was one of confidence. When he spoke there was none of the horrified breathlessness with which he had announced the first attacks:

"Greetings all; I was going to start by saying my fellow earthmen. But after this day our tiny planet is no longer alone. We are part of a larger community. Communities are often defined when people in them band together to help one another during times of trouble. So it is that our neighbors; our friends have banded together to help we humans through these troubles. Our friends have joined us against these Romulans. This has not come without pain.

The Shahar of Andor personally sacrificed himself along with his crew by ramming the Romulan ship that was firing missiles at the surface of our world. Andorian and Tellarite losses are still being counted but early estimates say that some eleven-thousand Andorians and eight-thousand Tellarites died in coming to the defense of our world. Our own losses in the battle were high. And we have yet to count the dead from the North American continent.

But through all this destruction and the pain it has brought and will bring there is hope. We are no longer alone against our foes. Our neighbors seeing us viciously attacked by the Romulan invader have come to our aid. Today we defeated the enemy in a significant battle. A joint task force of humans, andorians and tellarites under the command of Admiral Maxwell Forrest and Commodore Jocelyn Stiles engaged the Romulans between the earth and the moon. The Romulan force was defeated. It is welcome news but now we must look to the long road ahead.

I wish that I could tell you that this is the end of the conflict. It is not. Many more of our young will have to go out and die. That is the cruel and undeniable nature of war. But we did not ask for this fight; of that we can be proud. But the tide has turned against our adversaries now. I say to you Praetor Karzan that we no nothing of your people. But if you have a deity then may that deity have mercy on you for the Stellar Fleet, the Star Fleet of humans and allies will have none for you.

To all of our friends listening here and on other planets I say: I once told you that the sun would rise again. Today we see the first glimmer of light over the horizon. Goodnight to you all."

"Do you two want to hear more?" Helene asked. Mariel's mother was wiping at tears. The image in the tank switched to the first images of the battle that had occurred earlier. Romulan ships exchanged shots with human and alien vessels. The Picard's present in the room looked to one another and nodded. The small family sat up anxiously viewing the vidcaster. Each felt that they were watching something that would make a long-lasting impression on history.

Langley Virginia, Earth Jan 2157

Erica Soames ran her hand through her hair. She knew it was greasy and unkempt. The naval intelligence officer had been up for over twenty-four hours now. Report after report had rolled in. Life seemed to revolve around images being downloaded from networks and intelligence communiqués coming in. The captain knew that a report would be expected soon. Soames walked out of her office. The officers and enlisted man gathered around the briefing table were as equally wild looking as Erica now pictured herself.

"It is common to ask what the good news and bad news is," Soames said in opening the briefing. "We saw the good news for the most part when the Birdies left with less than twenty percent of their attack fleet." The captain sighed. "Let's see what is bad."

"The loss to the fleets was high," Lt. Alvin Crosby said. "The Andies and Tellars sent us preliminary figures. Over a third of their vessels were destroyed. We are in slightly better shape there as the war brought about a rebuilding program. But estimates don't show any ships available until April or May."

"There is a lot of thought that the Birdies put a major portion of their fleet out for this," Lt. Tom Vanwinkle interjected. "But the bad news there is we just don't know how many more they have. Are there more on the way? What is their industrial capability? If we just knew how our messenger boys did over Romulus--."

"We've heard nothing," Soames interrupted. "We have to assume a complete mission failure in lieu of any information." Complete failure Soames thought, was a nice euphemism for suicide mission. "So we just don't know."

"That is about it sir," Chief Frank McCoy answered. "We'll have to hold the line with what we have for the next few months."

"That is enough gloom and doom I suppose," Soames said. "The Hercules will be put in place by the end of January. That gives us planetary coverage. What else is good?"

"One of the Minotaur crews scored a lucky shot," Crosby answered. The lieutenant activated the three panel viewscreen that sit in the center of the table. The view showed from the rear video cameras showed some of the Romulan plasma leaking out. Then the Sabinus class ship exploded. Crosby repeated the video and slowed it down. The glowing plasma leaked out as the sliced metal of the Romulan hull started to open up more; then came the explosion. "The crews downloaded this. One other Minotaur managed the same thing. They have a weak spot around this ring," Crosby pointed out a metal ring that encircled the Cabbage's plasma emitter.

"Get this out to the navy as soon as possible Al," Soames said stridently.

"We've already put the info out sir," Chief McCoy added.

"What else?" The captain asked.

"We think they were emitting neutrinos," Vanwinkle said. "That is what blinded the subspace sensors. The lab people at Boeing-Teledyne and MIG-Bell got a hold of some advanced sensor technology. We don't know where from. Rumor has it that it came out of the executive branch. But more than likely the UI boys snagged something from the Pointies."

"Those bastards couldn't snag their asses with both hands and a flashlight," Chief Frank McCoy said angrily. Despite the fatigue felt by all there was much laughter. "The UI really hasn't done much that I've seen, sorry sir."

"Forget about it Frank," Capt. Soames smiled. "I've had those same sentiments. I just never found a way," The woman paused and grinned: "To sum it up as eloquently as you have chief!"

"We've had contacts with the Vulcans through Tara," Soames said. Once again the woman hated lying to her people but Thorpe had brought her into his confidence with regards to the president's conversation with Minister Soval. "So perhaps it isn't so far-fetched that other government agencies have been contacted by the Pointies as well." There that was one way to smooth things out Soames thought. "Have the labs come up with anything Tom?"

"There was much technobabble," Vanwinkle replied. "But they mention something called a frequency shift in the field structure. I think an analogy is how we can frequency shift regular radar to read through mumbo-jumbo. Anyway they say they can test things and have better answers by next week."

"And if they are right?" Soames asked her subordinate.

"They should be able to get a fix out to the fleet before the end of the month." Vanwinkle replied somberly. "In the meantime we can still read them coming. We just won't know how many."

"Thank god for the Xiaguan!" McCoy said. "If Captain King hadn't gone into that sensor interference we never would've known how large a force we were looking at."

"Yes thank god for King," Soames repeated and bowed her head. The Xiaguan had entered the sensor interference and warned earth. But that Stellar Navy ship had not been heard from since. Soames assumed the worst; though she supposed the ship and crew might still be alive. She hoped that was so.

"The president said this was gong to be a long war boys!" Erica said trying to add some enthusiasm to her voice. "But perhaps he is right and we are turning the tide."

Soames knew that despite the president's waxy assessment they were not out of the woods yet. As Vanwinkle had pointed out what were the Romulans' capabilities? Could there be another hundred and forty ships on the way? Could there be two-hundred and forty for that matter Erica wondered pessimistically? Everything hinged on time as it had since the beginning of this bloody conflict the intelligence officer knew. They needed time to work with their new allies, time to build new ships, time to train more naval personnel. Would the Romulans allow them that time Soames wondered?

Presidential Shuttle One, enroute to Mars, Jan 2157

Thorpe relaxed in the large cabin. The converted bison class freighter was much bigger than a shuttle. But president's before Thorpe had adopted the name Shuttle One. Despite the craft's pachyderm warp nacelles it had never left the Sol system since its commission. It was not leaving there now either. Instead Thorpe was on his way to Mars with Micah Brack. The president hoped that this trip would cheer his spirits more than their tour of the San Francisco naval yards had done.

There was a great deal of work done on the Curran class patrol cruisers. But many of the first models had been destroyed in the defense of earth. Thorpe realized that this war would have to be carried beyond earth for the alliance to win. The Currans much like the Archers that they were based on were good for mostly system defense. The rest of the yard work seemed to be moving in slow motion. Three new Pioneer cruiser hulls were little more than skeletons. The yardmaster had even had the temerity to snicker at a six month launch figure. The woman ceased snickering when she had found out that she was now the former yardmaster.

The president looked longingly at a book that he had started then put down to review yet another casualty list from the Florida bombing. The president wished that Maggie Thorpe was here. But his wife had decided to go to Florida as a way of showing her husband's presence there. Thorpe was proud of his wife. She had immediately thought of others and helped to the extent that she could in getting some of the emergency services moving. Maggie had had as little sleep as Thorpe had managed to get over the past few days the president knew.

The chime to Thorpe's cabin sounded. Thorpe got up to admit Micah Brack. The man greeted Thorpe with a look of concern. Thorpe knew that he did not look the greatest now but there was no time to languish in a bed. Thorpe knew that Franklin Roosevelt had not looked well after Pearl Harbor had been bombed; nor had Prime Minister Jaeger after he received the news of the destruction of Tel Aviv. Rest would have to wait Thorpe thought. The president said as much to Brack after the men exchanged pleasantries.

"You need some rest sir," Brack persisted. "This war is squarely on your shoulders. I apologize but I must be blunt—were you to die who would succeed you?"

"Councilman Moller is the next in," Thorpe started to answer and stopped. When the president continued it was in a more conciliatory voice. "I see what you mean Micah." Moller had decided as early as the new year to throw his lot in with the Sons' of Terra. Previous to that the councilman had put forth several motions suggesting a cease fire be offered to the Romulans. The senior councilperson was next in line of succession should the president die or otherwise become incapacitated. "I promise to rest as far as is possible after this inspection then my friend."

"That is acceptable sir," Brack said with a grin. "You may well have taken the first steps toward this alliance."

"I hope so," Thorpe answered. "People, human and aliens are fickle. Who knows how they will feel if and when we defeat these Romulans?"

"You will sir," Brack interrupted politely. "I told you that my money has always been on man. I remember so many terrible things: The bodies lying in the streets during the black plague, the London fire, The horrible pogroms conducted against European gypsies and later Jews, Berlin reduced to rubble, the burned bodies and radiation sickness," Brack looked up from his revelries to see Thorpe gaping at him. "I'm sorry sir sometimes it all comes back like it was yesterday. But my point is; through it all mankind prevailed and did better. You will prevail in this situation as well of that I am sure."

"I wish I had your outlook on history Micah," Thorpe said then added: "And I thank god that I don't have that outlook." Brack looked at Thorpe in surprise. "I suppose if immortality consisted of one unending paradise then it would be something I sought. But frankly I would not wish these times or responsibilities on anyone. And you have lived through far more horrible things than I."

"May you live in interesting times," Brack recited the old curse and laughed. "The ancient Chinese knew what they were speaking of. I'm sorry about what I said President Thorpe. Let me add if I may that I was there when the Magna Charta was signed along with the US Constitution and the Russian Federation's proclamation of freedom. I was there when Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon and Steven Ritchie went beyond the solar system. Those are the times that were worth living for. And there will be such times again sir."

"One thing Micah; you are an optimist." Thorpe stated.

"You have to be when one has lived to my age," Brack answered with a slight smile.

The captain's voice came over the cabin's public address system. "Sir we are approaching Martian orbit."

Brack perked up at the announcement. "I think what I'm going to show you will let you have a little peace when you try to sleep sir."

"Where are we going?" Thorpe asked pointedly.

"Elysium Mons; we are using some of the geothermal energy from that. What little is left that is." Thorpe answered referring to Mars' second largest volcano. "We'll take a turbo-tube to our final destination."

Over Tallahassee, Florida, Earth Jan 2157

The Stellar Navy shuttle flew over the flattened burnt land. The further west they flew the fewer standing structures remained. Stiles and Tucker had observed the ruins of a few brick and steel structures earlier. But now there was nothing standing higher than a burial mound. The radiation sensor flashed from amber to an intermittent red as the shuttle proceeded west.

The two officers had started out at a few of the relief station on the border of Georgia and Florida. When that had yielded no results the two had decided to fly to Gainesville Florida. That city had been relatively untouched except for some cases of flash blindness. A large number of survivors had gathered there. The news that the navy officers had heard in Gainesville had not been good: Most of the survivors were in safe hands by now. For those who weren't the outcome did not look good. The refugees from Tallahassee had told a particularly horrible story about the roiling firestorm that had wiped out a great deal of the city. The two had begun to make much small talk as they proceeded with their grim search.

"So in twenty-four hours you went from being a navigator to commanding a fleet?" Trip Tucker asked Capt. Jocelyn Stiles. The man had a grin on his face.

"You would've had to have been there," Stiles replied ruefully. The captain reached up and went to override on the shuttle's cockpit recording device. "There; don't want the kids to hear anything they shouldn't!"

Stiles told an incredulous Lt. Cmdr. Tucker of the taskforce's arrival at Sol, Admiral French's attempt to have the president arrested and of that admiral's hope to surrender or negotiate with the Romulans. Jocelyn explained how the marines had turned against French and of Thorpe's subsequent collapse and his order commanding Stiles to take charge.

"You know Trip," Stiles said. "The real heroes out of all of this are those two marines. Sgt. Satiei and Pvt. Matson defied the commander-in-chief of the Stellar Navy; just think about that! If they had escorted the president to sickbay instead we sure wouldn't be having this conversation!"

Trip nodded his head in agreement. "You handled it well Cap'n."

Stiles looked over at Trip and said conspiratorially: "Call me Jo-jo; I promise I won't tell anyone."

"It ain't like I'm not in enough troub--," Tucker stopped abruptly as he looked out of the transparent aluminum. "I swear I seen something back there."

"Coming about," Stiles announced. "Take the controls when we straighten out. I need a drink of water. I think everything rotten that ever was is makin' a home in my mouth."

"When did you sleep last?" Tucker asked sympathetically.

"Going on twenty-eight hours I think," Jocelyn replied: "You?"

"About the same," The lieutenant commander answered tiredly. "As much as I want to keep looking we better make this the last flight." The shuttle rolled level. "I got the controls. Check twenty degrees right. There is a little hill and some dust blowing."

"No dust but a hole in the ground," Stiles said as she rubbed at her tired eyes: "A square hole at that. I'm guessing that there are a few leftover home fallout shelters from the last war."

"Startin' down," Trip announced.

"We better swing visors for this," Stiles said. The captain was reading an elevated radiation reading. "It's survivable down there—for about fifteen minutes."

The shuttle settled down forty meters from where a man and a woman were climbing out onto what was left of the surface. The couple started toward the Stellar Navy shuttle. Stiles rolled up the hatch. A man who looked to be in his late sixties, possibly even his seventies had his thin arm hooked around an equally frail elderly woman. The two looked to be in absolute shock. Both were somewhat frightened by the space-suited figures of Stiles and Tucker. Trip pointed to the Stellar Navy emblem that adorned the arm of his space suit. The old man seemed to perk up somewhat. Trip and Jocelyn got on either side of the couple and helped them to the shuttle.

The Stellar Navy officers helped the old couple up on the ramp to the shuttle hatch. Tucker rolled the hatch closed as Stiles seated the couple. Both officers swung their visors open despite their knowledge that the air in the shuttle was hot with radiation.

"I think the air scrubbers will clear the worst of it," Trip said meaning the radiation that had entered the cabin. The officers turned their attention to the couple. "Is there anyone else in the shelter sir?" Trip asked the old man loudly.

"Keerist son!" The man exclaimed. "We are old but the ears still work!" Trip apologized and repeated his question.

"We are it," The older woman said sadly. "Elton tried to get our neighbors to go in the hole with us when the vidcaster talked about the attack. Chris said it was a grave and we wouldn't get attacked anyway." The woman was clearly on the verge of tears. The man nodded agreement.

"Elton and Carol Crater," The man said by way of introduction. "How bad is it?" Crater asked Trip and Jocelyn.

"This was the only place hit," Stiles choked out. Tears ran down her cheeks.

The man Elton, surveyed his rescuers, finally he said: "I'm bettin' you two lost people here?"

"We are trying to find out," Trip said. "I have family in Panama City and the Cap—Jo-jo's dad was visiting down there. We hope they left the city," Tucker trailed off then continued: "Before it was destroyed."

"I pray for you both then," Elton Crater said. The old man was silent a moment then asked expectantly: "Did, did Gainesville get hit bad?"

"No sir," Jocelyn answered. She had collected herself despite her grief and fatigue. "Do you have anyone there?"

"We have a son there," Elton Crater answered. The man was clearly relieved to hear that Gainesville was spared.

Tucker and Stiles looked at one another. "We'll take you there now." Stiles announced.

The two officers moved to take their seats when Carol Crater spoke up: "You two planned that out without talking. How long have you been with each other?"

"Uh ma'am we aren't," Trip and Jocelyn said as one. Both officers looked at one another. Carol Crater's implication was apparent. Trip continued, "We just sort of ran into each other."

"You can say that again flyboy," Stiles said laughing. The captain was recalling their near midair collision.

"Hey—you nearly ran into me too!" Tucker said defensibly.

"Let's get to Gainesville and see what we can find out," Stiles said at last.

The Stellar Navy shuttle lifted off the scorched Florida earth. Dirt and burnt plant matter blew in all directions.

Relief Station, Gainesville, Florida, Jan 2157

The Craters had been lucky Stiles thought. The old man and his wife had received a shot each of hyronaline then the news that their son was alive and had inquired about them. A copter had flown the couple to another part of town where a registry had indicated that their son was at. The two Stellar Navy officers were dead on their feet. They both wanted to continue the search for their loved ones but each knew that they were at the breaking point for fatigue. Anymore flying and it was liable to be Tucker's and Stiles' passing that would be mourned.

Jocelyn got in touch with her mother. Kendra Stiles was glad to hear from her daughter. The elder Stiles also had unexpected news: Charles Tucker had left a message for an uncle in Mississippi inquiring about Tucker's parents. That uncle had finally got back in touch with the net address Tucker had left: That of Stiles' parents' farm. Trip's parents had been visiting Mississippi when the Romulan bomb had struck. Trip's parents were anxious to talk to him. Trip excused himself to contact his uncle. Jocelyn Stiles made worried small talk with her mother. Somehow Kendra Stiles knew that the officers had not found Henry Aaron Stiles. Jocelyn told her mother that she loved her and cut the connection. Trip and she had decided to get sleeping quarters in one of the temporary billets the navy had set up. Stiles headed for the woman's tent area when a man called to her.

"Sir I was wondering where the mess tent is?" The voice asked timidly. Stiles spun around to come face to face with Kevin Stiles, Wayne Stiles son. The youth was wearing a Star Fleet Academy cadet's uniform. Both Stiles were dumbfounded for a moment.

"Kevin is that you?" Jocelyn asked as the cadet asked Stiles if it was indeed his cousin.

"Jo-jo," Cadet Stiles exclaimed then stopped. "I mean sir," Stiles was not much older than her cousin but she thought of him as a boy. The boy seemed to be struggling with his emotions.

"It's alright Kevin," Jocelyn said reassuringly. "We were down her looking for my dad—and your uncle."

The young man's eyes misted over. "You don't know then?"

The feeling of dread was heavier than ever.

"I, I was talking to my father when it happened," Kevin Stiles was crying. "Your dad, your dad was there too. I was talking to them then---then the circuit went dead."

He was there then, Jocelyn thought; her father had been in Panama City when the Birdie bomb had hit. She felt as if she had received a physical blow. But no tears flowed so tired she was from the day's events. She embraced her cousin who was crying. The two stood amid a crowd of listless civilians and tired navy relief workers. Jocelyn peered over Kevin's shoulders to see Trip Tucker. One look at Tucker told Stiles that he too had lost someone.

Vulcan Starliner L'Streva, inbound to 40 Eridani, the Vulcan system, Jan 2157

Lt. Tarang Gupta was studying the Vulcan poetry. It was really quite logical the intelligence officer thought. It was also more akin to reading an equation on the volume of fluid that could flow through a funnel rather than a poem expressing any feelings. T'Pol had suggested the reading to help the intelligence officer gather more of an understanding of the structure of the Vulcan language. The lieutenant removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Gupta had been at it for over four hours now. Tarang shut the viewer up and got up. A good workout had helped clear his mind on several occasions. Time for one of those now Gupta thought when the ship's public address system sounded.

That was odd Gupta thought. Vulcans were extremely private beings. The aliens were not one for interruptions to their private affairs; unless it was an emergency. Gupta soon had an answer to his question:

"Attention; this ship has received word of a Romulan attack on earth. We make this announcement for Vulcans as well as the humans on the L'Streva. More information will be available in the ship's common areas."

The announcement had been made with machine-like precision. Gupta knew it was the liner's captain who had made it though. The Indian left his quarters quickly. The first common area was no more than twenty meters away. Gupta did not even notice the increased temperature of the liner's passageways as much as he had when he had first boarded. T'Pol's advice to ready his body for the Vulcan climate had been good counsel. The lieutenant entered the small common area where a viewer depicted the frantic battle between the Stellar Navy ships and the Romulan vessels. Gupta knew the transmission was several hours old now. Whatever happened was already over. Tarang thought of his parents and of India. The Andorians showed up buoying Gupta's feelings of distress. So enmeshed in the battle he was that Gupta did not even notice the arrival of T'Pol.

The outer squadrons came from behind the shadow of the moon when the intelligence officer became aware of T'Pol's presence. The Vulcan stood a respectful distance away; as one would stand away from a stranger. But when Tarang met her gaze briefly he thought he read concern in her eyes. A human who had never been around Vulcans would probably not have noticed any difference. Gupta wondered rather there really was a difference. He would've spoken to the Vulcan woman but the room had filled up. Vulcans for the most part watched the spectacle without comment. The only other human in the room besides Gupta was shaking her head and mumbling.

"This is bad, this is bad," The woman mumbled over and over in what Tarang thought was an Australian or New Zealand accent. "This is bad."

The Romulans were driven off. Gupta remained rooted to the spot. The Indian knew that this was the fate of his world—his home; already played out. T'Pol approached the intelligence officer.

"It would be logical sir to wait until there is more conclusive information," T'Pol said to Gupta then turned and walked away.

Was he reading too much into this Gupta wondered? On the one hand that would be the equivalent of friendly advice as far as a Vulcan was concerned. On the other hand it could have been T'Pol's way of saying don't worry. She was right though. The lieutenant was about to return to his quarters to change for the gym when the information from the news service mentioned a bombing somewhere in North America. Gupta found a seat around one of the many tables scattered throughout the area. Tarang would relax when he knew that earth and his family was safe. Anyway he had another two weeks to get himself prepared for the Vulcan heat.

Hours later the common area had cleared save for Tarang Gupta. The intelligence officer stood up at the conclusion of Christophur Thorpe's defiant speech. They now had allies it seemed. Gupta knew that the Andorians and Tellarite militaries had some sympathies for the earthers. Their governments' refusal to commit had been a major blow in the beginning. Gupta wondered what had changed the aliens' perspective. Gupta was also painfully aware of the absence of one of the major races: The Vulcans had so far not even issued an official statement. Gupta wondered at this too. The officer heard soft scuffling behind him. Gupta turned to see T'Pol standing there. For some reason he thought that she had been standing there awhile. Gupta greeted the Vulcan woman in her language and bid her be seated.

"Let us use English here," T'Pol said. She nodded her head ever so slightly as she took a seat opposite Tarang. Gupta was amazed on how he was picking up on the miniscule Vulcan nuances. The gesture seemed to carry the message 'others may hear'. T'Pol was speaking again. "The attack while a tragedy could have been much worse."

"There is that," The lieutenant answered. "It is bad enough. But I hope this signals something new. The alliance with the Andorians and Tellarites will help us. Things were bad; now it seems that we have a fighting chance."

"I," T'Pol hesitated. Gupta would've sworn that the logical being was embarrassed. "What your president said about communities. It is true of Vulcan as well. I am sorry."

"If you mean about not coming to our aid," Gupta replied. "You do not make policy for your people."

"Nonetheless," T'Pol looked around the common area; empty with the exception of herself and Gupta. "Perhaps that is a discussion for another time." She paused and said abruptly. "I am," Another hesitation: "Pleased that your family should be okay. They would not have been in this Florida?"

"I can't imagine them going there," The intelligence officer answered. "No, I'm sure that they were home in New Delhi. I asked the communications officer if I could send a message. She approved my request. Of course it will be a few days." Gupta knew that the message would go through several channels while being filtered by the good Captain Soames. "Thank you for your concern."

"It is not concern; just courtesy," T'Pol answered quickly.

Gupta was about to say more when the image on the common area's viewer changed to one of a Vulcan. The Vulcan was obviously an elder member of his race. Gupta knew that when age started showing on a Vulcan it was a good indication that they were past their two-hundredth year. The being was on his home world; that was apparent from the harsh red glare of the sky that lit his pate of oddly curly gray hair with a reddish cast. The transmission was in Vulcan. T'Pol stirred in her seat.

"Minister V'Las," T'Pol said by way of explanation. The minister was speaking:

"Today the government received messages from earth indicating that earth was attacked by a Romulan fleet. While we express our disdain for this action we will not change our policy with respect to earth. But given the information on this alliance that formed in the aftermath of the attack it is this government's decision that measures must be taken to prevent our peaceful orderly world from becoming involved in the conflict.

Travel, to and from the worlds of Earth, Tellar and Andoria by Vulcan citizens is forbidden with the exception of those already in transit. Likewise travel from those planets by off-worlders to Vulcan is prohibited. Those in transit can expect to stay at their planet of debarkation. Warships from this new alliance will not be welcomed in our space with the exception of distressed ships. Those ships will be seized along with their crews and held until the end of this conflict. It is this government's wish that peace prevail. But in lieu of that we cannot allow barbarous behavior within our borders."

The transmission ended to be replaced by the L'Streva's logo and some Vulcan music emanating from the speakers.

Gupta sat deep in thought. So he would be a permanent exile on Vulcan he wondered; at least for the duration of the conflict or until the Pointies decided to reverse their policy. Tarang couldn't believe he even thought the term Pointie, especially with T'Pol sitting so close to him. Earth had found out who its friends were and those friends had not included any Vulcans. The images of the Andorian leader's ship colliding with a Romulan cruiser and a Tellarite destroyer putting itself in a fatal crossfire to deliver its rack of merculite rockets before being destroyed itself were ingrained in Gupta's mind. The intelligence officer glanced at T'Pol who seemed on the verge of saying something. Whatever it was would not be known as Gupta excused himself, got up and headed for his cabin.

Boeing-Teledyne facility, Elysium Mons, Mars Jan 2157

The president was amazed at a lot of what he had been shown. The leader of the United Earth government had been keeping up with the reports from Mars. Several scientists when meeting with the president had waxed optimistically about the chances of terraforming the red planet. Thorpe supposed with the residual heat from the planet's core that could be done. Brack's people had set up an impressive operation near the site of the ancient, towering, extraterrestrial volcano. A large underground pool and garden dominated the deepest level of the facility. Living quarters and recreation facilities were on the next level up. At the highest level was the manufacturing equipment and labs. Thorpe had been off-world before but the man still had odd feelings when he touched the native rock of another world. Mars was no exception.

Brack had apparently been putting Emory Erickson's invention to good use. Thorpe watched as raw ore was materialized onto a platform for later conversion to useful metals and composites. Brack had reminded the leader that the new transporter cut the time down by as much as two-thirds. The long-lived Brack must've become infected with Erickson's enthusiasm for his invention. The immortal went on about a day when the device could be fine-tuned to convert raw matter into almost anything anyone would desire. Food, clothing, personal items; none of those things would need to be purchased. They could be had out of thin air for all practical purposes.

"I hope that day comes Micah," Thorpe said. "You know I've always believed in man too. But what you are describing seems like magic."

"Mr. President I rode on one of the first trains," Brack got that faraway look in his eyes. "I spied Confederate positions from an observation balloon. When we captured the Enigma machine I saw the potential of some of computational devices of the day. I worked with Werner VonBraun on the old USA's first rockets. In those days the stars were millions of years away. So I've seen some magic."

"I suppose that is true," Thorpe replied with a tired looking smile. "Maybe I'm feeling my age at last. My father used to say to me; 'Chris, the day you stop accepting new ideas is the day you can say you are getting old'. Perhaps there is a grain of truth to that."

The men boarded the turbo-tube. Thorpe advised the president to be seated as the little bullet shaped conveyance had no artificial gravity. Thorpe could feel the acceleration as the tube shot from the base of the volcano enroute to its destination.

"They found some of the crew of the Xiaguan," Thorpe declared happily. The president told Brack of the final minutes of the ship that had warned them all:

"They did a standard radar and visual run on the Romulan fleet. Captain King turned to escape but the ship was cut in two by Romulan plasma weapons. From the survivor accounts all but twelve of the crew made it to the shuttles. King stayed aboard. One of the surviving sections had thrust. King apparently used that to put some distance between his shuttles and the Romulans. He set off the warhead of an Amazon missile. The first officer thinks that blinded the Romulans to the position of the shuttles."

"I'm glad to hear that Christophur," Brack said. "I believe man will win this; but the price will be high."

"Over three-million in the panhandle of Florida," Thorpe replied sadly. The tube came to a stop. Brack motioned for the president to follow him. The men left the tube and walked a short distance to an airlock.

"Step through sir," Brack beckoned as he opened the hatch. Beyond the hatchway was a small room with a view of a far larger chamber. The chamber looked like a warehouse. Thorpe saw stacks of metal and the very basic parts of ships. A single huge cylinder dominated the center of the chamber where it merged into the chamber's ceiling. The president felt a slight trembling through the floor of the room.

"You are familiar with the concept of an elevator to space sir?" Brack asked.

Thorpe nodded. There had been some discussion of building one of the devices on earth; a tether thousand of meters long anchored to an orbital station. The idea had been abandoned as fusion reactors for ships got smaller. Thorpe realized that this elevator must've been one of the grander designs; able to haul tons of cargo into orbit. Brack indicated that Thorpe should follow him out into the larger chamber.

The president did so. Thorpe led the United Earth president out on the floor to the cylindrical projection. A door was in the side of it to a small lift. The two men entered the lift. The lift took Brack and Thorpe up the fifty meter length of the tube to the top of the elevator. Thorpe sensed that they were going higher than fifty meters though. Thorpe felt two jolts: first as the life stopped and a second one which the president guessed was the entire space elevator stopping. The door slid open admitting the men to a small cylindrical chamber where a spiral stairway wound its way up. Thorpe took the lead at Brack's insistence. The president ascended the steps to the final room: A small chamber no more than four meters in diameter. Thorpe's mouth dropped open.

They were at the top of a tower on top of the elevator. Thousands of meters below the bulk of the orbital carrier lay the reddish surface of Mars. But that was not what had gotten Thorpe's attention. The elevator had merged with a network of interlaced beams and suspension girders. Like a metallic spider web the structure spread out. Tubes and mobile cranes slid along the beams. The structure, Thorpe could see went on for many kilometers. The metal web had many junction points. At each of those points was a ship. There were hundreds of them as far as Thorpe could see and those looked to be in the final stages of completion.

Brack laughed at Thorpe's silence. "The center of the yard is anchored over the region known as Utopia Planitia Mr. President," Brack said at last.

"But the reports," Thorpe said at last. "The reports said it would be months! And nothing I read hinted at these many hulls."

"I'm sorry to have deceived you sir," Brack said. The immortal looked down at his shoes. "You saw the progress or complete lack thereof in the 'Frisco yards. The same naval construction authority would've been running this place too had I followed the government's guidelines."

"When?" Thorpe asked simply.

"The Kretchets, Powhatans and Torsks will be ready for trials as early as February," Brack answered. "The first Tannhausers should follow in April along with the first Yorktown class carriers. We are of course building Minotaurs for the carriers but we currently have completed enough of these to replace the losses we've had as well as bolstering the force by over two-hundred fighters."

"There was not enough funding for this!" Thorpe exclaimed. "I had to threaten several council members with charges of war profiteering just to get monies from their pet projects at home to use for war spending instead."

"Boeing-Teledyne committed every resource it had to this and the X," Brack replied.

Thorpe looked intently at the industrialist. "And Boeing-Teledyne is mostly you Micah."

Brack got a mischievous look on his face. "It is not the first fortune I've lost. I'll make it all back again—if I choose to. Sometimes living hand-to-mouth has its appeal. I suppose that the difference lies in knowing if one knows he'll live to be rich again. Anyway I think I'll turn to mining with what is left. There is definitely a future in dilithium."

Unknown location, Jan 2157

Commander Wiley Dunleavy formerly of the Bison class Moskva was struggling to help his captain up. Mohammed Qaddoumi had contracted some sort of virus. So far Qaddoumi was the only human to become infected. Dunleavy had finally argued the warden into allowing the Arab captain to stay back in the relative warmth of the cavern's living spaces. Dunleavy had picked up quite a bit of the Klingon language. Several of the crew had. The commander only wished he had possessed as good a grasp of that language during the trial.

Their attorney, if the fierce looking Klingon defending them could be called that had furnished the humans with a version of liguacode translators. Dunleavy supposed the device worked great when it could be run through a mainframe computer. As it was only when the judge had struck those final sparks with the ornate mace-like gavel had Dunleavy and Qaddoumi understood that they had been sentenced. They had illegally penetrated Klingon space. Apparently areas of the warrior empire's space were controlled by families. The Moskva had the misfortune to enter into a region controlled by the Duras family. Qaddoumi had expressed the opinion that the humans were being punished because they had destroyed their database. The vessel that had waylaid the Moskva had possessed technology that was at least twenty years behind Terran shipbuilding and engineering.

The crew of the Moskva had then been taken from Qo'nos as the Klingons called their world to another place. The temperature was freezing. Lightning lit a reddish sky. Dunleavy had no idea how cold it was until a sick gunner of theirs had been disrobed and thrown to the ground. The crew had been forced to watch, helpless. The woman had died of hypothermia in a matter of painful minutes. The crew had tried to resist at first. But these Klingons cared little for life it seemed.

A week after their arrival at the slave labor mines a few of the crew had staged a revolt. The uprising did not have Qaddoumi's or Dunleavy's approval. The humans had captured several of the crinkle-heads as the humans had started to call the Klingons. Those captured aliens had killed themselves taking away the prisoners' only advantage they had thought they had. There were fifteen survivors from the Moskva now where they had started with forty-two. The doctor was attending to the captain but the medical man would only shake his head mournfully after each examination of Qaddoumi.

Dunleavy tried to keep his sanity by recording the events of their interment. The resourceful commander had managed to scrounge the pages of a discarded report of some sort. There was enough blank area to write in. The blood of some of the prisoners' food, often live worms that some had still not learned to accept in their stomachs; served to make a good ink. The commander swore to himself that one day he would make it home with his makeshift journal.

The commander was scrolling in his journal when the doctor approached his bier with a look of grief on his face. The single look told Wiley Dunleavy that Captain Mohammed Quddoumi was no more. Wiley closed his eyes. He was so tired. So were all the other human prisoners. But they had to make the effort to bury their captain. Dunleavy secured his makeshift journal in its hiding place and went to roust the crew.

Savannah, Georgia, Earth Jan 2157

The casket was empty. The searchers were still going through the rubble of what had been Panama City and the outlying areas. The miraculous stories of survivors were now becoming fewer and fewer. Last week another family had been found. Once again an old World War Three bomb shelter had saved them. But that had been over one-hundred kilometers from the center of the blast. No one had been recovered within that one-hundred kilometer radius. So it was that two weeks after the attack Kendra Stiles relented and accepted what had to be inevitable: The death of Henry Aaron Stiles.

Both of the Stiles women thought how surprised the old farmer would have been at who showed up at his funereal. Christophur and Maggie Thorpe were in attendance. Thorpe's being there had met that US President Todd Allen Glenn was there as well. Several people in Stellar Navy uniforms were there as well. Lt. Cmdr. Charles Tucker had shown up as Jocelyn and her mother had shown up at the service for Tucker's sister. Trip had asked his commanding officer Cmdr. Jonathan Archer to the services as well. Jocelyn had briefly met the dour looking commander before the eulogy.

Thorpe had actually asked to be allowed to give the eulogy. But Kendra Stiles had politely refused the United Earth president. Kendra had said how her husband had always wanted to be thought of as a simple man and would hate the attention that so important a speaker would've brought. So it was that an elderly Baptist minister had delivered the eulogy though neither of the Stiles had been to a service in many years.

The casket was lowered into the cold Georgia ground. People were bidding one another goodbye and going there separate ways when Jocelyn Stiles composed herself enough to speak to Christophur Thorpe. Stiles exchanged pleasantries with the president and Maggie Thorpe. The president's wife detected that Stiles wanted to speak to her husband privately. Maggie Thorpe left the two and sought out Kendra Stiles. When Stiles and Thorpe were out of earshot on their way back to the main house from the little Stiles family plot Jocelyn decided it was time to ask the president some pointed questions.

"Before sir," Stiles started. "I know you needed heroes to help rally the people. But I'm not an admiral! I, I was going to settle down and be married before all of this happened."

"I know that Jo-jo," Thorpe replied. The old man sighed. "We all had plans before the Romulans. Excuse me I must be candid. This is not an appointment based on publicity. No human is really is an expert on space warfare. You've won one battle and held on during a second one. I can't win this war with people like French. I let him continue because I knew there was a learning process and a change of commanders might have sent a demoralizing message to our people.

But after what happened at Andoria and our return to earth French gave me little choice. Now as to you; your Air Force Academy records said that you have an innate sense of three-dimensional battle tactics. Those were remarks from some of your instructors. With that and your ability to inspire others and win fights that makes you a commodity that is in short supply. Forrest is short of squadron commanders. French stacked the deck in BuPer. Those that have fought are finding themselves in roles they never expected. I can't afford anymore armchair admirals. Damnit earth can't afford anymore either Jo-jo. Do you want this to happen again in another city?"

The president looked around as the entourage winded its way to the Stiles house. "We can still lose this thing. We are working with the aliens—our allies. Forrest and Shran both suggest that we take our combined forces on the offensive as early as February. That is less that three days away Jo-jo. But they feel that any appearance of weakness on our part could invite another major Romulan strike."

Stiles looked down at the ground briefly. "I'll accept sir," That drew a surprised look from Thorpe who had obviously thought that Stiles would protest the substantial promotion. "I would like my old ship back."

"I think it will be several months before the Vigilant is out again," Thorpe answered. "I know I seen it on a list for mam upgrade."

"Not the Vigilant sir," Stiles replied. "The Beagle; all of this started for me on the Beagle. I want it to end there." Stiles saw the look of consternation on Thorpe's face. She started hastily. "The Beagle has a new mam reactor in her. She was being upgraded as a destroyer escort with a high capacity subspace sensor array. I used these extra stripes to read a report. She is sitting in a dock over Mars; waiting for additional crew—and a captain."

"Okay Jo-jo," Thorpe said. "The ship is yours. I'm glad that you accepted. I'm proud to know people like you who have stepped up to save the rest of us." Coming from anyone else that would've been a campaign pitch. But Stiles could see the look of earnestness on Thorpe's face.

Stiles didn't feel like a patriot. In fact she had intended until this morning to hand in her resignation. That was until they had lowered Henry Stiles' coffin into the earth. Jocelyn had thought of the life she had wanted with David: Happy children underfoot, and growing old together. Jocelyn recalled telling Mary Vong that Stiles had proved herself as a woman. Stiles knew that she had too. But she did not want to continue in that role of explorer anymore. David had confessed similar feelings. Hudson had said he felt no compunction whatsoever in resigning when the time came. But now David was dead.

When the grief of his death had subsided Stiles was more than happy to accept a subordinate role in the navy until war's end. Somehow she had reasoned that one day she would meet another man. The war would be over eventually and she could get on with her life. This man she would meet would not be David but he would be the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Then her father had died in a cruel and senseless attack. Jocelyn had held onto the grief of that event until this morning. That grief had turned into something else.

Stiles accepted the promotion. She would lead a force into battle alright. These Birdies had taken almost everything that ever met anything to her from Stiles. The Romulans had done that to her and many others. Trip Tucker seemed like a shell of a man when she had talked to him at his sister's service. The Birdies couldn't be allowed to do this anymore. And they had to be punished for what they had already done. Stiles had just been put in charge of the instrument of that punishment. The new commodore thought that if the Romulans had families structured anything like humans then many fathers and mothers, sons and daughters would not be going back to Romulus when she was through. For Commodore Jocelyn Stiles the war had just begun.

Star Trek: The Long March, Book II of the Romulan War

Departures

Utopia Planitia, Mars, Feb 2157

"Tabernac!" Commodore Pierre 'Grizzly' Oulette cursed. The passageways of the Fearless were practically empty. This had persuaded the big French-Canadian to check his crew roster. Oulette had gotten the news of Leornard Zimmermann's transfer. His former first officer had been selected for command of the new Tannhauser class ship Agincourt.

Oulette had spent several days visiting with Zimmermann and his wife. The commodore had brought Katy along at the behest of his mother. Little had the experienced commander known the whole trip had been an ambush. Felicia Zimmerman had introduced Pierre to an attractive friend of hers who had lost her husband months earlier. His former first officer and supposed friend Oulette groused always seemed to find ways to put Grizzly with Christa Witmer. It had not helped Oulette's strategic position that Christa had been widowed before her and her husband had had a chance to have children. Christa had taken to Katy immediately which resulted in the child always asking Oulette when Chris was going to be there.

Things had changed Oulette mused. The French-Canadian had been caught in a trap every bit as insidious as one laid out by the Birdies. Pierre had happily agreed to start seeing Christa Witmer on his infrequent leaves. If Oulette closed his eyes and thought hard enough he could still smell the tiny brunette's perfume and the feel of her lips on his on the day they had parted. That made Oulette smile. But only briefly as he sat back in his quarters and reviewed the crew roster.

How was the Fearless to ever leave this magnificent new spacedock with only one-third of its former crew? Oulette mentally reviewed the casualties that BuPer had inflicted upon him. Lisa Somers was now a full commander and on her way to a first officer slot. Oulette was not sure which ship. Oulette's engineer and gunnery officer were both reassigned. Lt. David Guerrero was with him still; Oulette thanked god for small miracles. The former enlisted man had accepted the lieutenant's stripes practically kicking and screaming though. Except for the technicians working in the ship the Fearless was a ghost ship. And yet this new combined Star Fleet Command had ordered him out by the end of next week.

Oulette sat down and pulled down his desk top. The commodore started thinking of particularly nasty words to put in a letter. It was too bad; Oulette reflected that the recipient was not to be a French-Canadian. Pierre knew some particular scathing comments from his own language he could insert in the communiqué. But the commodore decided to stick to Standard English. Oulette decided that opening the letter with the salutation 'you bastard' would not be prudent. Pierre started typing away on the keyboard when the PA sounded in his cabin.

"Security to captain," An uncertain sounding voice said. The nervous voice continued after Oulette acknowledged it. "Uh sir, I hate to disturb you. But you really need to come down to airlock two."

"Are new personnel arriving chief?" Oulette recognized the voice as that belonging to the nervous enlisted man who had piped him aboard. Oulette had received a message concerning replacements. But Pierre knew that the first enlisted spacers could not possibly have completed their technical training yet. At the most Oulette expected perhaps one-hundred or so new people. The commodore needed at least three times that many. And it would be a far longer process for the academies to field new officers.

"I," The chief stopped then continued. "I think the commodore should see for himself."

Oulette responded by telling the man that he would be on his way there. Pierre sighed and stood up. It was just as well he thought; that letter he had intended to write would surely have caused him trouble. Oulette stalked out of his quarters and made his way to airlock two.

The airlock opened on to one of the largest spaces aboard the Fearless. Lock two was used primarily to bring in equipment and doubled as a storage area. The staging area the airlock opened into was roughly fifteen meters wide and twenty meters long. But today instead of equipment it was jammed full of personnel. Oulette's mouth dropped open. A woman broke from the gaggle of personnel pressed into the staging area and walked up to the commodore. She presented Oulette with a sheaf of papers and a data wafer. The woman's antennae twitched slightly as she introduced herself.

"Lieutenant Talas of the Imperial Guard sir; I am your new first officer," The blue-skinned woman said. Oulette continued to stare. The woman looked at Oulette's face and must've read the confusion there. "We have been assigned to this vessel as part of the new alliance treaty. My fellow Guardsmen and I were selected because we have all performed as exchange personnel on Stellar Navy vessels." When Oulette still did not respond Talas asked. "Sir is there a problem?"

Oulette was dumbfounded. He had expected a smattering of human replacements. Here he was confronted by a shapely Andorian woman at least as tall as he was. Taller Oulette thought if he were to consider the antennae. The commodore regained his senses enough to peruse the order. Sure enough it was a set of standard Stellar Navy transfer orders. Oulette looked past the woman to see a group of military personnel, mostly Andorians with a few Tellarites and humans among them. The chief who had been manning the airlock looked pained. He also looked as confused as Oulette felt.

"So you," Oulette started haltingly. "So you are familiar with Stellar Navy vessels?"

"Completely sir," Talas responded crisply. "We all speak Standard English as well although a few of my people have some accent problems. But that should clear up soon enough. I am anxious to get started sir. I have reviewed your record against the Romulans. It is most impressive."

Oulette tried to look into the alien's face as she spoke but he could not help but to stare at her antennae as they moved while she spoke. Oulette had been among aliens before but never in a situation serving in close quarters with any of them. Oulette realized that the woman must have realized where Grizzly was staring. Oulette looked down to notice that the woman was endowed similarly to many human women. Oulette turned red and finally gazed at the blue-skinned woman's eyes. That seemed the safest course Grizzly thought.

"Well yes," Oulette started again. "Lt. Talas, this ship was recently upgraded with a matter/antimatter reactor. I am not sure if you are acquainted with the operation of those."

"I have completed matter/antimatter operational theory class at Great Lakes on your world," Talas said. The Andorian continued reciting a litany of training and background. Finally she concluded by saying: "From what I have been briefed the installation was done very quickly. Lt. Shato is your new engineer. He has studied under our Mavik Dis as well as having read the works of your Professor Charles Tucker. We will have much work ahead of us if we are to get the Fearless ready for war again sir."

How could Oulette argue with that he wondered? Forrest had given him a deadline to be spaceworthy again. The admiral had promised people. Forrest had just not said what kind of people they were to be. The earth had needed allies and now here they were. Oulette muttered under his breath in French.

"I agree sir," Talas replied. "Why not indeed? Permission to come aboard? And I forgot to tell you I studied French while I was on earth; although your accent is a little strange."

Pierre was startled by that knowledge. The commodore would have to watch what he said in front of his new first officer. Yes, Oulette thought, he was accepting this. The French-Canadian was curious about one thing however.

"Your people," Oulette began. "They suffered losses too. How is it that you have personnel to help us?"

"Andorians are imbued with a sense of service from birth," Lt. Talas replied. "My family for instance is quite wealthy. But I was told since my early years of our long history of service and citizenship. Our active forces are probably less than yours are now but our reserve forces are far greater. I was working for my family's mining concern when the Shahar called for the Guardsmen. General Shran has ordered that all Andorians who served in exchange programs are to be assigned to human warships."

Oulette would ask command about this. But the orders were authentic. Oulette assumed that fleet command had addressed security concerns. Grizzly had become aware since the attack on earth that the alliance had been sharing technology for some time now. Oulette knew that subspace sensors had come from that sharing but the commodore had only recently discovered that much more had come from the human-alien collaborations. His upgraded Pioneer class Fearless was now capable of warp 3.9. The technicians had also installed polarized plating in several key areas. Oulette became aware that his new first officer was studying him.

"Welcome aboard the Fearless," Oulette said offering his hand in the human gesture. Talas shook his hand as her antennae dipped slightly. Ah the future Grizz thought whimsically.

UESN 150 Daedelus class light cruiser Daedelus, Hangar 51, Ganymede, Jupiter orbit, Feb 2157

The one-hundred and four meter long craft rose out of its cradle. The port warp nacelle glowed from the energetic plasma flowing through it. The starboard nacelle was as of yet not attached. The ship bobbed slightly like a small boat on the surface of a choppy lake. The command section was entirely enclosed except for a small sliver on the port side where a reserve fusion reactor would be installed. The letters NX-150 were emblazoned on the front of the spherical command hull.

"Structural readouts?" Commander Jonathan Archer asked from his position in engineering.

"Ta'haz!" Mavik Dis' voice cursed. The Andorian was in the control station of Hangar 51. "I am showing some structural buckling near the starboard nacelle mount and the command hull transfer tube."

"Power readings?" Captain Michael Cromwell asked from the bridge.

"The mam reactor is at eighty-five percent," Archer replied. "That is power to spare."

"Then why do I feel like a sailor on an old style surface navy ship?" Cromwell asked referring to the ship's oscillations.

"We'll have to do more work with the impulse drive," Archer said. "This is nothing serious captain. We actually anticipated that it would be a lot worse on the first trial." Archer made some adjustments on the impulse engine output. The oscillations gradually decreased to nothing.

"I recommend putting it back down," Dis warned from his post in the station's control room. "The structure around the starboard mount is near to failure."

"Set her back down," Cromwell said quietly. The Daedelus class ship settled back into its cradle.

This first flight though small brought a round of congratulatory hand-shaking among the engineers and technicians. That the revolutionary new ship had actually risen out of its berth this soon was amazing. At the start of the X project Archer had written an estimate down of two years. Dis studied the readouts approvingly.

Cromwell unstrapped from his seat and floated through the corridors of his craft. This first test had been accomplished sans artificial gravity. The Englishman welcomed the return to the womb feel of weightlessness. But at the same time he would be glad to return to weight for the evening meal. But first Cromwell had to meet some of the newly arrived mission team. Michael wondered how he would handle civilians. But he reminded himself of the old axiom: Once the hatch closed the captain was king and the ship was his realm. Cromwell floated to the lock turned in midair and situated his feet on the deck as he made the stomach churning inner ear twisting transition from low gravity to artificial gravity.

Michael tugged down his gold command jersey. The new Daedalus patch had been freshly sewn over the left breast of the jersey. The stellar navy patch adorned his right arm. Cromwell passed several Stellar Navy, Andorian Guardsmen and Tellarite Defense Force personnel wearing the pirated logo of the Andorian Sharhar Rastan in place of their Stellar Navy patch. The stylized patch looked like an ornately drawn letter 'A' with a star in the middle. Cromwell allowed his people this little uniform indiscretion. The captain had learned from his mentor then Captain Buchanan that allowing people a little individuality kept them from going crazy. And Cromwell knew that the uniform craze would go away soon.

Cromwell stopped and reviewed the telemetry Dis had gotten from the test. The captain was not surprised to see that Commander Archer had beaten him to the control room. Michael realized how much this meant to the man. Cromwell was also keenly aware that Archer would've rather been sitting in Cromwell's spot today. But Archer had seemed to accept the loss of command of the Daedalus. In fact Archer seemed quite pleased for the moment.

"Look at this!" Archer exclaimed shoving some papers at Cromwell. "We cut through six months of testing today! There is no reason we can't attach the starboard nacelle tomorrow. We'll move in the aux reactor and tighten up the impulse field generator and we should actually be able to conduct a real flight by next week!"

"Unbelievable how far we have come," Cromwell said while looking at the data; "Any words on Lt. Cmdr. Tucker?" Cromwell knew that Tucker was finishing up work on the new SSWR-II matter/antimatter reactor. He had been told to expect Tucker's arrival back on Hangar 51 soon but the captain knew as many in the military had found out that word often traveled faster through friends,

"I haven't seen Trip since that farmer's service in Georgia," Archer replied. "I'm worried but there is little I can do. At least the charges were dropped against him. It is too bad in a way; even with the grief I could see that Trip and that Stiles woman were attracted to each other. Hell of a way to meet."

"We have all lost something," Cromwell said, subtly turning away to shield his right arm. "I should go and greet the new arrivals Jon, Dis." Cromwell tucked the papers under his arm and stalked off.

Cromwell made his way to the research station's shuttle bay. He stopped briefly at a 'fresher to make sure his hair was in place. The captain knew what a neat appearance meant to new people. Cromwell continued to the bay. The captain nervously pulled at his jersey again. The custom of shaking hands would likely come up. Cromwell shuddered briefly before entering the bay. Three people stood gaping; luggage on the ground before them.

Cromwell surveyed the group: A man and two women. The man was short. At one-hundred and sixty-five centimeters and a curly mop of graying hair the man was calmly looking around taking in his new surroundings. The new arrival was smoking a cigar. Cromwell knew that this was Dr. Omar Bashir, their psychological expert. The tallest of the two new female mission crew members was very tall for a woman. Cromwell guessed that she stood at least as tall as he at one-hundred and eighty-two centimeters. The woman's short black hair was cut very nearly to her scalp. Guessing her age from her appearance Michael surmised that this was Dr. Gertrude Schultheiss. The other woman; Cromwell stopped. Michael guessed that the beautiful curly-haired brunette was no more than one-hundred and sixty-three centimeters tall. For a few seconds Cromwell stood smitten. Then he stopped and reminded himself that he was a mechanical monster. Still he had a duty to perform.

"Welcome aboard all," Cromwell said. He looked at the tiny brunette while pushing thoughts out of his head. "I'm Captain Michael Cromwell. I know you have all been through a little cloak and dagger but you are here now."

The group made introductions all around. Cromwell tried to keep from shaking hands but he faltered under the stern analytical glare of Bashir and Schultheiss. Bashir came to the point immediately.

"So when do we leave?" The psychologist asked as he blew an offensive puff of smoke out. "That is the whole thing no? We are to find out more about the Romulans so that we can better kill them."

"I would remind you sir that they started this war," Cromwell said somewhat bitterly. "I would've been happy to finish my term as an explorer. That is why I joined the navy. Not to fight but to discover new places and things."

"I was out there when those bastards ambushed us," Schultheiss added. "The Beagle was conducting a solar study."

"I'm not opposed to all of this," Bashir said defensibly. "I'm not a closet Sons' of Terra member or one of the anti-war crowd. Critical thinking calls for saying what a thing is. We are here to find out more about our adversaries so that we can compel them to do our will at best—exterminate them at the least."

Cromwell started to nod at the grim assessment when Giselle Picard said: "You make it sound so grand. I wish that I too had chosen the life of the explorer. It sounds so romantic and far-reaching."

Cromwell nodded and shook his head all at the same time. The small French woman was looking at him. Michael was saved from further comment when a security man leading a small contingent walked up to the new arrivals.

"Shall I escort them to their quarters sir?" The man asked dutifully.

"Of course chief," Cromwell said at last. Cromwell bid good day to the new mission crew members. He stood for several seconds in the lightly scented wake of Picard's perfume. The captain shook his head and headed off for the mess hall. It had been a long day.

Centauri, Star Fleet Fighter Group 12, Buchanan's Buccaneer's, Feb 2157

Billy Walters felt uncomfortable in the Stellar Navy jersey. But according to Commodore Frank Buchanan that was going to be the new duty uniform. It made Billy wish that he was in flight training with his marine flight suit and pressure suit on. Walters tugged the sleeves that had the new lieutenant hashes on them down for the forth time since he had arrived at stand up. No one had commented on the stylized delta pattern that Walters had taken up. Ensign Vince Mason looked at Walters from across the auditorium. Lt. Sharon Patelli also caught his eye. Walters could not understand the woman hanging around him. Sure he was an officer now but that would only last until war's end. Sharon was a real officer Billy reasoned. What on earth did she want from an enlisted guy like him he wondered?

Commodore Frank Buchanan strode onto the stage of the borrowed auditorium. Until three months ago the Star Fleet fighter pilot's briefing area had been a high school. The students along with most of their parents had fled to the relative safety of earth. The empty school was now a base for the fighter group. Walters snapped to attention as the director of operations called the wing to attention. Buchanan had the Minotaur pilots seated as soon as he could. The commodore was known not to stand on ceremony.

"Sit down!" Buchanan exclaimed. "Now I know you're tired and thirsty and you want to sleep longer than six hours. That is too damn bad! So do I. But command isn't going to give us time for any nice cushy stays at a hotel!"

A holographic board lit up behind the commodore. It looked like a crystal clear display of stars in a black sky. The only exception was that the states were labeled. The commodore turned to the hologram and pointed out their positions. Then he continued with the mission briefing. The commodore's natural speaking voice carried without the help of electronic amplification:

"We are going on the offensive." Buchanan said simply. A star illuminated.

"Deneva," Lt. William Walters along with several other people said in muted whispers.

"Deneva," Buchanan confirmed then continued. "Command is hoping that a quick strike will give the Birdies something to think about."

"Sir," A pilot from the squadron asked. "How are we going to get enough fighters there?"

"The carrier Yorktown will be here in a week as will the Gorbachev," Buchanan answered. That will allow ten fighters to be dispatched against the Birdies. We already know that the Eightballs," The commodore was using the name that had been applied to the spherical Romulan fighters; "Are no match for the Minotaurs."

"We have carriers already?" Another pilot asked. Her skepticism was apparent.

"The new yard over Utopia Planitia has been cranked up to full," Buchanan explained. "The Gorbachev was already in the works. It is a converted Bison hull; so not a true carrier but it'll get us there."

"Just ten fighters sir?" Walters asked.

"You will be supporting a group of twenty Andorian and five Tellarite warships as well as five ships from our navy." Commodore Buchanan stated. "We know this ain't going to be easy. The Andies have their non-warp fighter so that will bump up our odds. We are guessing that the Birdies have had time to fortify Deneva. Star Fleet Command thinks that it is imperative that we attack now. I support that decision."

"I don't see how we have the ships to hold onto another colony sir," Walters piped up from his position in the audience. "Even with the Andies and Tellars we just don't have the numbers yet."

"I see you've been studying the journals Sluggo," Buchanan replied, meaning the military theory publications that were issued on a periodic basis. Walters had mentioned his old nickname to Mason early on in their acquaintanceship and the moniker had spread to his new squadron. But whereas Walters had greeted it with derision as a young private he now wore it as a badge of honor in commemoration of his old squad mates. "You're right. This is another variety of raid. Command wants us a; to remind the Birdies that we are alive and pissed and b; to probe out to see what the Birdies have left."

"We plan to go in as the navy has done before; by hiding behind the bulk of the planets." Buchanan stopped when he heard a lot of mumbling in the group after his last statement. The commodore turned on the crowd with a sharp eye. "I know it has been done before; but not this time. The navy is going to let them see us making the approach. Spy drones report that the system is littered with radar pickets now; so being spotted won't be a problem."

"You are going to draw them out," Lt. Patelli said.

"You got it Guido!" Buchanan replied using the woman's adopted callsign. Buchanan switched the view over to a representation of the Deneva system. "We come in along this course. We hope the Birdies spot us somewhere along here," Buchanan indicated a point between the sixth planet, Alpina and the fifth planet Beacon. "There pickets are so thick that getting spotted shouldn't present a problem. The Romulans warp out to meet us. That will be the signal for the fighters to warp in from beyond the seventh planet. The Andie fighters will follow."

"I wonder if they are hiding forces on Beacon or Alpina?" Walters spoke up.

"You can bet they are Sluggo," Buchanan replied. "But that is one thing we want to find out. We know that one day we'll have the forces to take Deneva back. We need to know what those forces are going to run in to."

"What about the Andies and Tellars sir," Another pilot asked. "I mean they are our allies and all but we really haven't worked much with them."

"We need to start," Buchanan replied. "The Andie fighter group will stay separate from yours. The Andies have asked to take on the Eightballs; the Navy has agreed. The Minnies will go ship-to-ship against their capital ships. Thanks to Sluggo and Aimless," Aimless had been the name assigned to Mason. "We know a weak spot. The cruisers will hold the flanks."

The stand-up continued for another hour while plan and counter plans were discussed. The members of the squadron were realizing that the fight would not be an easy one. But they had contingency plans for many eventualities. The Stellar Navy marines realized it all hinged on the Birdies not producing anymore surprises.

Mason sought Walters out after the briefing was over. "Here we go again Bill!" The ensign said. "Damn as dismal as this place is I was just getting used to it. Guess it is time to get used to a new bunk again!"

"Just keep that eye sharpened Vince!" Lt. Sharon Patelli said with a smile on her face. "This looks like the last few days on this rock. Are you guys coming to the party tonight?" Patelli had asked both men but she had her eyes on Bill Walters.

"Did Lt.Cmdr. Davis make more of his whiskey?" Mason asked. Lt.Cmdr. Ken Davis had minored in chemistry. The officer had been making whiskey on the sly for much of his career. But Davis was not the best at his distillation hobby. "He might kill more of us than the Birdies!"

"According to what I heard there are warehouses of all sorts of things the colonists left here," Patelli answered. "The fleet purchased it and somewhere in that acquisition was a warehouse just full of premium liquor! So what do you say Bill--Vince?" Patelli added quickly.

"I should go over my ship with the mech--," Walters stopped when he saw Mason roll his eyes from behind Patelli.

"Hey of course we'll be there lieutenant," Mason added quickly.

The lieutenant told the two men the time and headed off. Walters took the opportunity to speak with his copilot in private.

"Damnit Vince I didn't need your help there!" Walters said tersely.

"Oh don't give me that officer enlisted crap Bill!" Mason said with a serious look on his face. "Look at the officer you've become in the past few months. I know you think it'll only be temporary but the navy won't want to let go of someone like you. You and Sharon would look good together. Besides, none of us might be alive next week."

Walters knew that Mason was right: Walters had changed. But nearly starving to death in a fighter craft did that to a person Walters thought. And nearly blowing one's own head off had an affect too. Walters had never told anyone of how close he had come to taking a self-made final solution to his problems after his escape from Deneva. He still had nightmares where he heard the screaming of his squad mates over his headset on that day on Deneva. The worst nightmare was where he would fall into the gory remains of April Martinez. Walters had not woken up screaming; but he had come very close to that.

"You're right Vince," Walters answered cheerily enough. The lieutenant smiled. "I'll go."

No it wasn't an officer enlisted fraternization and Walters for once admitted that to himself. No, the problem was that young William Walters had never really left Deneva that day. His brief leave on earth had left his parents and younger brother and sister wondering why Billy had become so cold and distant. Walters wondered if he ever would leave Deneva.

Ri-Fainu City,Vulcan, Earth year, Feb 2157

Lt. Tarang Gupta could not get used to the openness as he entered his office. The small building was leased by the Pan-Pacific Exporters Corporation. In typical Vulcan fashion there were no locked doors. Gupta entered the relative coolness of the building. The intelligence officer was still catching his breath from his walk to the office. The Stellar Navy had through Pan-Pac made sure that Gupta had a small apartment near this office. Near was less than two kilometers. Gupta didn't mind the walk in the relative twenty-eight degrees C coolness of the morning. But later on when it was time to leave it would be forty-nine perhaps as hot as fifty C.

For the one-hundredth time Gupta wondered why a real intelligence agent hadn't been selected for this mission. So far all the Stellar Navy intelligence officer had managed was to make a three-cornered deal between a Vulcan import consortium and a Denobulan intermediary to have kiwis shipped via Denobulan freighters. So far the Vulcans had maintained relations with that species. Gupta thought that he had a glowing future in business but a rather dim future as a secret agent.

The Indian officer had not seen T'Pol since the L'Streva's arrival over Vulcan. Tarang knew that T'Pol had planned to visit her mother so he supposed that she might still be doing that. The human had finally spoken to his Vulcan friend the day after the attack broadcast. Gupta knew that it was unfair to harbor resentment against all Vulcans because of the actions of a few. And T'Pol had intimated that more than a few Vulcans felt that a neutral position was an illogical position. Gupta looked around suspiciously as he got out the equipment to encode a transmission to Soames. Then the Indian laughed. If he was being watched Gupta reasoned that his inexperience would make him an easy catch. If not his looking around was for nothing.

Tarang wondered what he was to put in the message. 'Made a twenty-percent markup on kiwis; expect that there is going to be an excellent market for Granny Smith apples.' The Stellar Navy officer started keying in a less sarcastic message instead. That was until the office chime announced a visitor. Gupta wondered who that might be. There was no one scheduled until later in the morning when he was to meet another importer. Gupta closed the lid on the little coding device and stowed it the desk. He got up and walked out to the outer room to see a tall young Vulcan waiting expectantly.

"May I help you?" Gupta asked in Vulcan.

"It is a pleasant morning," The Vulcan said in his own tongue. "I am Sreman. We have a mutual acquaintance." The Vulcan had the jet black hair straightly cut and combed that seemed endemic of his race. He stood what taller than Gupta at one-hundred and eighty-eight centimeters.

Gupta's alertness immediately increased. "And who might that be?" The officer asked his Vulcan visitor.

"The weather in San Francisco is quite cool for us," Sreman replied. "Our mutual associate was much more comfortable in Nevada."

"I imagine so," Gupta replied. Damn it he cursed to himself. Why hadn't he chosen to read cheap spy novels rather than Indian history? "Nevada is quite hot." Tarang said still trying to be elusive.

"That is what I have been told" The Vulcan replied. "If you preferred the surroundings there perhaps you should visit the Valley of K'Henga on our world. I have a data wafer here that is quite illustrative of the area." The Vulcan produced a data wafer from a pocket of his travel cloak. "If you want you may borrow it. It is quite compatible with Terran systems."

"Thank you," Gupta said graciously. The officer took the proffered wafer. "Have you seen our associate?"

"No," Sremen replied curtly. "There are interesting ruins in that valley." The Vulcan continued flatly. "It would take many days journey to get there."

"Surely one could get there quicker in an aircar?" Gupta responded.

"Normally that would be true," Sremen replied. "But things are not normal."

"It would be hard for me to be absent for many days," Gupta said. "Although to see some of the sights of your world is quite an intriguing idea."

"I understand that you might need assistance in running your business here?" Sremen said. "I am a chemist but I have always found the dealings involving mercantile exchanges to be quite fascinating. I could offer my humble services for a moderate rate of remuneration."

Why couldn't he just say he would work cheap Gupta thought with a mental chuckle? How the naval officer hated this cloak and dagger dealing. Was this Sremen an associate of T'Pol's? Or was he an officer of the High Command? Tarang had read, and then destroyed, the contents of a data wafer suggesting that the Vulcans had their own security agency. Sremen had mentioned Nevada. But could he have knowledge of Gupta's and T'Pol's dealings gained from covert observation of the couple on earth? Gupta realized that the Vulcan was staring at him with an appraising look.

"You should go to this outdoor café for evening meal," Sremen said handing Gupta a name and address printed on a small piece of paper. "There are directions on the back. I shall return tomorrow. Doubtless the thought behind hiring a new employee is something that requires meditation. I shall return again tomorrow at this time; unless you have other business?"

Gupta had set aside that time to negotiate with a Denobulan freighter captain but the commander of the freighter had actually indicated that he would've preferred meeting later. It should not be hard to change the time.

"That is sufficient," Gupta answered.

"Then until tomorrow," Sremen said as he gave that odd split fingered salutation. "Live long and prosper."

Gupta returned the wish and the gesture. The Vulcan left. Tarang reflected that now he would have something to put in his report. The naval officer thought that it would be wise to find a hiding place for his encoder. He imagined that was what the agent from one of the ancient Ian Fleming novels an uncle of his favored would do. Gupta looked at the piece of paper. He had passed that café during one of his nocturnal explorations of the city.

Would T'Pol be at the café? Would an agent from the High Command be waiting instead? Or was Sremen a Vulcan who knew T'Pol and was indeed what his vacuous conversation had indicated he was; a Vulcan chemist seeking a job in trade? Gupta massaged the bridge of his nose.

The travel cloak billowed out when it was caught by the chill wind coming off of the desert plain. Gupta caught the flaps of the cloak and cinched up the belt around it. The Indian pulled the cloak's hood over his head. Vulcan night could become relatively chilly although the time for that was still far away. In the interim the cloak's hood provided some protection against the wind and the grating sand it carried. Tarang had walked back to his apartment and showered quickly. The naval officer was still getting used to the sonic shower. Despite the knowledge that he was cleaner than he would be from a shower of water Gupta just did not feel as clean.

The night had fallen. The red Vulcan sky turned into a curtain of black. The stars didn't twinkle here as much as they did at home Gupta had noticed. The human made his way through the streets. Gupta was amazed as he was at some places on earth of the mix of the ancient and the new. The street that Gupta had been walking along seemed relatively new. The buildings off on either side exhibited all the marks of modern Vulcan architecture. When Gupta turned a corner toward his destination all of that changed. The street changed from a ribbon of solid road material to one of carefully inlaid blocks. The buildings on either side changed too. Gupta guessed from his study of Vulcan architecture that some of these buildings had been built around the time of the seventh crusade on earth.

The intelligence officer passed others about the business of their lives. Like many other civilizations that had sprung out of deserts much more activity was accomplished during the cooler hours of the night. Gupta could pick up and translate snatches of conversation as he passed some louder Vulcans. His knowledge of the tongue had increased much since his immersion into the Vulcan culture. Gupta's meanderings were interrupted when he smelled some familiar smells; curry.

Gupta strode onto the porch of the eatery. He made out a familiar silhouette. T'Pol sat back in a darkened corner of the café. The naval officer walked over and greeted her using the Vulcan greeting. T'Pol stood and returned the greeting and bid Tarang to be seated. A waiter came out and asked to take their order. Gupta and T'Pol placed their order and the man left.

"I learned of the existence of this place after my return from earth," T'Pol said by way of explanation. "I mentioned to my mother the fondness I had gotten for Indian cuisine while I was on earth and she told me of this establishment."

"Apparently it must be something that other Vulcans prefer to partake in," Tarang said. The word 'like' did not fit into the context of that sentence as it would've in English or Hindi.

"Yes," T'Pol replied simply. She looked as uncomfortable as Gupta felt. The human was careful to not look around. A Vulcan would not do so without reason. Gupta did not want to draw attention too himself. The two made small talk concerning Tarang's acclimation to the Vulcan heat and thin air. Gupta inquired after the health and wellness of T'Pol and her mother. Gupta recalled that T'Pol's father had passed away at a relatively young age for a Vulcan. The owner of the café returned with their dishes.

"I had an interesting visit today," Gupta said between bites of the spicy vegetable curry. Not bad he thought, but the cook could take a few lessons from Harita. "It seems that a man came seeking employment. He suggested that I see more of Vulcan."

"I think that is a good idea," T'Pol replied after swallowing a bite of her food. "I know of whom you speak. He is quite correct about that area. It is very interesting. Several of my companions have suggested that we go there."

"We?" Gupta asked with his mouth full. He quickly swallowed, apologized and continued. "I thought that I would tour your world on my own?"

"This particular attraction is best seen with a guide," T'Pol replied. "There are safety considerations that an off-worlder may be unaware of. I would be," She paused. "Displeased were harm to befall you."

"I see," Gupta replied at last. "It would be illogical to allow me to stray into an unknown danger."

"Exactly," T'Pol replied flatly. A lone Vulcan took a table close to them. T'Pol eyed him briefly. "I know of your new employee. He will be of benefit in your business endeavors. He will have much information for you."

"Then I thank you for introducing us," Though not the truth it wasn't far from it Gupta thought. Tarang became aware that the conversation should now take a much generalized tone. The couple finished their meal quickly. Tarang thanked T'Pol once again for her help. T'Pol said that Gupta should come visit her at her mother's home in two days if his schedule permitted that. Gupta would have to work late to bring some accounts up to date. But he could do it in time to visit T'Pol at her mother's home.

The import agent who had preceded Gupta in his position had not had the thoroughness of a military officer. The woman had left a backlog of work. Gupta had to remind himself that in order to complete this assignment he had in addition to all the covert snooping around to maintain a successfully run business outpost for Pan-Pac. Gupta had harbored many expectations of what a military career was made of. None of those expectations had prepared the Indian for the reality of updating rosters of kumquat shipments.

Andorian freighter convoy enroute to Tellar, Feb 2157

Hecit surveyed the bridge of his ship. The Tan-Sa was old for a battleship but still serviceable. The Tan-Sa had been in service far longer than had the Shahar's Al'Tana. The three-hundred meter long craft was marked by its exposed warp nacelles. The Al'Tana and later classes of Andorian warships were built with their nacelles integrated into the superstructure of the ship. This gave added protection but limited their speed. The ship and two destroyers were escorting three freighters on their slow plodding way to Tellar. The Caldonè had voted to send long range anti-ship missiles to the furballs. Hecit was also looking forward to Tellarite berry cake. The Andorian captain had tasted the dish during an exchange program and had fallen in love with it.

The convoy was halfway through this voyage. Hecit would rather have been fighting the Romulans but then convoy duty did not deny that possibility. They had stopped at the human colony of Wolf for deuterium. The layover had been brief. Hecit liked the pink-skins despite their sometimes unpleasant body odors. The captain of the Tan-Sa would've liked to drink with their new allies but there had been no time.

"Preparing to enter subspace eddy," Hecit's astrogator called out. The pockets of subspace were still relatively new phenomena. Theorists were trying to come up for an explanation for their existence. Some thought that they were tears in the structure of subspace while others held that they were natural protrusions into normal space. What had been discovered is that the cosmic eddies could give ships a free ride; if for no more than two or three light years. Still that was something when deuterium was at a premium.

"Scans clear?" Hecit asked. The Andorian commander knew that the Guardsman operating the sensors would report any anomaly. But duty compelled the ship's commander to ensure the safety of his vessel. The officer reported all clear. Hecit did not expect anything else. The point where the eddy formed was blank to subspace scanners. But no ships should be at that point either. Hecit ordered the group to proceed. They would drop out of warp and catch the entry point of the eddy.

"Drop out of warp then," Hecit ordered. The Andorian made sure that the rest of the ships in the convoy did likewise. Hecit looked at the viewscreen as the stars returned to solid unmoving points in the black of space.

The small convoy formed into a group. The blackness of space looked unchanged but after several minutes the three freighters stretched away into subspace as they contacted the leading edge of the eddy. Their protectors followed suit several seconds later.

"Captain I am reading solid returns at the mouth of the eddy," Lt. Tilza, Hecit's scanner operator reported.

"Battle alert!" Hecit exclaimed. The convoy should be safe in subspace. But it was obvious to Hecit that someone had been laying in wait for them out here. The Andorian did not like this turn of events at all. "Distance to contacts?" Hecit asked.

Subspace eddy between Andor and Tellar, Feb 2157

The four Sabinus class cruisers were accompanied by three Veronus class ships. The green ships were spaced at irregular intervals and up until a few seconds ago were completely dark. Now the warp nacelles of the Romulan cruisers became illuminated as plasma was interjected into them. The vessels turned about on their axis. Missiles were ejected out of the tubes of the warships. Plasma beams followed the missiles and seemingly outdistanced the small darts instantly. The hail of weapons fire was directed to a point in space. Nothing was visible there.

The warp field contracted normal space to allow for faster than light travel. The continuum distortion field was normally a layer of protection against slower than light weapons. But still a ship traveling in warp was not impervious to a collision with a solid object directly in the ship's flightpath. Nor would a ship be impervious to a carefully aimed shot. But that weapon would have to be aimed with the highest precision. The plasma beams reached their targets. The nuclear fireballs of exploding Romulan missiles followed the plasma beam.

Five bright plumes of fire spilled out of subspace as if a solar flare had ejected its blinding matter from nowhere. Three more blooms of nuclear destruction blossomed in the emptiness of space. Pieces of incinerated matter elongated back into normal space. The Romulan group maneuvered until they too were caught up in the eddy. The green ships stretched away into subspace.

Washington DC, Earth Mar 2157

The group sat back in a briefing room of the old United States Whitehouse. Gholamreza Sheibani sat back in is chair. The man had a most unpleasant look on his face mirroring his counterpart from the United States. The third man looked uncomfortable in a business suit; as if he was used to wearing other clothes. The fourth man rocked back and forth nervously in the comfortably padded conference chair.

"I believe we all know one another here," President Todd Allen Glenn started. "President Sheibani, thank you for coming to Washington. It is dreadful this time of year with the cold and rain. Admiral French," Allen said to the portly man in his new suit. "We were all angry to hear of your dismissal by President Thorpe. You have served the people of earth faithfully for almost thirty years now." French nodded nervously. "Mr. Maclaren thank you for taking time from your news exposé to see us."

The Scotsman nodded in return. Just entering his fifties Carson Maclaren had started life as a political science major. He was a short, stoutly built man with a thick head of blonde hair. Not satisfied with political science the Scotsman had turned to journalism. His vidcast political talk show had become quite an attraction to many humans from many nations.

"Let's get right to the point gentleman," Sheibani said. "We are interested in your vidcast Mr. Maclaren. You have caused a lot of positive interest for the Sons' of Terra."

"All of which came to naught," Maclaren answered. "After the aliens intervention over earth a lot of people have changed their minds about that organization."

"But you still believe in the goals of that organization?" Glenn asked the journalist pointedly.

"Of course I do," Maclaren answered. "Humans have always done well for ourselves. These alien influences have led to this disaster. Had we kept to ourselves; built a military capable of defending ourselves then we wouldn't be in this war. Who knows too if the Romulans goals are not directed toward one of the other powers and they see us as just an obstacle?"

"That could be," Sheibani interjected. "In fact that is an excellent point that we can disseminate to our spokespeople. But we feel there is still hope for the Sons' of Terra. True we will have to minimize the anti-alien sentiment—for now."

"And push for an agenda of strength and security," Glenn added. The US president continued. "The bombing of Panama City frightened a great deal of the population. We feel that an agenda pushing absolute security will go a long way."

Herbert French cleared his throat. "This is all very interesting but what does any of it have to do with me?"

"We need someone to speak about Thorpe's war efforts," Glenn said in reply to the former admiral's question. "He forced an experienced officer to retire and appointed a twenty-three year old former lieutenant as a commodore. He replaced you with a man who has a questionable background." French looked vaguely surprised at Allen's assertion.

"We have obtained papers that Cadet Maxwell Forrest wrote," Sheibani added.

"I've read those as well," Maclaren interrupted. "But the thrust of his philosophy had to do with the need for civilian leadership of the military and the military's role in protecting the Constitution. A lot of people believe in those ideas."

"When they have compromised the security of our world?" Glenn asked. "Admiral French here knew of the disappearance of the ships long before this war started. Thorpe ignored the warning signs—isn't that so admiral?"

"Well," French started to say. The portly man sat in thought for several seconds. "Of course I did try to sound a warning."

"Of course you did admiral," Sheibani exclaimed. "It was ignored; the role of the military needs to be looked at again. Our new agenda will call for a stronger navy. We won't talk of aliens—yet. But when we do we'll point out how their help was bought rather than given."

"And you want me to sell that?" Maclaren asked. The man sat back with his fingers interlaced over his slight stomach. The announcer thought for a moment then said, "I suppose had the military been reporting to a security directorate rather than a president who ignored the please of his military then our forces could've been brought to bear sooner."

"I knew that you would see it our way Carson," Glenn said solicitously. "That is one of our goals ultimately. That is a first step towards restoration of internal security again. People have been far to free to do too many things. There may even be Romulan agents among us; if not agents then perhaps collaborators."

"Our thoughts exactly Mr. Maclaren," Sheibani said. The president of the Persian Confederacy turned to Admiral French. "You sir will speak out on behalf of our beleaguered spacers. Tell the masses how this could have been avoided how many of our brave young men and women are dying needlessly. But you must be careful—we all must. We must show some support for the war effort with the ultimate goal being an end to that war so that we may deal with the internal problems of earth."

"It's decided then?" Glenn asked expectantly as he surveyed the people in the meeting. There were nods all around. "Good!" Glenn exclaimed with a grin. "Admiral my press secretary will set you up on a speaking tour. He'll also sit down with you to write your memoirs; or rather help you to do that."

"I'll start inviting the right people for debates and such," Maclaren said. "It'll take quite a job of convincing to turn people away from alien influences but it can be done."

"Of course!" Sheibani exclaimed gleefully. "The people follow the words of their betters. That is how it always has been and always should be. We must purge our world of those who are different so that we may once again be happy."

T'Z'Pai Province, Vulcan, Feb 2157

Lt. Tarang Gupta was growing used to the Vulcan heat. The intelligence officer missed the accompanying humidity of his native India though. Vulcan air the officer mused was much like the blast one felt after they had opened the door of a hot oven. This was a good time to wake up too Gupta had learned. It was early. The lieutenant called the time 'O' dark-thirty. But T'Pol had said they had to prepare the morning meal. Gupta had read of that custom; it pertained to visitors in one's home. But actually getting up hours before sun up was a different thing. Gupta hastily threw his shirt over his bare chest as the door to the guest room opened up. The officer was glad that he had worn pajama pants to bed.

Light shined into the guest room of the house of T'Pol's mother T'Les. Gupta had arrived in the company of T'Pol early last night. The introductions had gone sourly Gupta felt. Tarang knew that Vulcan's restrained their emotions but the naval officer had felt the harsh scrutiny of T'Pol's mother. Of course he conjectured in an anthropomorphic fashion that any man T'Pol brought home would bare her mother's scrutiny. It would be that way on earth anyway.

"You are not up," T'Pol stated flatly. "I thought that you understood that you were required to rise at this time? Did I fail to explain that adequately to you?"

"No, no sorry," Gupta said in English then halted and spoke slowly in Vulcan. "Morning comes early. I have never been one to wake easily."

"Vulcans do not need external aids to awake," T'Pol said. "We have disciplined our minds and bodies to wake and become alert almost immediately."

Great for the Vulcans Tarang mused. That made him an undisciplined human Gupta supposed. Well so be it he thought. The lieutenant then said: "If you'll excuse me while I dress?"

"Very well," T'Pol replied graciously and unemotionally all at the same time. "You know where the kitchen is?" With that the alien woman left as Gupta changed into a casual shirt and pants. He met T'Pol in her mother's kitchen minutes later.

He was about to ask how he should start when T'Pol put some green husks down on a counter in front of him. The Vulcan indicated that Gupta should tear the skin off of the vegetables and clean them. Gupta did as he was told. Moments late he asked about the purpose of the visit.

"We can speak here," T'Pol said. "Things have changed since the embassy closed on earth. Some of the Syrranites have gone missing. There are investigators inquiring as to their whereabouts. There is also a suspicion of off-worlders that is unlike any previously known. Even Soval fears that covert surveillance is bring carried out against him."

Gupta's surprise was apparent on the human's face. T'Pol nodded in a very human way then continued:

"Yes, I see that you understand. For one Vulcan to intrude into the privacy of another is very serious indeed. There are no laws covering such intrusions as there have been none needed: Intrusion such as that is taboo in our culture."

"Then why are they doing it?" Gupta asked quietly as he glanced about. The officer was sure that he had heard a sound.

"I can sense when my mother is awake," T'Pol said. She continued. "We do not understand the reason for the surveillance or the persecution of the Syrranites. Certainly they have a point of view but that view is rooted in the ancient teachings of Surak. They are peaceful."

"Sremem mentioned the Valley of K'Henga," Gupta said. T'Pol explained that the vegetables would need to be chopped finely in preparation for cooking. Gupta's stomach took an unpleasant turn when he realized he was making Plomeek soup. The reaction must've shown.

"Do not be concerned Tarang," T'Pol said in that unemotional voice. "I shall use our family recipe. You will find it adequate." Gupta was a little taken aback at T'Pol's use of his first name. That too must have been evident. "It would not be," She hesitated briefly then continued: "Safe to refer to you by your title. And since you are a guest here it would be hard to explain to my mother if I referred to you as 'Mr. Gupta'."

"I see," Was all that Tarang said in reply. The Indian mixed the chopped vegetables in a boiling pot to which T'Pol had added spices of some sort. Gupta found the smell enticing.

"Soval is interested in what is going on in that valley," T'Pol said. Despite her assurances concerning her mother's sleep state the Vulcan woman looked around suspiciously before continuing. "He had at first suggested that you could go there on your own. It should take about two weeks to get there on foot. The High Command has sealed the area to aircars."

"What about my business?" Gupta asked. The intelligence officer was actually getting to enjoy the export business. It challenged him in ways that his assignment as an intelligence officer had not.

"We first have to guess what the High Command is concealing there," T'Pol answered. "I will provide you with data wafers for you to study what is publicly known of the excavation. In that time you can train Sremen to act as your trusted employee in your stead."

"What is there?" Gupta asked somewhat exasperated at the spy game.

"Archeologists were seeking the ancient tablets of Surak," T'Pol explained. "The Ka'Al' Zin; an analogy would be of a human holy text that predated the Qur'an or the Christian writings contained in the Bible. The Ka'Al' Zin is said to be a diary of Surak's early life."

"And your," Gupta exasperated finally spoke in English: "Your friends on the inside are making a connection between that and the Romulans?"

"Apparently so," T'Pol said. "We Vulcans have been in space a lot longer than your people have. Perhaps we encountered the Romulans in the past. That is conjecture but it is one possible answer. The site was cleared and put under military control before the appearance of the Romulans. But our friends on the inside as you call them reason that there is a connection. Soval was told that knowledge of what could be contained in the site could not be revealed in light of the Romulan incursion."

"I am not an agent," Gupta said in Vulcan. "And I am not an archeologist."

"We have no one else to go," T'Pol replied simply: "Learn."

"Where were these tablets supposed to be?" Gupta asked.

"Their location has never been revealed," T'Pol answered. "All that was passed down through the ages was a phrase: Where one goes for contemplation."

Gupta was about to inquire further when T'Pol motioned that he should be quiet. T'Les padded into her kitchen. The older Vulcan woman cast a suspicious glance at her daughter and Gupta. Tarang felt his face grow flush and quickly turned to get bowls out of a cupboard. Despite the conspirators covert conversation they had been doing nothing else untoward. Yet Gupta felt as if he had been caught with his hands on illicit parts of T'Pol's anatomy.

"Good day mother," T'Pol said flatly.

"What were you two discussing?" T'Les asked pointedly.

"Your daughter was telling me some of her childhood," Gupta lied quickly. The intelligence officer knew that T'Pol was ethically bound not to lie. "We were discussing a trip into the city so that she might show me some of the sites." It was not entirely a lie Tarang thought. T'Pol had mentioned showing him her home and taking him on a brief tour of the province.

"I do not know why you brought a man to this home anyway," T'Les said to T'Pol ignoring the Indian. "You are betrothed to another. And a human male at that; I was right to oppose your leaving. You were always willful and that only got worse after your father's death. You are almost seventy and yet you act as if you are in your twenties."

"Mother this is not the time or place," T'Pol began when her mother interrupted with:

"It was never the time or place," T'Les said. Although Tarang knew it was an argument it sounded as if two terran professors were discussing a particularly vexing mathematics problem. "You were always one to seek something different and exotic." At that T'Les looked at Gupta. "You do not know the ways of our people off-worlder."

"Since when has that way included involving guests in family matters?" T'Pol asked curtly. T'Les seemed to relent. The older Vulcan looked at Gupta.

"My apologies," T'Les said. "This is an old conflict. It is so on your world as well?"

"It is ma'am," Gupta replied. The navy officer could remember some fierce family arguments. His father and uncle had not spoken in over a decade after one such argument. A wave of homesickness washed over the Indian at the thought of his family. But he quickly returned to the here and now. Gupta ladled out the pungent smelling soup into the bowls and followed T'Pol and her mother to the dining area.


	7. Chapter 7

San Francisco, California, Earth, Mar 2157

"Captain Soames," President Thorpe said in greeting to the naval intelligence officer. Soames took the president's hand and after exchanging some pleasantries sat down opposite the leader.

"How is our project going?" Thorpe asked.

"The team is assembled," Soames replied. "We have cover stories for the team members during their absence. You know more than me about the status of their transportation."

"Yes," Thorpe replied happily. "That should be ready at the end of the month."

"How long will this little fishing expedition take sir?" Soames asked Thorpe.

"At least six months there and back," Thorpe answered. "How long they will be there is anyone's guess. Hopefully they can collect enough useful information on the Romulans in a short period of time."

"In the meantime we are starting the first in a series of offensive attacks," Soames stated. "You know about Deneva. We hope to get an idea of how many ships the Birdies have there as well as to hurt them." Erica paused and then continued. "We are starting to receive reports of more disappearances; mostly from single ships and convoys so far. This suggests a new Birdie weapon or tactic—or both."

"Things have been hanging by a thread for a long time," Thorpe answered. "I suppose we couldn't expect the Romulans not to come up with some nasty tricks. I just hope that our tricks turn out to be nastier."

"I must say that I was surprised by the introduction of new ships this soon," Soames said. "We were told at least six months."

"Micah Brack has proven to be a magician when it comes to motivating people," Thorpe replied. "He sat down with Forrest and found out what the admiral needed—now. The Yorktown was finished over two months ahead of schedule. The other carriers will roll out on schedule. Some of our ships from the outer squadrons underwent mam conversion in three weeks. Simply put we needed those ships out there."

"I see sir," Soames replied. "I'm glad it happened that way don't get me wrong. It just seems like a lot of official corners were cut." Soames knew that it was not her place as a military officer to advise the president on political matters. But the captain could listen to the news as well as others.

"My political fortune is my own captain," Thorpe said forcefully. The president took a deep breath and continued in a kindly tone then. "I'm sorry for biting your head off captain. That was uncalled for. I know that Glenn and Sheibani are nipping at my heels." Thorpe laughed bitterly. "Stupid fools, the future of our race is at stake and they act like this is a college debate. History will judge what I've done."

"History has treated some great leaders harshly sir," Soames said sympathetically. "Why don't you expose the truth about the missiles buried in the American Prairie and the Iranian Peninsula? I know they didn't turn them over to the United Earth government out of the kindness of their hearts."

"All that would accomplish captain," Thorpe said sadly; "Is to reopen old wounds. We have barely started coming together as a race. The missiles were unearthed; but let's leave the hatred that put them there buried."

"Whatever will be as the old saying goes," Thorpe continued wistfully. "Have we heard from our secret agent?" This last Thorpe asked with a grin on his face. Soames had told the president of her officer's reluctance to accept the role of spy.

"I don't know how fruitful sending Tara there will be sir," Soames answered quietly. When Thorpe asked her to explain the intelligence officer plunged ahead reluctantly. "His last message said that he was going to try to infiltrate an archeological dig that had been closed off by the Pointies' High Command. Somehow I just don't understand why he is doing that. I thought his purpose there was to act as a go between from whatever friends we have in the Vulcan government and us. Now he is being drawn into some senseless fiasco from what I see. How a Vulcan archeological dig can aid us against the Birdies escapes me."

"I see your point captain," Thorpe answered. "But the Vulcans asked for him. There was some sense that he would be free to move about on their world. I'm not sure I even understood it. But I accepted it; if we could somehow get the Vulcans to come over to our side that would aid our cause immensely. Let's see how all of that plays out."

"Very well sir," Soames replied.

"Things are looking up!" Thorpe exclaimed with a forced grin. "Grant me my optimism captain. The new ships will soon be launched. The Andorians have helped with the manpower shortage. The Tellarites have as well; they just don't have the reserves that the Andorians have."

"About that sir," Soames interjected. "I'm being beaten about the head and shoulders by our skippers over their new crewmembers."

"I'm not surprised," Thorpe answered. "Tell them that they can rest easy. This alliance won't last the year if we fall back on our old habit of hiding things from our friends."

"Speaking of time and the alliance sir," The intelligence officer hesitated then plunged ahead. "I know it is premature at this stage but what is the long-term plan? I mean there is an expectation held by many that we need to go all the way to Romulus. What if the Birdies offer some sort of negotiated deal or settlement?"

Thorpe stood up, walked to the window and looked out into the clear California sky. The sun lit the Golden Gate Bridge turning the bay and bridge into a sparkling kaleidoscope of color. The president clasped his hands behind his back then said quietly: "I've laid awake many nights wondering about the answer to that very question. I know the people are calling for blood and part of me wants that too." Thorpe turned back to face the seated captain. "But we have to be very careful here Erica. We can ill afford another Eastern Coalition or fascist Germany."

"What if the Birdies leave us no other choice except total victory?" Soames asked quietly.

"I fear that option the most," Thorpe replied. "If this new alliance is to last it can only be as an enlightened democracy where its citizen's freedom are put before government interests." Thorpe sighed. "I fear that if we become an occupying power then we'll go the way of the old European states or old America. I said history will judge me captain but I hope to God that it does not label me as the founder of a galactic empire."

Savannah, Georgia, Earth Mar 2157

The dog looked up expectantly as Trip Tucker stomped into the back of the farm house. The Stellar Navy officer was in his stocking feet as his boots had collected some of the refuse from cleaning the Stiles' barn. Sparks surveyed Trip wearily then whimpered slightly and curled up on a rug by the stove. Tucker suspected that the dog was missing Henry Aaron Stiles. Tucker wondered what the man had been like and wished that he could have met him. Trip wished that his sister had not been killed too.

Command had granted extended leave to those who had lost people in Florida. Tucker had formed a friendship with Commodore Jocelyn Stiles. Both of the naval officers had lost people in the Romulan attack. So it was that Trip had found himself bouncing between his parents' temporary abode in Biloxi and the Stiles' farm in Georgia. Tucker felt better around the woman for some reason. He was starting to warm up to her as far as was possible but had discovered that Jo-jo had become distant. Tucker had decided that he had misjudged things and decided to move on when Kendra Stiles had called him asking for his help with farm chores. The lieutenant commander had been more than happy to do that. Trip's own parents had become sullen and withdrawn after the death of their daughter.

"Thanks for coming down and doing those jobs for me," Kendra Stiles said as she walked into the kitchen. "With the war and all it is hard to find help. The community pitched in where they could but I understand that they have lives and farms too."

"You're welcome ma'am," Tucker replied. Trip tried to help as the woman laid out lunch but Kendra Stiles shook off the man's help: Fried chicken, some of the leftover beans grown from the Stiles' fields in a tangy barbecue sauce and salad. There was cold lemonade and hot coffee to drink. Tucker sat down at last. Stiles sat opposite the man but only picked at her food.

"I was hoping that Jo-jo would come back before she ships out," Kendra Stiles said at last. "I was hopin' that you two could get back together."

"I get the feeling that she isn't interested in me that way ma'am," Tucker replied after swallowing a bite of chicken. "I guess with everything that happened maybe everyone was reachin' out to someone."

"There is that," The older woman answered. "But look here Trip: I know my girl. Sure everyone was hurt after," Kendra Stiles' voice trailed off but she continued after a brief pause. "But I could see her eyes light up when you would come down. I've seen that look before. But it isn't only that." The woman looked with unwavering eyes at Trip.

"She's changed," Stiles began. "She has her dad in her and Henry got that same look of determination when he set his mind to somethin'. Jo-jo gets that look too but this time there was something more." When Tucker asked what that might be the woman sighed and continued. "Don't you think I hate those Birdie bastards for what they did? Of course I do. Sometimes I wish we could go there and kill every goddamned one of them." Tucker looked at the woman in amazement. He knew that she was not one to curse. Jo-jo had told him that. "But we cain't," Kendra said. "And I don't want to spend the rest of my life holding on to hate."

Stiles reached out and took Trip's hand tightly in hers. "She said she is on Mars checkin' out her ship. She couldn't say when she was leavin' but I think it is soon. Go there Trip. Go see her. Remind her that there are things in life worth livin' for. One day all this is gonna be over. She needs—you both need something to come home to."

Tucker had a difficult time looking at the woman. How could he say no he wondered? He realized that he could not. Tucker had felt a lift in his spirits when the woman had referred to Jocelyn's eyes lighting up. Trip was not sure if there was anything genuine there or not. But now he realized that he had to find out one way or another.

"I'll go ma'am," Tucker said at last. He would have to make the time. The navy had been generous with the leave but Trip was scheduled out in twenty days. Tucker had initially received orders to return to Ganymede. Tucker had had a heated secure subspace radio conversation with Jonathan Archer when Trip had requested instead to be assigned to one of the new warships. So it was that Tucker was to report to the newly completed Tannhauser class Trafalgar as chief engineer.

Stiles nodded her thanks then continued in a sharper tone. "And the same goes for you young man. You have to ask yourself: Would your sister want you livin' your life full of hate and grief?" She looked sharply at Tucker as the man slowly shook his head. "Good!" Stiles exclaimed.

"I gotta admit though ma'am," Tucker said sheepishly. "I feel a little bad running off and leaving you with all this work."

"Henry junior is around," Kendra Stiles replied. "He is in West Virginia visiting his fiancée. He can finish up a lot of the work. Planting will be soon. I'm hopin' I can hire some of the young boys too young for the war but with strong backs." The woman released Trip's hand. The two finished their meal.

UES Fearless, Utopia Planitia, Mars, Mar 2157

Lt. Cmdr. Jeffrey Sutton made the transition from the yard turbo-tube to the airlock of the Fearless. The new operations officer knew that the Pioneer class cruiser's departure had been delayed several days while final checks were made on the new mam reactor. The ship's formerly inbound third in command was still being treated for decompression sickness received when his ship had been hulled in the Romulan attack on earth. Sutton's name had come up as a last minute replacement. At thirty-three the one-hundred and eighty centimeter tall lieutenant commander was an imposing figure. Sutton had wrestled in high school and college and still maintained that compact muscular physique. His head of brown hair was cut short but not as severely so as was the fashion in the navy these days.

Last minute decisions, Sutton thought had been the story of his life so far. Sutton had grown up in a family of lawyers. It was expected that young Jeffrey would go to Emily Dickinson to pursue his legal degree when, at the last minute the St. Petersburg native had received an invitation from Florida State University to study physics. Jeff considered his choices: Freezing in a cold Pennsylvania town or languishing in the Florida sun as a FSU Seminole. Sutton had always liked the sun. Sutton had left for Tallahassee after a fierce argument with his parents and older brother. Jeff graduated five years later with a degree in physics and a minor in mechanical engineering. Sutton then had lined up a lucrative position with MIG-Bell when at the last minute a boyhood friend had asked Sutton to go with him to the Stellar Navy recruiting center in Miami. At the last minute Sutton had turned down MIG-Bell to instead wear a US Air Force uniform as part of the Stellar Navy. Sutton had enjoyed his time as an airman aboard the old Bozeman. That ship was no more Sutton thought remorsefully. Sutton had intended to complete his tour and get on with his life when; at the last minute Capt. Negombo had convinced Sutton that he had a glowing career as a naval officer. Sutton had debarked at earth not to muster out of the Air force but rather to report to Officer Candidate School at the new Star Fleet Academy in San Francisco.

That had been ten years ago Jeff mused as he was greeted by a stern looking Tellarite. Sutton had been briefed about the alien help the navy was receiving. But this was his first direct experience with it. Sutton noted that though the Tellarite wore the shiny one-piece uniform of his military a rank badge on his chest showed that his rank was equivalent to a petty officer third class.

"Are you supposed to be on my ship?" The Tellarite asked belligerently. Sutton presented a data wafer to the Tellarite. The lieutenant commander knew that greeting passed for respect among the Tellarites. The security chief inserted the wafer into a reader. The Tellarite looked at the reader's screen then back at Sutton. "Okay I guess you are supposed to be here. The first officer will expect you to check in. You don't have all day!"

Sutton nodded and thanked the security chief. Sutton knew the layout of Pioneer class ships. His last assignment had been as gunnery officer aboard the now destroyed Victory. The tragic death of Sutton's parents last year in a groundcar accident had ensured that Sutton did not ship out on what had been the last cruise of the Victory. Sutton had been given a stint as an instructor at Star Fleet Academy while he was being counseled over the passing of his parents. Sutton made his way through the passageways of the Fearless. Despite the gruff chief's advice Jeff stopped by engineering to see 'it'.

It was the new matter/anti-matter reactor. Sutton looked with some trepidation at the twenty meter long chamber running most of the length of engineering. The rational part of Sutton's mind knew that fusion reactors were powerful and could be dangerous if starved of coolant. But this beast Jeff thought with some trepidation; just twenty-eight grams of the power source for this monster could propel the bulk of a Pioneer cruiser out of the system and a third of the way to Alpha Centauri. An Andorian wearing a Stellar Navy jersey with black pants and boots greeted him. The rank stripes indicated that the Andorian was a lieutenant commander.

"You must be the new ops officer," The Andorian said in greeting. "I am Lt. Cmdr. Shato." The Andorian noticing Sutton's stare continued in explanation. "We were told that we could wear our Guardsmen uniforms or Stellar Navy uniforms. I had too many questions about my Imperial Guard uniform so I thought this would be easier for the pink—I mean humans."

"Pink-skin is fine with me," Sutton responded. "But I prefer to think of myself as tanned and ruddy." Sutton motioned to the Fearless's new reactor. "I did a thesis on matter/anti-matter. But I'll tell you it is a lot different seeing it up close and personal like this."

"We have had problems with the matrix and the magnetic insulators," The engineer said, clearly agitated about the situation. "We were supposed to push out last week. But we are ready now. We should be underway by this evening." The alien noticed Sutton's Star Fleet Command patch. "You are sort of old for a human graduate of that academy?"

"I was an instructor there up until two weeks ago," Sutton said quietly. When the alien nodded his understanding Jeff started to ask more about the ship's new power source when an Andorian woman approached the men.

"Good day Lt. Talas," Shato said bowing his head and antennae slightly in the woman's presence. The woman returned the greeting then turned to Sutton.

"You were supposed to report to the first officer were you not?" Talas asked sharply. Sutton noticed that Talas wore a rank badge like the Andorian security chief had worn. The badge showed that she was a commander. Sutton assumed that this was the Fearless' first officer.

"Yes sir," Sutton answered he was about to continue when Talas interjected:

"In case you haven't noticed I am not a man. I know that is a regulation in your navy but with Captain Oulette's consent I prefer either commander or ma'am. Is that understood?"

Sutton had indeed noticed that Talas was not a man. The lieutenant commander had been jumped by superior NCOs and officers before. So he was no stranger to adversity. Rather it was the alien's exotic beauty that held him spellbound for more than a few seconds. Finally Sutton realized that he should reply.

"That is understood commander—fully," The operations officer responded. "I was a technician when I first joined the Air Force and I majored in physics in college. So I was curious about the new mam reactors. I've read about them of course but this is my first experience with one."

"Then I suppose that it is okay then," Talas answered. "Your background in engineering and weapons is one of the reasons why Captain Oulette requested you. The captain likes for his officers to be skilled in all phases of ship's operations." The first officer was silent for a second then she added: "It is fortunate in a way that you stopped here. It gives you a chance to meet your new roommate." The Andorian woman motioned towards Shato. "You will start your first duty tour tomorrow; until then welcome aboard." Talas turned and stalked out of engineering.

"I should warn you that our first officer can be very direct," Shato said to an opened mouth Sutton. When the Andorian noticed Sutton's following glance of the first officer he added coyly. "I wouldn't think of her that way pink-skin."

"Why because I'm a pink-skin and she is Andorian?" Sutton asked in reply.

Shato laughed then said with a very human grin: "You humans say something." The Andorian was lost in though for a few seconds then finally said: "Grabbing a leopard by the tail. I'd warn you even if you were one of us."

"It's a tiger," Sutton corrected smiling. "Okay I see your point. Where are we anyway?" Sutton asked referring to their mutual quarters. When Shato told him the number to their quarters the lieutenant commander excused himself and made his way there.

Besides the monster in the engineering spaces the Pioneer class cruiser was laid out much the same as the Victory had been. That brought old memories of Jeff's friends back. They were all dead now. Killed in what had been some of the opening shots of the war. Sutton soon arrived at his quarters. The lieutenant commander punched in the code that Shato had given him. The door slid open.

Jeff would definitely have to talk about the room temperature with Shato. Jeff shivered and exhaled a visible stream of air as he entered the small common area. Sutton was glad that the sleeping cubicles had separate temperature controls. Jeff deposited his duffel bag in his area and started the chore of unpacking for his new home.

Hangar 51, Ganymede, Jupiter orbit, Mar 2157

Captain Michael 'Oliver' Cromwell hated this part. The soft-spoken native of the British Isles despised public speaking. Knowing the psychological reasons why that were so and all the methods one could use to overcome that fear did not help. Like a swimmer bracing for a dive into icy water knowing that the water was frigid did not lessen the actual feeling. The group of officers, enlisted people and civilian mission specialists were assembled in the shuttle bay of the Daedelus. Cromwell would've preferred to be addressing them from the same level. Instead he was standing on one of the maintenance platforms over top of the Daedelus' four shuttles. It added to Cromwell's distress that he knew that his image was being projected to those on duty aboard the Daedelus class cruiser.

Cromwell surveyed the crowd. The new mission specialists were there as well as the final members of the crew to have arrived. Cromwell spied the Picard woman again. To Cromwell when he looked at her it was like a thirsty man seeing an oasis in the desert. But the captain realized that he had to stifle those thoughts. Omar Bashir was off by himself as he had lit one of his large foul smelling cigars. Gertrude Schultheiss towered over most of those standing around her. The Daedelus' chief medical officer had her arms crossed over her chest. Cromwell's first officer Cmdr. Lisa Somers was looking intently at the crowd. The captain could tell that his XO was trying to get a measure of this new crew. The buffed up blonde was all business as far as Cromwell could determine. He liked that in his first officer. Houk his Tellarite operations officer was busy chatting away with the Daedelus' gunnery officer Lt. Masato Nakamura. Then there was the latest arrival: Lt. Alvin Crosby. Cromwell still did not know what to make of the naval intelligence officer. The man had struck him as friendly on the surface but there was something there that Cromwell could not lay his hands upon. But he could sense it. Crosby had training as a gunnery officer so Cromwell had assigned the intelligence officer on as a relief gunnery officer. It was time to take the plunge Cromwell realized.

"Good day," Cromwell began simply. "This is the final brief before we get underway. You have all received bits and pieces of information. I am going to fill in the parts that you probably don't know and have been guessing at. If you are here then you realize that even if you back out in the next two days you will be held here—in protective custody for at least three and for possibly six months. We are indeed going on a covert scouting mission to find out what we can about the Romulans. This ship unlike our other ships has an unparalleled range. I had handouts made for those who wanted to see," The captain said referring to small charts that showed a star map. Several in the crowd had the charts. Those who didn't looked on anxiously to their neighbors who did. "We are going to proceed north along the galactic plane. Once we have cleared charted space we will proceed at a Z-plus cruise—over the galactic plane. We can only guess at the extent of the Birdies empire. Robot drones have found little but in some cases where they were destroyed by Romulan ships we have used that as a baseline in constructing their border."

"It is hoped," Cromwell continued. The initial nervousness was gone. This was his ship, his crew. "It is hoped that the Birdies are not watching the farther reaches of their empire. We intend to sneak in there. We will of course be monitoring the electromagnetic spectrum as well as searching different systems for clues."

The captain grabbed the platform's handrail in both hands and leaned forward some. He had almost forgotten that one of those hands felt nothing; almost but not quite. "I must tell you that despite our recent victory things are still bad. How many ships and troops do the Romulans have? Was the attack on earth just a probing move? What are the Romulans goals? Are they conquerors or genocidal maniacs? Star Fleet Command needs answers to those questions. The old Chinese general once said: Know your enemy and know yourself. We know ourselves. We know nothing of the Birdies and that makes them all the more dangerous."

"See me after the brief for questions; if any," Cromwell added. "We leave in forty-eight hours. Now is the time to send messages to your loved ones. A reminder though that our Lt. Crosby will be censoring those messages. I'm sorry but you were aware of that when you chose to come on this mission. The station has limited recreational facilities for those who want to indulge. We are going to be together for at least six months; perhaps longer. So I suggest that as small as Hangar 51 is make use of the space. We will soon be living in closed quarters with one another."

Cromwell dismissed the crowd and proceeded down a metal stairway to the hangar floor. He didn't get far when Lt. Alvin Crosby confronted him. The man wanted to talk to Cromwell but didn't seem to know how to start. Michael asked the intelligence officer if there was a problem.

"Sir," Crosby began. "Uh me and Miss Picard are engaged. I was hoping that we could share quarters on this voyage?"

Cromwell could feel a small stab at the discovery of that fact. He mentally dismissed the stab; it was silly anyway for a man with his handicap and age to be thinking of such things. The captain turned to mentally review the possibilities of the cohabitation. Why in the hell had command sent an engaged couple on this mission Michael wondered? Well too late for recriminations now Cromwell thought. On the surface Cromwell saw nothing wrong with the change in sleeping quarters. Men and women had been sneaking into each other's quarters since the inception of a two gender military.

"That seems fine lieutenant," Cromwell answered. "But I am not a concierge. I suggest that you see Lt. Cmdr. Houk for a change of quarters." Cromwell saw that Crosby was about to protest then seemed to think better of it.

"Very well sir," The intelligence officer replied then turned and walked away. Commander Lisa Somers passed Crosby as the lieutenant was heading away. Cromwell noted the weary eye that his number one cast upon Crosby.

"I caught the tail end of that sir," Somers said. She continued: "About that; it appears that Crosby already asked Houk. It all seemed fine then the Picard woman said that she is happy where she is at."

"Where is Miss Picard staying anyway?" Cromwell asked.

"She is in with Dr. Schultheiss," Somers replied. "I just hope we haven't taken some personal problems aboard that needed to be resolved on earth."

"I concur," Cromwell said. The captain considered the problem for a moment. "Tell Mr. Crosby that the answer is no. Tell him on second thought that for crew morale reasons or some such I decided against it. I'll speak to him if you wish."

"No sir," Somers replied. "I'll do that." Gertrude Schultheiss took that moment to join the captain and first officer.

"What do you think of an engaged couple living together doctor?" Cromwell asked the tall woman.

"I know of whom you speak," Schultheiss said. The doctor wrinkled her face in consternation. "I advise against it. Mariel has been avoiding the lieutenant ever since he arrived here. It could be just a lovers' quarrel but that sort of distraction is not needed on a starship." Schultheiss looked at Somers nervously. An unspoken message seemed to pass between the two women. Somers excused herself.

"I wanted to speak to you of Crosby anyway," The doctor said. She looked around to see that the bay was relatively clear of people before she continued. "I reviewed Herr Crosby's medical record. He has recently been counseled for anger problems at the behest of his commanding officer in intelligence. The physician cleared him for service. It could be nothing of course but I think that the captain should be aware of it. By the way I prefer Trudy."

"Very well doc—Trudy," Cromwell said with a smile. When Cromwell saw that the doctor was not through, he inquired if there was anything further from her.

"You have been counseled yourself," Schultheiss said glancing at the captain's right arm. "And I will need to see you to ensure that infection is not setting in between the prosthesis and the cells in your shoulder. I am surprised that you did not complete the micro-fusion treatments."

"I wanted to get on with my life," Cromwell answered hastily. The captain knew that he had stopped receiving the surgical treatment that would connect his living nerves to those of the electronic sensors contained in his prosthetic arm. The treatments allowed amputees sensory input much as they had known from their lost limbs. The truth was that Michael saw himself as a freak every time he had to remove his shirt for an examination.

"Of course sir," Schultheiss answered. The German woman gave her captain a coolly appraising look. "But you still need to be examined for possible infections. True it is an extremely small number as to be negligible but still it must be done."

Cromwell set up a time for the examination before the scheduled departure of Daedelus. He knew that he would have his hands full once they were underway. Cromwell had shipped out one to many times to know of the growing pains that new crews suffered. Michael made small talk with the German doctor despite a feeling that she was looking into his soul a little too much. Cromwell knew that in addition to her medical degree Schultheiss was also held degrees in psychiatry. That was one of the reasons for her selection. Cromwell bid the doctor goodbye as Commander Jonathan Archer stepped into the bay.

"You bring my ship back in one piece," Archer said without preamble. The commander grinned widely. "You know on second thought this won't be so bad. You're getting the prototype. This'll be the ship with all the bugs. When I get my Daedelus class ship it will have been put through the wringer." Archer suddenly grew serious. "We have done everything we can Olly. If anyone can pull this mission off in this ship it'll be you."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," Cromwell answered. "We shall see what the months bring."

"Anyway I wanted to hand you this," Archer said giving the captain of the Daedelus a piece of paper. "It just came over the comm traffic."

Cromwell read the short paragraph. "Bugger me!" He declared. "I guess this means full dress uniforms!"

"You sir," Archer replied grinning: "Are getting a presidential sendoff. I'm sure if this thing wasn't so damn secret that you would be on everyone's holographic tank!"

"I suppose I should have expected something like this," Cromwell said. "I better go to my quarters and see if the bloody thing fits!" Cromwell had never even tried on the new Stellar Navy formal uniform. The shimmering formal shirt had always impressed the captain as something to be worn by a circus performer rather than a military officer.

"I expected you to be here," Crosby said causing Mariel Picard to jump. The young woman was seated before a computer terminal in the stellar cartography section of the Daedelus. Picard turned quickly. The couple was alone.

"Alvin it is good to see you," Mariel rose slowly and joined the intelligence officer in an embrace. Crosby could feel her stiffness though. He did not like that.

"I have been told that we can't share quarters," Crosby said quietly. "I wonder though; at first the captain seemed to be all for it. He couldn't have heard anything from anyone—could he Mariel?"

"I do not know what you mean Alvin," Picard answered. "I was told that it was for crew morale reasons. Not every girl on the ship is lucky enough to be engaged to a handsome naval officer." Mariel chuckled.

"Something tells me that you are lying," Crosby said as he stepped closer to Picard backing her against the console. "You know how much I appreciate honesty—and have no tolerance for lying."

The woman was visibly quaking. Good, Crosby thought. He loved the girl but knew that without proper guidance how fragile a relationship could be. Crosby stepped closer as he was about to seize Mariel's wrists when he heard the rush of the powered door open. Crosby stepped away quickly. The short cigar smoking doctor stood in the doorway.

"I'm sorry if I am interrupting something," Bashir said with an embarrassed smile.

"Not at all doctor," Picard exclaimed. The couple hastily separated. "I was hoping to see you sometime. I wanted to discuss your paper on psychological symbolism and mathematical applications." This last Crosby could tell had been hastily thrown in. The lieutenant cast a look of warning at Mariel.

"I suppose I need to be looking through letters to home," Crosby said after taking a breath. He looked at Mariel. "I'll see you again Mariel--soon, of that you can be sure. It is a small ship." Turning to the older man Crosby wished him a good day and left.

Crosby was seething inside. Somehow he knew that Mariel had convinced the captain not to allow the couple to cohabitate. Crosby glanced up the empty narrow passageway and then behind him. He slammed his fists against the metal wall until the knuckles of his right hand were bleeding. Crosby cursed to himself and headed for the officer he had been assigned to complete his intelligence work.

Taskforce 27, approaching the Deneva system, Mar 2157

The Pioneer class vessels Excelsior and Protector were in the company of the Amarillo class ships Wolverton, Celebes and Melbourne. The Mons Olympus tankers Thera Macula, Mount Cuba, Mont Blanc, Cho Oyu and Ceres trailed their more heavily armed charges. Three Andorian battleships and four of their light cruisers flew alongside the formation of earth ships. Two Tellarite destroyers completed the mixed fleet. The ships passed the stars in subspace creating the characteristic rainbow colored streaks of light as they did so. The seventeen ships of the newly created Star Fleet task force had a single goal.

Admiral Maxwell Forrest sat back in his well used command chair. He reviewed the figures with a mix of elation and trepidation. This was one of the largest forces ever assembled with the exception of the fleets that had conducted the defense of earth in January. Forrest read with satisfaction the reports of battle readiness. The ships of the fleet were fully fueled with deuterium. They were as ready as they could be.

And that is where the fear arose. Would their forces be enough? Forrest knew that the Yorktown and Gorbachev had sent a brief coded subspace ping each. That was the indicator that they were in place. Would this assault be enough? Or would they discover that the attack on earth had been conducted by a small Romulan force and that a much larger one existed; a force that could mop the floor with Forrest's ships? He would have his answer soon enough Forrest thought. Thorpe had been reluctant to allow Forrest to leave.

But Forrest knew that he could not conduct battles when the results might not be known for weeks. For better or worse Admiral Forrest knew that he was a combat officer and not a deskbound commander. And Forrest believed that this war would be won by combat officers; not planners. After a heated argument with Thorpe, Forrest had got what he had wanted: Command in the field.

"Sensors show subspace radar pickets," The sensor operator Chief Kelvin Harris said. "It also looks like they are trying to mask things with neutron particles again. The new fix can see through that."

"Show me," Forrest said.

The viewscreen changed from one of the stars going by to a fuzzy, unfocused image. Several brightly glowing blips were illuminated. The blips were projecting blurry wave like images illustrating their radar signatures. Large solid grayish black areas represented the planets of Deneva's system. Several blips not as brightly lit were throughout the system. Many more bright blips circled the world of Deneva.

"Could those sporadic readings be dispersed ships?" Forrest asked the chief. The admiral meant the many duller dots of light that were present on the screen.

"They could be sir," Harris answered. "They could also be missile platforms. Or they could be decoys. I'm sorry sir I don't have a definite answer."

"That is okay chief," Forrest replied with a chuckle. "If you did have all the answers I'd sit you down in this chair so we could end this war." Forrest turned serious again. "Work with the helm chief and work up a course that we might take if we were to assume that we could not penetrate their sensor jamming."

"What are you thinking sir?" Captain Yoshi Nakamura asked his commanding officer. At one-hundred and sixty-five centimeters the forty year old Tokyo native still presented an imposing figure as he was very broad.

"I think you know Yoshi," Forrest replied. "If I was a Birdie I'd set my defenses along the route of likely attack. If we can make an initial foray in that direction then we can draw them out. That way the fighters can wreck the most havoc."

"I have a possible entry vector based on Chief Harris' assessment," Lt. Ma'z piped up from the navigator's station. The Tellarite was one of the new alien reserves helping to augment the painfully stretched Stellar Navy. "Would you like to see it or would you prefer to just sit and talk all day?"

Forrest and Nakamura still cringed at the Tellarite's comments although both men were aware that this was how Tellarites were. The aliens' own military was structured along a very loosely based protocol when it came to communicating with one another. Ma'z's comments were very respectful when viewed through the lens of the Tellarite's culture.

Forrest ordered the navigator to project the hypothetical course onto the viewscreen. Both Forrest and his first officer frowned at what the presentation showed them. No one else on the bridge of the Excelsior was pleased either.

"Their radar is thickest where we would normally make an approach using system's planets as screens," Nakamura said.

"That makes sense," Forrest said. It was plain that the admiral was deep in thought. "Grizzly Oulette used that trick against them once. I would've been surprised if they hadn't built a defense against it." Finally Forrest came to a resolve. "We don't have the advantage of a planetary alignment."

"I want to make a run on Beacon," Forrest began quietly. "The alignment is over and there is enough of a spread in planetary bodies so that if we come in along this course," Forrest caused a line to be projected onto the viewscreen. "We will have some minutes to play with. That coincides with our likely course if we could not read through their jamming. I want to stop here." A single point illuminated on the screen. "The Andorians will launch fighter and lay down a suppression barrage along with the Tellarites." Forrest was relying on the Andorian ships that were heavily armed with their version of rail guns to protect the small task force. "That should draw them out. Once they have engaged us the fighters from the Gorbachev and Yorktown will make z-minus and z-plus approaches to Deneva itself."

"I hope the sensor upgrades work as advertised," Nakamura said in a pessimistic tone. They were betting on being able to nullify to Romulans' plasma beam by knowing when it was ready to be fired and launching missiles at the stream of energetic matter based on its anticipated heading. Forrest nodded.

"Now we come to it," Forrest announced grimly. "After many meetings and planning sessions it is thought that there is no more life—human life left on Deneva itself. Oulette plotted the locations of two Birdie bases down there. At least he recorded the existence of structures. It is the Star Fleet fighter squadron's job to; in addition to destroying as many Jellyfish and Chowders as possible is to nuke the designated locations." Forrest looked around the bridge.

"Gods help you if any of your people are down there," Lt. Ma'z said. "But these animals need to be hurt."

"I've seen the intelligence as well admiral," Nakamura added. "If anyone survived the initial neutron release they could not have lived for long after; even if they were given maximum doses of hyronaline. I wish there was human life down there. But I do not believe that there is anymore."

"Thank you Yoshi," Forrest said. "Now if you please send a message to our allied ships. We will proceed according to plan. Time is t-minus twenty minutes."

The captain notified the Andorian commander General Yial and his Tellarite counterpart. The taskforce dropped out of warp moments later and reformed in preparation for the precision entry that they were planning. The formation of alliance ships stretched forth into subspace.

"Warp 2.3," Nakamura said. "Estimated time of arrival is 2307."

Forrest acknowledged his first officer's report. The admiral wished that they had some of the new mam ships for this mission. The Excelsior was not scheduled for upgrade until late May. Forrest thought with a pang of regret how much he would miss the Excelsior. Strictly speaking it was Nakamura's ship. But it was serving as Forrest's flagship. At least, the admiral thought, Nakamura would get full command of his ship. Forrest would transfer his flag to another vessel while the Excelsior underwent upgrade. Maxwell Forrest watched as the time ticked down.

Star Fleet Fighter Group 12, on approach to Deneva, Mar 2157

"That's it," Ensign Vince Mason announced over Walters' helmet headset. "The main group is engaged. The Andorian battleship Kazara is in trouble; damn looks like they are gonna have to pull out! I thought the new sensors could track those plasma beams!"

"Goddamned Birdies are getting smart," Lt. William Walters replied calmly. "The Andorian and Tellarite rail guns are better than ours. If they knock them out the cruisers are cooked."

"Dropping out of warp," Mason announced. "Group 7 is reporting in on time."

"Maximum impulse," Walters said as he pushed the little Minotaur's speed up. "Think you can score another shot like before Aimless?"

"Line 'em up and I'll knock 'em down boss!" Mason replied.

"They are mucking around in the gravity well," Walters announced gleefully.

The group of Minotuars made their way through the silent depths of space. Romulan Sabinus class cruisers and the newer Veronus class circled the blue world. Missiles belched forth from the Minotaurs at the same time as Romulan missiles rose from the orbiting ships. One Minotaur started to turn away from its approach. The little cigar shaped ship separated into two halves; the victim of a carefully aimed Romulan laser. The half containing the small fusion reactor exploded. A Romulan Cabbage was sent tumbling when a Corsair missile exploded near it. Another Romulan cruiser exploded from a direct hit scored by a Corsair. Romulan fighters emerged from a few of the Sabinus class cruisers. Several more of the enemy craft dubbed Eightball by the Star Fleet pilots were climbing out of the Denevan atmosphere.

"Go between—go between!" Mason exclaimed as the copilot saw a space between two Romulan cruisers. Walters took the small craft through a few stomach churning maneuvers. A Romulan missile that had been tailing Walters' Minotaur flew past the flight path of the wildly evading fighter to impact on a Romulan Chowder. Walters turned the Minotaur on its vertical axis. Mason let loose with a laser shot tearing a neat gash in the Chowder's hull. A Corsair ejected from the Minotaur as Walters turned his craft forward again. The Chowder exploded behind the escaping Minotaur.

Walters and Mason both grunted as they felt the Minotaur kick even through the artificial gravity. Mason checked his readouts and turned around as well as he could. "Looks like a laser hit!" The ensign exclaimed. The Minotaur jerked again as a conventional explosion bloomed no more than fifty meters from the fighter.

"Eightballs on our asses!" Walters yelled. "Drop some mumbo-jumbo with a Corsair in it!"

Mason did as instructed. Invisible lasers lanced out from the spherical Romulan fighter narrowly missing the Minotaur. The enemy craft flew through the small cloud of metallic micro shards of metal. Too late it detected the Corsair missile moving at the relative speed it had been ejected from the Minotaur at. The Eightball was consumed by the explosion of the Corsair. A second Eightball lined up for a shot at Walters' Minotaur; before it could shoot the nimble fighter shredded into pieces. Lt. Sharon Patellis' Minotaur flew past the swirling fragments of the Romulan fighter.

"Guido to Sluggo; get your ass moving marine," Patelli said fiercely.

"Taking her down," Walters announced as the Minotaur's hull bit into Deneva's atmosphere. The blunt nose of the Star Fleet fighter started glowing a mellow cherry red. Another Minotaur followed Walters' ship down. Beneath the fighters and hundreds of kilometers distant the small formerly human settlements lay.

The settlements seemed to be moving towards the fighters as if the ground, flat looking from so high up was part of a high-speed roller. Hot exhaust shot from the belly of each Minotaur as a large missile was ejected from what was obviously a hastily added missile tube. The two blunt nose craft each pulled up sharply. The small marine fighters cleared the atmosphere to rejoin the survivors of their respective groups. The Minotaurs stretched forth into subspace. Below on the surface of Deneva two new suns bloomed briefly on the ground where the human colonists had once established their first small communities.

Taskforce 27, Inside the Deneva system, Mar 2157

"Firing and away!" The gunnery officer announced. Two Narwhal anti-ship missiles were ejected out of the lower section of the Excelsior. The missiles sped away. Second's later one of the twin darts disintegrated to shreds of metal as it encountered a hail of Romulan neutronium pellets. The twin of the destroyed missile streaked on unimpeded until it exploded close to a Romulan Sabinus class cruiser. The wrecked Cabbage ship turned end over end tumbling away; now a mass of twisted glowing metal and plastic debris.

The Protector turned slowly sailing between the two pieces of the Andorian battleship Kazara. Trailing Romulan anti-ship weapons impacted the spinning debris of the wrecked Andorian ship. The whale-like Protector ejected two Narwhals. A Romulan Cabbage getting too close to the Pioneer cruiser received a burning tear in its hull near its plasma beam emitter. The Romulan ship exploded seconds later. Three Amazons lanced out from the Protector to intercept two anti-ship missiles that had been fired by the doomed Romulan before its demise.

"Report!" Forrest exclaimed.

The Celebes ejected two Narwhals and several Spider area defense missiles. The Spiders destroyed two of the spherical Romulan fighters that were inbound toward the Amarillo class destroyer. The Celebes' Nawhals were torn to shreds by enemy neutronium pellets. The destroyer fired two more of the ship busing missiles. The deadly high-speed spears passed three Romulan Eightballs. One of the Romulan Eightballs was cut into sections by invisible lasers from the Celebes. Two Andorian fighters were in pursuit of the Romulan spheroids. The two craft maneuvered wildly in an attempt to avoid the thicket of oncoming Spider defense missiles. One of the Romulan fighters was hit by a Spider and destroyed the other flew on. Burning tears started appearing in the hull of the Celebes spherical command section The Eightball continued on smashing into the engineering hull of the Celebes. One of the wounded destroyer's warp nacelles separated leaving a trail of glowing slag as it was sent reeling through space. Seconds later the one-hundred and twenty-six meter long destroyer exploded.

"The Kazara managed to send shuttles out," Nakamura reported. "The Melbourne and Tansa are recovering survivors." The captain straightened up suddenly. "The Wolverton reports the Celebes was just destroyed!"

"Status on our delivery boys?" Forrest asked. The admiral knew that they had to stay to take the heat off of the marines. But it was apparent that the life expectancy of the allied fleet could be counted now in minutes.

"Missiles away!" Nakamura exclaimed.

"Sensors shows the locations over the settlements have both been hit by airbursts," Chief Harris announced.

"The marines report going to warp," Captain Nakamura announced triumphantly.

"Okay time to try one of the Stiles woman's tricks," Forrest announced. "Yoshi tell the Andies to start fighter recovery. Then open locks and start firing Spiders."

Nakamuar acknowledged the admiral's order. The Andorian fighters laid down a hail of blistering laser and missile fire before turning about and heading back to the embattled taskforce. Three Romulan Cabbages exploded. Two more of the Romulan cruisers along with a Chowder class had pieces of their hulls blasted away by near misses. Several of the spear shaped Andorian craft were caught by faster Romulan area defense missiles. Several more of the Andorians were cut into pieces by deadly invisible laser energy.

The Stellar Navy ships sent wave after wave of Amazon missiles out of their missile tubes. Spider area defense missiles were ejected out of airlocks. The small defense missiles filled space as their little motors propelled them toward incoming Romulan anti-ship missiles.

The space between the two fleets filled with miniature suns. The Tellarite destroyers let loose with a final volley of merculite rockets. Some of the rockets hit incoming anti-ship missiles. A lot of them were destroyed by patterned bursts of Romulan neutronium pellets. A few made it through. A single Chowder cruiser was quickly reduced to hot shreds of semi-molten metal by a flight of the rockets. A Sabinus class cruiser had all of its warp nacelles blasted away by a few of the stray rockets.

The last Andorian fighter landed in the bay of the surviving battleships. The allied fleet; given a brief respite by the massive volley of Spiders and Amazons as well as the rockets of the Tellarites stretched away into infinity.

"Report?" Admiral Forrest asked.

"Several cruisers are turning too," Chief Kelvin Harris replied. "They are pursuing us."

"Damn," Captain Yoshi Nakamura cursed softly. "How many are pursuing chief?" Nakamura exhaled sharply as the chief reported twenty-three vessels in pursuit. "We can't lead them to our tankers and we don't have the range to make Wolf."

"Lt. Ma'z," Forrest said as he turned his attention to the Tellarite navigator. "Work with the gunnery officer. I want you two to work up a firing solution—one that takes into account being in warp. I want to see if we can shake these bastards with a spread of Grand Slams." The big missiles which the marines had dropped on Deneva were orbit-to-ground weapons. Each Grand Slam contained a one-hundred megaton warhead in a hardened case that allowed for it to burrow into the ground if need be.

The Tellarite rather than replying started a lively argument with Lt. Terrel Owen. The gunnery officer; a survivor of the Beagle argued back with the Tellarite. Despite the tone of the heated discussion it became apparent that a plan was being worked out. In the meantime Forrest ordered the fleet to maximum warp. He was dismayed when Nakamura told him that the Romulans were overtaking them by a factor of 0.3 warp.

"Now would be a good time for you gentleman to come up with something," Forrest said tersely to the gunner and navigator. The Tellarite laughed heartily.

"Solution plotted admiral," Owen responded crisply. "We need to fire the first Grand Slam and fuse it for eight seconds. The next missile needs to go out three seconds later fused for twelve--,"

"Okay lieutenant," Forrest said sharply. "I get it." Turning to Nakamura Forrest told the captain to transmit the plan to the other ships of Taskforce 27. The oriental captain cocked his head as the reports came in over his earpiece.

"Ready sir," Nakamura reported.

"You may fire when ready." Forrest ordered in a soft voice.

"Running the programmed solution," Owen paused for a few seconds then added firmly: "Now!"

Behind the fleet of whale like Stellar Navy ships, spear shaped Andorian ships and boxy Tellarite vessels deadly missiles flew briefly in the distorted realm of subspace. The large missiles without the benefit of a warp field, dropped into normal space--then exploded. Although at seemingly irregular intervals the explosions had a devastating effect on the pursuing Romulan ships.

Six of the Romulan pursuers were destroyed before they could even bring countermeasures to bear. Five more Romulan cruisers took residual damage that rendered them useless. Two of those flew apart into micro-fragments as the damage they sustained caused irregularities in their warp fields. The rest of the hostile pursuers dropped back to normal space. The allied fleet quickly outdistanced the Romulans' subspace radar.

Utopia Planitia shipyards, Mars, Mar 2157

The Bison class refitted Beagle hung suspended over the ruddy surface of Mars. The ship was complete with upgrades and trials. This was the second refitting for the two-hundred and fifty meter long ship that had started its service life as a stretched Bison class vessel. Most of the Beagle's sister ships were one-hundred meters shorter than the destroyer escort. The Beagle awaited the final operational tests of the ships that would comprise her taskforce. Activity around the Beagle was negligible as work on it was complete. A single shuttle picked its way through the network of docks making its way to the destroyer escort.

"What is the word Anjin?" Commodore Jocelyn Stiles asked her Andorian operations officer. The one-hundred and eighty-three centimeter tall Andorian was characteristically thin as was most of his race. Anjin was also quite bald which was not characteristic for an Andorian.

"The Panther and Blazer are operational and have taken up positions on the ready line," The Andorian lieutenant answered meaning a position on the outer edges of the yard usually reserved for ships that were complete. Anjin ran down a list of ships that were to be assigned to Stiles' Taskforce 18.

The Panther and Blazer were two of the new Kretchet class destroyers. The Torsk class light cruiser Seawolf, Powhaton class vessels Cyane and Choctaw and the heavy cruiser Marathon rounded out the human contribution to the force. Work had been completed on the Marathon far earlier than anticipated. The heavy cruiser was almost ready for launch. That was the vessel that was holding up the departure of Stiles' force. The Andorian heavy cruiser Ventizen and destroyer Aktaba comprised the Andorian part of the force. The Tellarite light cruiser Hazmq rounded out the force. A distinguishing feature of the new taskforce was the lack of escort tankers.

Star Fleet Command had worked out a series of assigned secure routes for the tankers when need for those arose. Fewer of the armed deuterium carrying ships were needed for the new taskforces as all of the ships were using matter/anti-matter reactors for propulsion. The Andorians and Tellarites had been aggressively pursuing matter/anti-matter upgrades far earlier than had the Stellar Navy.

"So the Marathon will be complete in two days?" Stiles asked the Andorian. The new commodore was seated comfortably behind the small desk of her quarters that doubled as the captain's office.

"Yes commodore," Anjin replied. "That will also allow for some extra repair work to be done upon the Aktaba."

"Good," Stiles said. "We need to be on station at Wolf by the middle of April. The Archers have been taking a beating out there." Jocelyn sighed angrily so that the sound came out more as a low growl. "I wanted to get out and take the fight to the Birdies. But Admiral Forrest set up this force disposition before he left."

"I too would rather have engaged the Romulans in an offensive fight as well," Anjin replied. Jocelyn had discovered that the commander's mate had served aboard one of the Andorian light cruisers that had come to the defense of Sol. That cruiser had fallen prey to a Romulan plasma cannon with a loss of all hands. "But once we have built up our forces we can start the push to Romulus."

"Yes," Jocelyn replied quietly. She wanted that day to come; very soon. The two officers discussed routine matters when the chime to Stiles' quarters sounded. The commodore acknowledged the chime and the door slid open to admit Chief Mary Vong. The woman took a seat opposite the Beagle's first officer and across from Stiles.

"Here is the final crew roster," Vong said passing a folder to her commanding officer. Stiles had discovered that the chief had been offered a commission like so many other navy enlisted people these days. Vong had refused vehemently. The chief was now the senior petty officer aboard the Beagle. "We lost one of the engineers." Mary said continuing her report. "Her mother passed away—natural causes. So I signed her leave request myself." Stiles nodded her approval. Jocelyn was glad that the woman had stayed aboard the Beagle. Stiles had come to rely on her for expertise with people; that and the fact that Vong knew of Stiles past.

"Commander Anjin says we can get underway in two days," Chief Vong said nodding to the Andorian. "I was hoping that you would cut a few passes to Mars. I know there isn't much there in the way of recreation but we can use the time to let the crews blow off some steam."

Stiles sat back in her seat. "I'd rather use the time on drills," The commodore said flatly. "We'll be back in six months and in all likelihood may get some chances for time off at Wolf."

"Sir we have been drilling," Vong replied tersely. She added: "Constantly. The crew will be beat before we even get out of the gate."

"I want this taskforce to be at its sharpest," Stiles replied forcefully. "Our job is to kill Birdies. They attacked our colonies and our home. We aren't going to get that done by getting drunk in some frontier bar!"

Vong was about to argue the point further when she saw the resolve in Stiles' eyes. Instead the chief asked if the briefing was over. When Stiles said that she was satisfied the first officer and chief rose and proceeded out of the hatch. Vong hung back allowing the hatch to seal as Anjin stepped out.

"Just a piece of advice Jo-jo," Vong said. Stiles had told the enlisted woman to use her first name in private conversations.

"I think I know what you are going to say--," Stiles started.

"I've been on these ships a lot longer than you Jo-jo," Chief Vong said. "You keep winding the crew up like an ancient watch and at some point they are going to break. They are at that point now. The doc has reported a few minor injuries and some of the performance ratings are actually dropping off. Let them have a little time Jo-jo; please." Vong paused for a moment then added: "There will be Birdies left to kill Jo-jo."

Stiles got out of her seat quickly. Her face was a mask of anger for several seconds. Then she took a breath and spoke quietly. "Okay, okay Mary you say they are slipping up. Okay cut them a few passes. But this isn't about what I want. I'd be a fool to lie to you and tell you I don't want to kill every Birdie I can. But it isn't only that." Stiles looked down at her desktop and then continued in a grimmer tone: "We don't need anymore of us to die. I want our people at their best so that we all come back in six months Mary."

"Thanks sir," Vong replied gratefully. "I know how you feel. I'm not asking this just to be popular with the crew. They need a little break before we go out; you'll see." The chief got a mischievous look on her face. "I'll bet you that the performance ratings go up on the next drill."

"Okay," Stiles replied with a grin. "I'm game; what is the wager?"

"If I win," Vong said with a smile: "Then you pay for the Champaign for my next wedding. I have a big family too."

"You're getting married again?" Stiles said rolling her eyes.

"I figured I'd give Smitty a chance," Vong replied meaning Gunnery Sergeant Ryan Smith formerly of the Beagle. "He is a drill instructor at Star Fleet OCS now. We set the date for when I get back from this cruise."

"Okay I won't inquire about your last marriage Mary," Stiles said. "Okay I'll do that if you win. You didn't say what you will do if the crew is not up to par." Stiles was silent for a few moments before she continued. "Tell you what; I'm not going to go easy on you. You and Smitty have to spend part of your honeymoon helping my mom in Georgia!"

"Damn!" Vong exclaimed with a chuckle. "Okay commodore you have a bet." The two women made small talk for a few more minutes; before turning to leave Vong added: "There is a lieutenant commander from the yard who wants to see you."

"I wonder what it is now?" Stiles asked in an exasperated voice. "Okay Mary thanks. Send him in I might as well get this out of the way while I have a little time."

"Oh and commodore," Vong said slyly. "You should take a little time on Mars as well."

"I'll think about it," Jocelyn replied. The truth was that Stiles didn't know anybody on Mars. She thought for a moment after she bade Chief Vong a good day. Stiles supposed she could spend some time in the Beagle's small gym. This desk stuff was getting to her normally thin midsection she thought. She also did not want to spend a lot of time unoccupied. Jocelyn didn't like the thoughts that filled her head when she wasn't busy. The grief over her fiancée and now her father weighed heavily on her. Stiles was pushing she knew, but she had too.

The chime sounded again breaking Jocelyn out of her unpleasant thoughts. The commodore reached down and pushed the stud opening the hatch to her office. Stiles was surprised to see Lt. Cmdr. Charles Tucker walk in. She stepped out from behind her desk. It was plain that neither knew how to greet one another.

"I'm sorry Jo-sir," Trip began.

"Let's go with Jo-jo, Trip," Stiles answered. "It is good to see you again." The two of them were face to face.

"Look," Tucker began haltingly. "You mother wanted me to come here." Then he added hastily: "And I wanted to see you too before you left." The engineer was starting to get red-faced.

"I'm glad that you are here Trip," Stiles said. The two were very close when Stiles suddenly turned away. Tucker walked up behind her.

"I know things have been crazy ever since Florida," Tucker started. "But I got a feeling that you and me," Trip fell silent for a few seconds before continuing. "I mean—okay I think I'm interested in you! And I was wondering--,"

Stiles turned sharply. Her eyes were large and moist. "I don't know Trip. I know what you mean. I think—I think maybe the same about you." Tucker looked startled then started to smile until Stiles continued: "But I don't want to feel that way again. Not for awhile. I don't know; maybe after all of this is over. I've lost two men that I loved. The Birdies seen too that. I'm going to see too them now."

"Look Jo-jo," Tucker said. "I lost someone too. Okay maybe we should wait to see where all of this goes. But I've been doing a lot of thinking: What happens when all of this is over?" Stiles looked at Tucker curiously. "I mean what if we kill every damn Romulan there is; what next?"

"I know what you mean--," Stiles began.

"No," Trip interrupted. "I don't think that you do. I miss Elizabeth. But there ain't a damned thing I do in this war that is going to bring her back. We need to get some payback against these bastards—I agree there. But sooner or later we are going to have to start living again."

Stiles turned from Tucker again and crossed her arms over her chest. Finally after a deep breath she said: "I know. I only hope that I can do that again. Right now I think if the hate would go away then there wouldn't be anything else left inside of me."

Tucker took a step toward her hesitantly. Finally he hugged her to him. Stiles did not return the embrace for a long time and when she did it was only after the greatest hesitation.

"Okay now what?" Stiles asked after awhile.

"Your chief says that you have two days before you ship out," Tucker said conspiratorially. "I got to know Mars pretty good. Maybe I could show you some of it before you leave? Unless you don't want to be seen with a low ranking engineer?"

"My chief huh?" Stiles asked. She would have a discussion with Mary Vong when they got under way. Jocelyn thought for a few seconds. It wouldn't hurt to spend time with Trip she thought. He had a way of taking her mind off of other things if only temporarily. And knowing her mother the woman had probably enlisted Trip in some sort of a binding promise. So that would let the man off of the hook with her mother. "Okay I need to pack a few things."

Hangar 51, Ganymede, Jupiter orbit, Mar 2157

"This is something to see," Christophur Thorpe said excitedly as he toured the cramped spaces of Daedelus. "Just look at what our races can accomplish together."

"We never would've gotten this far this fast without the Andorians and Tellarites sir," Commander Jonathan Archer said wistfully. "I was opposed to what I saw as alien intervention at first. But without their help we would still be putting the superstructure together."

Thorpe turned to the commander. "I suspect that you have had this discussion with the captain here," Thorpe said indicating Captain Cromwell. Thorpe looked pained then continued. "I know of your dedication to the project—and of your father's efforts. Nothing more would please me than to hand you command of one of these fine vessels. But for now, just for now we need your expertise in designing ships."

"I know it sir," Archer said with a slightly bitter laugh. "At least I can lay the groundwork for this ship; and the next generation of starship. No reason why we shouldn't be thinking ahead to a warp five, maybe even warp six capable ship."

"You keep thinking ahead commander," Thorpe said in earnest. "One day this war is going to be over. Then we can get down to the real adventure of exploring. I believe that is what man was meant to do." The United Earth President turned to Captain Michael Cromwell. "You'll see new things along the way captain. I know that is not the purpose of your mission but don't let the wonder of undiscovered worlds pass you by. I don't know what to make of these Romulans but I think they are a people who never wanted to look around the next corner; just to see what is there or stopped to wonder why a thing is--unless it was to make a weapon."

"I guess we will find out the answer to that," Cromwell said in reply. Then he added cautiously: "At least I hope that we do."

"Yours may be the most important mission of this war captain," Thorpe declared. "We just don't know our enemy. We have to learn about the Romulans so that we may end this thing."

"We are anxious to get underway sir," Cromwell said.

The president stopped at the airlock between the station and the Daedelus. "I'll not hold you up sir," Thorpe said. "I just wish that the public could see this. This is real history in the making. This ship can go great distances unrefueled. It is like being there at Lindbergh's takeoff or Christopher's arrival around Saturn."

"We'll bring you back the information you need sir," Cromwell said solemnly.

Thorpe stuck out his hand to the captain. Cromwell hesitated briefly then took Thorpe's hand. Thorpe turned to leave Cromwell and Archer standing in the lock.

"You bring my ship back!" Archer exclaimed

"Your ship?" Cromwell replied with a grin. Then the captain turned serious. "You'll get your turn one day Jon. Thanks for everything; without you this would all be a dream. As a matter of fact if not for you and Commander Tucker there wouldn't be any mam ships to face the Birdies."

Cromwell looked around dubiously. "You know most submariners know who John Holland is but the probably can't name the skipper of Holland's first submarine. I know this mission is important but I have a feeling when children are scrolling through a history screen this mission—if it is mentioned at all; will only be remembered as a footnote. But I understand you wanting to get out there and explore. Who knows," Cromwell said as he got a faraway look in his eyes. "Maybe the Birdies did us a favor." When the captain saw Archer's incredulous look he continued. "Think about it. The government was all but poised to cut the Navy's and the Space Exploration Agency's budgets to nothing. After this war, if the president gets his alliance to stick; there will be ships galore to explore with and maintain a fighting navy."

"I had thought about that," Archer replied. "Hell of a way for things to happen but you are right." Archer gave a last, longing look beyond the airlock into the interior of Daedelus. Knowing of Cromwell's aversion to anyone touching his prosthetic limb Archer said simply: "Good luck captain." The commander turned and made his way out of the airlock. Cromwell headed to the bridge.

Cromwell stepped onto the bridge of his ship moments later. The bridge would usually be darkened but it was fully illuminated as the president had wanted this occasion recorded. Michael took his seat after Commander Lisa Somers announced his presence on the bridge. Not much different from the bridge of a Pioneer class ship Cromwell thought.

The captain's chair sat in the middle of the circular bridge. The whole control center was not more than eight meters in diameter making it a little larger than the bridge of a Pioneer class cruiser. The operations position had been moved from the captain's right to a position to the left of the navigator's not more than two meters away from Cromwell's chair. The deck was also split-level which was new in naval vessels. A higher level encircled the bridge at almost half a meter. The small elevated portion of the command center of the Daedelus was little more than a meter and a half wide. The engineering station sit on the elevated area the left and a little behind the captain's chair. Opposite the auxiliary engineering station across the bridge sat the communication's operator station. The sensor operator position sat on the raised portion of the bridge to the captain's right and a little forward of his position. Across the bridge from that station sat an observer's position. Cromwell swiveled around. Everything with the exception of navigation and operations was at Cromwell's eye level.

Michael had sat in the chair before; for operational tests. But this was the real thing he thought. Cromwell reflected how hard it was to explain the difference between tests and an actual mission. The captain of the Daedelus surmised that the reason for that lay in the fact that after a test one would come back to safety to discuss the results. Crews did not always come back from operational voyages.

"Yardmaster signals cradle is unlocked for launch," Cmdr. Lisa Somers reported from the sensor operator's position. "All stations reporting in ready. Space doors open."

Cromwell was painfully aware that his words would be recorded; possibly heard publicly when this was all over. The captain began quietly at first. "Almost two-hundred years ago there was an argument over what words to inscribe on the plaque of the first craft to land on the moon. The old United States led that effort. That country successfully put men on the moon. The plaque which a few of you have seen in the lunar museum at Armstrong City reads: 'We Came in Peace for All Mankind'.

This mission was tasked to end a war. Our mission is no longer about mankind. We are not alone. So to all on this crew, my brothers in humanity and our alien brothers and sisters I say: We go forth as explorers for all peaceful freedom loving beings. Cast off!"

Bursts of chemical thrusters lifted the Daedelus off of its cradle. The rounded tips of the warp nacelles glowed red as plasma interacted to create the fields necessary for continuum distortion. The ship moved slowly forward. It was free except for Ganymede's light gravity field. Daedelus passed the massive space doors of Hangar 51 and rose steadily over the rocky barren surface of the moon of Jupiter. The huge, striped gas giant dominated the background. The starship picked up speed until it was a mere speck over the horizon of Ganymede.

"Operations reports that subspace sensors are down along our flight path." Lisa Somers said.

"Just as planned," Cromwell replied. The captain had been briefed by the president that the ship's departure would be masked from prying eyes and prying instruments. "Number one we don't need to tarry here. Warp 3.8 please."

Somers turned to Ensign Sam Ward. The Oklahoma native was manning the helm position. "Helm set course 087 mark 45 and engage at warp 3.8." The officer did as instructed and the Daedelus leapt into the distorted realm of subspace.

Inside the control station there was much hand-shaking, embracing and patting of shoulders. President Thorpe looked at the empty launch cradle. No one saw the look of consternation on the leader's face. Thorpe mouthed a silent prayer for the explorers then turned with a smile to face the raucous crowd. Several loud pops occurred as bottles of Champaign were opened. The crowd looked at a viewscreen showing the departure path of the starship.

"They have just gone to warp!" Vanor the Tellarite engineer exclaimed.

Thorpe could pick out the scientists and engineers among the crowd by the oo's and ah's expressed over the ship's acceleration curve. General Shran joined Thorpe as the president watched the monitor.

"We've done a good thing here Christophur," Shran said. "May this be the start of many more collaborative ventures between our peoples."

"Yes," Thorpe replied. The president hoped that would be so but he wondered. The prediction from the past that earth would become part of a great alliance hadn't come with a time attached to it. Thorpe was painfully aware of the opposition he was facing from the likes of Todd Allen Glenn and the Sons' of Terra. Still, Thorpe thought it was time to think of pleasanter things. The launch was a great success and Thorpe experienced a moment of clarity where he realized that what had taken place here today though it may be overshadowed by future events; it would be one of the beacons in the dark.

Trading Blows

Langley, Virginia, Earth Apr 2157

Erica Soames poured over the analysis of Taskforce 27's battles with the Romulans in the Deneva system. Forrest's group had inflicted a great deal of damage. Soames looked at photographs of the former human settlements. There had been new buildings erected there. There was also some sort of facility that looked like a ship repair facility. Those buildings and that facility were gone now the captain thought. Like many others she had agonized over rather any humans remained alive on the colony. The evidence, albeit circumstantial had pointed to all human life having been extinguished on Deneva.

The Romulan plasma cannon was still a formidable weapon. But the new sensor enhancements and the use of Andorian fighter screens to provide greater distance between opposing capital ships seemed to have worked to neutralize the Romulan weapon. For now Erica thought bitterly. What the Romulans would come up with next was anyone's guess.

Buchanan had proved the use of carriers and fighters to be as effective as he had once predicted. Besides destroying the Romulan occupied areas on Deneva the Minotaurs' had exacted a high toll against Romulan fighters and capital ships. Erica knew that the launch of some of the new carriers would start this month. The new Star Fleet was still woefully understaffed. But with the help of the allies that was slowly changing. The first human enlisted personnel were cleared for space duty. The academies had moved graduations up. Between that and promoting experienced enlisted people into the officer ranks the numbers were slowly coming back up. Soames knew the projections called for a fully manned Star Fleet by this time next year.

Thorpe's Daedelus had launched. Soames expected that mission to bear some fruit; if Cromwell and his crew survived. The intelligence officer still had possessed misgivings about dispatching Lieutenant Crosby for the mission; especially in light of the Picard woman's being there. But the doctors had cleared Crosby. Erica had reluctantly approved Crosby for the mission. The lieutenant had been on top of these Romulans since the data had started to come in. Soames wondered why any woman would allow that sort of thing anyway. By all accounts Erica had read the Picard woman was a genius in her field. The captain guessed that being a genius in mathematics and languages did not make one a genius when it came to men.

Erica thought that at least Crosby being on the Daedelus had cleared the way for her next venture. Soames looked again at the photos of the blinding flashes on the surface of Deneva. Those photos were being sent out over the vidcasters. At first people had cheered the attack on the Romulan occupied Deneva. That was until the Sons' of Terra and Gholamreza Sheibani had gone to work in concert with some of the media outlets. Somehow despite a mountain of evidence to the contrary Sheibani had alleged knowing that there were still humans on Deneva. And Thorpe had killed those humans. Soames knew it was all nonsense but Sheibani had a politician's charisma on his side. The initial cheers were dying away. Thorpe defended his decision. No one knew more than Soames how much Thorpe had suffered in making that dreadful decision.

The captain was no politician but a career in intelligence made one keenly aware of politics and social psychology. In all likelihood Thorpe would be reelected in June. The Pan-Indo Alliance's defection would ensure that. And Bindu Raj Modi was sticking by her endorsement. The Councilwoman had been one of the few to go on record defending Thorpe's bombing of Deneva. But Soames was too much the student of politics to know when a rising tide of stupidity and propaganda could topple a solid base of intelligence and common sense.

Soames knew that whatever the future held it could not belong to the likes of Gholamreza Sheibani and Todd Allen Glenn. The captain was also painfully aware of the separation of powers. She could not be seen as helping a politician; even a visionary like Thorpe, even when that visionary was confronted by monsters. Still she wanted to help Thorpe. Erica opened her top desk drawer and looked at the book there. The battered book had been handed down through her family. Soames' father had told her that an American officer had smuggled it to Britain in the mid twenty-first century. Erica was surprised when her father had presented the book to her after her graduation from the Royal Air Force Academy. The man explained how the American officer, a defector from that country had made a friend of Soames' great-grandfather. Colonel Green's forces were in hiding but they had reared their heads from time to time in senseless acts of violence. The officer felt that the contents of the book had to be protected from such sleeper cells. So she had entrusted it to Erica's ancestor.

Erica closed the drawer with a slam when Chief Frank McCoy entered her office. The meeting was a scheduled one still Soames felt as if she had been caught with her pants down. McCoy saluted his commanding officer. The captain bid the enlisted man to be seated and after exchanging pleasantries Soames came to the point she wanted to make:

"Frank you've always been vocal about a lot of things," When the man nodded she continued. "You seem displeased with these Sons' of Terra."

"All they have done is to criticize the war effort," McCoy answered. "Funny I been in the Army and now I guess this Star Fleet for almost twenty years—I never seen any of those type of guys in a uniform."

"What do you think of the president's alliance?" Erica asked as she got up and adjusted the setting on the simulated projection on her wall office. The image presented a vista of a pleasant Virginia spring day.

"I guess it is the future sir," McCoy answered slowly. "I mean the Andies and Tellars have been friends with us. And who knows what else is out there; could be things worse than Romulans I guess."

"You know people like Todd Glenn and the Sons' of Terra are out to undermine Thorpe's plans?" Erica declared quietly as she sat back down.

"I know it!" McCoy exclaimed in reply. "Almost makes me ashamed to be an American. I wish the president would stand up for himself and tell those bastards where to get off—sorry sir." The chief added hastily.

"It's alright," The captain replied with a chuckle. "I agree with you there." Here it comes Erica thought. "What if you could do something to help the president?"

McCoy looked startled for a few seconds then finally replied: "I guess we are in a way. I mean what else could we do? What could I do?"

"You're a history major aren't you Frank?" Soames asked the enlisted man. When he nodded Soames continued. "Do you believe in the Praetorian Guard?"

McCoy laughed. "That is one of those stories like Hitler living in Mexico or Khan Singh escaping in a space ship!" McCoy continued in a serious tone. "I've read a few accounts but I've never seen any hard evidence. It is hard to believe a group of military people would stick it out that far—I mean even if they were protecting the old American Constitution."

"What if I were to tell you that I know of an account," Erica said pensively. The captain continued: "A journal in fact, telling of how a group of American officers and enlisted people formed a secret cabal in the early twenty-first century. They succeeded in delaying the tragedies that happened in America for almost thirty years."

"Earning them the name the Praetorian Guard," McCoy finished: "Because like the old Romans guarding their emperor those people were guarding the principles embodied by a piece of parchment." McCoy was silent for a moment. "Okay it is an interesting bit of history but--." The enlisted man's mouth dropped open.

"I always knew you were a smart man Frank," Soames said. Then she added with a chuckle. "But you really must close your mouth. Flies may take up residence in there or something!" The captain moved forward in her officer chair and leaned across her desk. Soames' expression turned serious. "You're a married man Frank. You realize the danger here. I think you have an idea of where all of this is leading. I'll stop here if you want and all of this was an interesting discussion and nothing more."

McCoy gulped. "You know military interference in civilian affairs is against the law sir." The man said breathlessly. Then he looked at her expectantly. "What could we do anyway?"

"If someone were to join The Sons' of Terra," Soames said as she stood with her arms crossed over her chest. The captain started pacing her office. "That hypothetical person could perhaps find out things about the organization. Things that when," Erica paused dramatically: "When exposed to the public would discredit that organization."

McCoy sat deep in thought. Soames stopped pacing and looked away from the enlisted man and out of her simulated window. The office was silent for several minutes.

"Does the president know?" McCoy asked quietly.

"No Frank he does not," Soames replied with conviction. "If he did he would throw me in jail and toss the key away. He is a good man. That is why I feel he must be helped against these dirty bastards. They are not good people. People like Glenn and Sheibani belong to a time when humans were willing to sacrifice their freedoms for a sense of security. They seemed unaware that they would have no security from the state they sat up to do that."

The room grew silent again. Soames returned to her window projection. A simulated robin picked at a piece of twig clumsily. Erica noted the beginnings of a nest in the large simulated maple tree. The scene was completely quiet. The captain could imagine the sounds that would exist outside were it an actual window and not a simulated picture.

"Wouldn't we doing a variety of the same thing?" McCoy asked at last.

"It could be looked at that way," Soames said as she turned back to face the enlisted man. "But sometimes people of good conscience have to act for the greater good. I'm not suggesting anything long term. We do this thing; help the president and move into the next era. Then it is over. You and I will know—but no one else. This is not going to be some secret agency like the Guard was; rather just two people engaging in," The intelligence captain paused.

"Engaging in a conspiracy," McCoy interjected. The enlisted man rose. "Okay sir," McCoy said as he stuck out his hand. "I'm in—for better or worse," McCoy looked pained briefly. "Christ that is what I said to Helen eighteen years ago! Just look at where that ended up." The man exclaimed with a smile. He was referring to his marriage and later divorce.

"Well don't worry you won't have to sleep with me," The captain said with a relieved smile. For a few seconds Erica had thought that things were going to go bad. "But along with that even your closest friends and lovers must never know." Soames sat down and bade McCoy to do the same. She opened her desk drawer and got the battered ancient journal out. "Be gentle with it. You might want to read it. But that along with what we are doing here today should be kept secret."

McCoy accepted the book. The two navy intelligence operatives spent the next half an hour discussing rerouting of money for expenses and contact methods. Erica reflected that now that it had come to it she was not up on the spy game. Naval intelligence had prepared the captain for analyzing data and making tactical and strategic predictions based on that data. Soames was an expert at sifting through information and getting that which would help the fleet personnel out to them as soon as possible. As Tarang Gupta had exclaimed in her office several weeks ago now; he was not a secret agent. Erica was not a secret agent either.

Soames wondered how Gupta was fairing. The young officer seemed to be caught up more in some sort of internal Vulcan intrigue rather than anything to do with the Birdies.

The young man's last communiqué had indicated that the lieutenant had employed some sort of co-conspirator to work his Pan-Pac company job. The intelligence officer had indicated that he was studying Vulcan texts and was planning on a deep desert trip to the dig. Apparently someone either in or near the High Command, felt that something was at that dig concerning the Romulans. Soames was beginning to doubt the wisdom of sending Gupta to Vulcan at all. What would he discover in an archeological site she wondered; that Romulans had landed on Vulcan a long time ago? None of it made sense to the intelligence officer.

"I guess neither one of us are really up on this spy business?" McCoy said; breaking Erica's revelries.

"You are right there," The captain replied. "There is a chapter of the Sons' of Terra near Williamsburg."

"I suppose it wouldn't do to say that I work in intell," Frank said quietly.

"Oh no Frank," Soames replied quickly. "I think that is just the bait that can be used to get you close to the center of things. Of course you'll have to walk the line between what you can tell them and what we can afford to let them know."

"When is a good time to get started?" McCoy asked.

"There is a meeting at one of the ancient colonial American pubs in Williamsburg this Friday," Soames supplied; "Bloke name of Hawkins is speaking."

"I'll be there," McCoy said.

Ri-Fainu City, Vulcan, Apr 2157

Gupta didn't like the situation at all. He had worked hard to get things this far and now this disaster. He wondered how he could possibly extricate himself from the situation. The Denobulan freighter's vacuum refrigeration unit had failed ruining an entire shipment of Asian Pears. Now the freighter skipper was offering him less than competitive returns for the damaged fruit. Pan-Pac could ill afford a sixty percent loss on this shipment. And besides Tarang thought, he had made a significant mark-up since his arrival here. The intelligence officer was not without a bit of pride in regard to his recently discovered business acumen.

"Captain Molux," Gupta said formerly from behind his desk. The intelligence officer let his glasses slip down his nose while he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "You are leaving me in dire straits here. The contract clearly called for one-hundred metric tons of Asian pears."

"Ah," Molux said with an exaggerated smile. The Denobulan could speak passable English as Gupta had discovered. "But it doesn't talk about their condition upon arrival." Molux said referring to Pan-Pacific's contract with the Denobulan freighter firm.

That much was true Gupta thought bitterly. Pan-Pac had been glad to find a third party firm that would accept their goods in light of the Vulcan embargo against earth and her allies. The company had agreed to terms that their legal department probably would not have agreed to if circumstances were better. But the company had to take what they could get in the way of freighter space. But Gupta on the other hand did not.

The naval intelligence officer had sat down with Sremen and the two had reviewed several Vulcan legal documents and port entry procedures. The young Vulcan, Gupta thought of Sremen as such despite the Vulcan man being sixteen years Gupta's senior had been translating several passages for Gupta when the Indian had asked the Vulcan to stop and go back over a particular regulation. Gupta's Vulcan was coming along fine but the officer was glad that he had gotten Sremen to translate the Vulcan legalese for him. Now it was time for the hole card Gupta thought. The Indian liked Captain Molux so what he said next did not come without some recriminations for the young naval officer.

"The fruit is spoiled," Gupta said. "You could at least pay me sixty-percent recompense for the damaged goods."

"I am afraid that I cannot do that Tarang," Molux replied. "You must take the goods as is. Not all of the fruit is damaged. You can make some profit off of the remainder."

"Our contract does not specify acceptance," Gupta said slyly. "In fact I see nothing in it that compels me to accept the shipment as is."

"I'm sorry Tarang," Molux said shrugging his shoulders in a very human-like gesture. "I'll just have to leave it at the port then."

"If I may sir," Sremen interjected speaking to Gupta, Tarang nodded. The Vulcan then turned to the freighter captain. "Captain, Vulcan custom procedures clearly dictate that for a cargo to be left the consignee must accept it." Molux's grin started deteriorating. "Furthermore leaving a shipment of damaged goods can result in a fine of--,"

"Sixty it is," Molux said. The Denobulan's smile was gone completely. Then after a few seconds he smiled again. "You drive a hard bargain Tarang. I have to act in my firm's best interest as do you. Very well," The Denobulan said taking out a small electronic credit voucher. The freighter captain inputted some data and handed the device to Gupta. Gupta accepted it and after a brief perusal plugged the device into a receptor on his desk top. Molux laughed. "Somehow I feel with that payment for spoilage and what you sell you'll actually do better than you would have off of the profit of an undamaged shipment."

"That may well be," Gupta replied with a smile. Actually the Denobulan had hit on the truth. This had just turned from a substantial loss for Pan-Pac into a lucrative deal. Gupta held up a curved decanter. "More Vulcan brandy captain?"

"No," Molux replied with a slightly intoxicated smile. "Thanks anyway, I'll have enough difficulty finding my way back to my ship as is!" The freighter captain rose as did Gupta and Sremen. The two escorted the Denobulan out of the offices of Pan-Pacific.

"Thanks!" Gupta exclaimed after the Denobulan had departed. "That bit of Vulcan law helped me turn that around." Gupta headed back to his office with the Vulcan in tow.

"It was interesting watching you conduct these affairs," Sremen replied as he seated himself opposite Gupta. "The outcome is not always predictable." The Vulcan fell silent. After a few seconds Gupta asked him what was on his mind.

"Have you given anymore thought to T'Pol's request?" Sremen asked at last.

"I have been studying what was dispensed to the public on the dig site," Gupta said. "I told T'Pol I am no archeologist. But," Gupta paused several seconds before continuing. "The team was looking in what they call a meditation chamber?"

"Yes Vulcans used such places in the beginning of logic," Sremen replied. "For that and it was a safe area from fallout."

"But Vulcans were not always logical?" Gupta asked. When Sremen agreed with the human's assertion Gupta continued. "I was reading that early Vulcans went to meeting houses—I mean emotional Vulcans. The houses were a place to meet others, speak of things, and to just get away and think. Is that not so?"

"Yes," Sremen replied. "A simplistic analogy would be to an earth tavern. But those places were much more; perhaps meeting hall would be closer analogy."

"The team was searching through the meditation chambers of the ancient monastery there." Gupta explained. The officer rolled out a graphic on his desk top that he had made of the dig. Gupta indicated the suspected locations of the ancient chambers. "But K'Henga Valley was so named for a small city that used to be there." When he saw the Vulcan's agreeing nod Gupta continued. "According to old maps the monastery was built upon part of the town; specifically on part that used to hold one of the old meeting houses."

"One would assume that though we are in control of our emotions that would not prevent researchers from discovering the past," Sremen said. "I believe the archeologists would already have considered and then discounted this fact."

Gupta produced a computer enhanced holo-photo. "This is the location of the old meeting house. There are no indications that anyone even looked here." Gupta pointed out calm sands that covered the area next to the extensive dig.

"The only thing in your favor is one of the archeologists," Gupta thumbed through the notes he had made. "Celada, that was her name; she declared that looking in that area was fruitless and that the contemplation comment was made after the establishment of logic as a dominant force on Vulcan."

"Was?" Sremen asked arching his left eyebrow.

"According to a report that I read," Gupta said offhandedly. "Celada died of something called ving'ma poisoning."

Sremen looked away briefly. It was plain that something disturbed the Vulcan. To one such as Tarang who had now spent time among Vulcans it was plain that whatever bothered his co-conspirator and employee bothered him greatly.

"What is it my friend?" Gupta asked gently. Sremen asked for the report Gupta had read. The Indian handed the Vulcan the report which he had printed out onto paper. After several minutes Sremen spoke quietly.

"Ving'ma is equivalent to," The Vulcan stopped while he thought. "It is equivalent to terran cyanide. One does not accidentally become the victim of ving'ma." Even Gupta could hear a slight emotional emphasis on the word accidentally.

"What are you saying?" The lieutenant asked hastily. "Are you saying that she was killed?"

"She was alone," Sremen said quietly. "You are an off-worlder. You would not be expected to glean everything out of this report that is there to see." Sremen fell silent. A minute passed then another. Finally Tarang was about to speak when Sremen motioned for him to be silent. "We do not often speak of it. But a Vulcan can become embarrassed or humiliated over something and rather than deal logically with that thing they use," Again there was a long pause. "They use other methods to solve personal problems."

"Are you speaking of suicide?" Gupta asked pointedly.

"Her body was arrayed in such a manner as to suggest that," Sremen replied.

"Wait a minute," Gupta said while removing his glasses. "You have a logical society. Suicide is not logical." Another long silence ensued. Finally Sremen answered:

"After the wars our technology was at a feeble level," Sremen said solemnly. "Our healers were skilled but many were dying of radiation poisoning. Radiation affects Vulcans in much the same way as it does humans. It is a horrible way to die. Logic dictated as many of the sufferers would never recover that alternative, less painful ways to die could be sought out."

"In other words a form of euthanasia," Gupta said. The Indian shuddered mentally. The lessons of Colonel Green and the old Americans and Europeans had not been forgotten.

"Perhaps this woman was ill?" Gupta asked when a light started flashing on his desktop computer terminal. "We have company." The intelligence officer scooped up the maps, reports and holo-photos. Gupta knew that strictly speaking a real spy would memorize the material and destroy it. But the intelligence officer was not a real spy. If questions ever came up over the material Gupta had thought that he could feign an interest in archeology.

Gupta proceeded to his outer meeting area. Sremen followed his employer and fellow clandestine operator. A Vulcan of short stature no taller than Tarang awaited the duo. The Vulcan had a wide face and a thick pate of brown hair combed in the severe, straight Vulcan manner. He greeted both Gupta and Sremen and started to proceed awkwardly in English when Gupta greeted him in Vulcan and added:

"Speak your native language sir," Gupta said slowly but correctly. "I am becoming versed in Vulcan. I am dawdling in my understanding of your language but I can follow you."

"Very well then," The Vulcan answered. "You must be the one called Tarang Gupta?" When the intelligence officer indicated that the strange Vulcan was correct he turned to Sremen. "I would have words with your associate in private."

Gupta nodded to Sremen. The intelligence officer hoped that his Vulcan employee would listen in discreetly. Gupta had no idea what this was all about but the lieutenant got an uncomfortable feeling. If this stranger wanted to do him harm the Indian knew that he was no match for a Vulcan male.

"Are you in the fruit import business?" Gupta asked. "Mister," The Indian waited briefly.

"I am called Koss," The Vulcan replied. "I am T'Pol's husband."

Despite having not done anything untoward to his Vulcan friend T'Pol Tarang gulped before he continued in English at first then quickly he changed back to Vulcan. "I am a am a pleased to meet you." Gupta said in English then corrected himself and added in Vulcan. "It is good to know of you."

"Let us dispense with the pleasantries as you humans call them," Koss said bluntly and unemotionally. "T'Pol has spoken of you. You have also been a guest of her mother's. I was never a guest of T'Les. It," Koss paused in thought. "It disturbs me greatly; your association with my wife."

First three-cornered business deals now jealous husbands Tarang groused. Mister Bond never had anything to deal with like this Gupta mused. "I understand that you are not joined." T'Pol had remarked when Gupta had asked where her husband was how they had not yet formalized their marriage. "I mean no disrespect to you or T'Pol. I met your wife on earth. She is assisting me in my business in accord with the wishes of the ministry." There, Tarang thought, that was the official story T'Pol had said he should use. That way when they made the trek to the ruins there would be somewhat of an explanation for T'Pol's absence.

"T'Pol seems quite," Koss paused and Tarang could detect the slight emotion he assigned to what he said next. "She seems quite interested in you. It is not proper for the mate of one to be interested in another. It is like that on your world as well."

"That is true," Tarang answered. For the most part the intelligence officer thought. There were all sorts of unique cultures on earth. "I am sure it is just your wife's efficiency in her dealings with others. She has been of great help in Pan-Pacific's dealings. My firm's association with Vulcan has yielded great profit." Gupta waxed on about profits, the export business, and profit margins. It soon became apparent that Koss was getting annoyed.

"I see," Koss said interrupting the human. That was most uncharacteristic for a Vulcan Gupta thought. "Then it seems your association is one of economics only." The Vulcan's disdain though not visible to most was apparent to see for Gupta. "I suppose that is acceptable. But see that it stays that way off-worlder. You could not survive the kalifee."

That said Koss turned about and headed out into the noonday Vulcan heat. A thoroughly amazed Gupta stood rooted until he realized that Sremen was behind him. Tarang was speechless for several seconds.

"Are you interested in T'Pol that way?" Sremen asked as if he were inquiring about the passage of a weather system.

"I a, I'm not, I," Gupta began haltingly in English. The lieutenant took a deep breath then continued calmly in Vulcan. "I was but I have put those feelings aside." There it was out. Gupta had grown to have a great deal of respect for Sremen. So it was that he did not want to lie to the Vulcan.

"Thank you for your candor," Sremen replied. "You have not asked but I will tell you that many of us reason that your people are duplicitous. I have discovered that it is not so with you Tarang."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence!" Gupta said grinning. Sremen's expression remained unchanged of course. Koss' words about T'Pol's interest in the intelligence officer were sinking in. But no Gupta had to put those thoughts out of his head. It was probably, Tarang could think of it as nothing else; T'Pol's passion to complete a task. Gupta had discovered that much about the Vulcan woman during their association.

"One thing Sremen," Gupta said quietly. "I am unfamiliar with the term 'kalifee'."

"May it remain so," Sremen replied. The Vulcan seemed to Gupta, for lack of a better word to be embarrassed. When the Vulcan spoke at last it was with a reluctance Gupta perceived. "The Vulcan marriage ceremony like much of our customs is handed down to us through the ages. In the ancient days the kunat kalifee referred to marriage or challenge. If another suitor challenged the marriage then the ceremony would progress to the kalifee."

"You mean a disagreement," Gupta replied. "Sort of like the westerners 'speak now or forever hold your peace'."

"No more than that," Sremen answered. Gupta swore the Vulcan almost looked pained. The naval officer was about to tell Sremen to let the matter drop when the Vulcan said at last: "The challenge would lead to combat between the intended and the challenger. The combat concludes when one of the potential mates is dead."

Gupta was silent for several seconds. Then he said in English: "But that was a long time ago—you don't have these things anymore?"

"It is rare," Sremen replied in that unemotional Vulcan way.

Rare, Tarang thought but that implied that it still existed. The intelligence officer gulped. Vulcans had three times the physical strength of humans. Tarang could not see himself caught up in some sort of marriage ceremony challenge but what if this Koss lost his restraint? T'Pol had said that crime still existed on Vulcan. Did those crimes include crimes of passion Gupta wondered? The human noticed the Vulcan was staring at him.

"But that should not present a problem as you have indicated that your association with T'Pol is purely professional," Sremen said. Then the Vulcan added as a seeming afterthought; "Unless of course she is interested in consummating a relationship with you in which case she can call for the kalifee."

Great, Tarang thought. "Then it is not an issue as our association is as you have said, professional."

Maxim PC-112, Wolf 359, Apr 2157

The small group of freshly painted Curran and Archer class patrol craft cruised in an empty region of space between the planets of the Wolf system; like a group of sharks swimming through the ocean of space in search of prey. The eighteen patrol craft were backed up by the Amarillo class destroyer London and the Pioneer class Majestic. The earth ships had allied support in the form of the Andorian carrier Exdem'Ac and the Tellarite heavy cruiser Kav.

Lt. Patch Edgerton was tired. The commander of the Archer class Maxim knew that he was not the only one who was fatigued. Chief Ellen Potter had logged as many star hours as Edgerton had; so had his new ops officer the Tellarite Lt. Slas. Lately their roving patrol had been deployed more than they were on station. Edgerton had managed two days of free time during the last month. The new Star Fleet had started a meager offensive. Word off of the subspace radio of a minor victory over Deneva by Admiral Forrest had buoyed all their spirits.

But Star Fleet was worried: They were worried that the Romulans still had a great deal of ships in the Deneva and Topaz system. Command was worried about where those ships could go. Wolf was as likely a target as any. No sooner had the battle of earth concluded than Edgerton and his Archer class ship had received orders sending them to Wolf 359. It was Edgerton's job to augment the force of Archers already in place there.

"Anything El?" Edgerton asked the chief. The enlisted woman was occupying the pilot position directly in front of Edgerton's seat. The lieutenant watched as Potter looked into the hooded readout of her subspace sensor display.

"No one here but us Star Fleet guys!" Potter said. Edgerton appreciated the older woman's humor in spite of her obvious fatigue. Potter yawned and looked again. "It almost makes me wish some Birdies would show up."

"We'll complete this tour then get a break," Edgerton said reassuringly. "Taskforce 18 is supposed to take up station in a few days."

"I will look forward to that," Slas said. The Tellarite was occupying the copilot position. "I barely had time to smell the mud of Terra Nova. But I would like to jump in it when we go there again."

"If you don't mind I'll join you," Potter said playfully. "Right now a warm mud bath sounds pretty soothing."

The Tellarite was about to reply when a light near the hood of Potter's sensor scope illuminated. The woman looked into the hooded scope again.

"Uh-oh," Was all that Potter said at first. "I'm showing multiple unknown contacts coming in along a z-plus approach."

"Destination?" Edgerton asked as the lieutenant heard multiple calls in his earpiece confirming his pilot's assessment.

"Lupine," Potter answered meaning the fourth planet of the system.

"Damn," Edgerton said softly to himself. Lupine was a world much like Mars. Dry and airless it was rich in mineral deposits but had so far been untouched except for a small way station on the surface. That had been evacuated at the outset of the war. Edgerton wondered what the Birdies were doing. From the comm traffic coming over the Maxim's commander's earpiece so were the other commanders in the defense force.

They could land on Lupine Edgerton thought blandly. The planet had not yet received the new Hercules missiles. No one had thought that the Romulans would concern themselves with a dead uninhabited world. If the Birdies did land there or set up in orbit it would be a melee for the Star Fleet defenders. The Romulans would have a base from which to fight. On the other hand the Birdies would have to defend their holding Edgerton thought. This was obviously meant to draw the defenders out to Lupine. Edgerton saw no other recourse. Neither apparently did General Talh of the Andorian Imperial Guard. The general ordered the patrol craft to warp out near Lupine. Edgerton acknowledged the message. Here they go again he thought, into the grinder.

"Course laid in sir," Potter said. The chief looked into the hooded sensor. "I'm showing forty-five ships altogether. Wolf reports Minotaurs are on alert."

"Engage El," Edgerton said simply. The commander of the Maxim turned to his Tellarite copilot. "Same drill as before Slas. El will do the driving you do the shooting." Edgerton had discovered that the Tellarite was an excellent marksman with extraordinary hand-eye coordination. Potter had proven to be an excellent pilot. Edgerton still had nightmares from Potter's threading the needle between the warp nacelles of a Romulan Cabbage. The enlisted woman had not only succeeded in doing that but her flying resulted in the destruction of that Cabbage.

The Maxim jumped to warp 2.5 as Potter followed the course directed by General Talh and sent over the secure battle frequency. The big Andorian carrier jumped in behind the group of patrol craft. The tough little ships would spearhead the defense as always. They were ten minutes out from their respective deployment points when Edgerton's earpiece starting emitting a number a distressing calls. Potter bent over the hood of her sensors briefly.

"Another group coming in along a z-minus axis of approach!" Potter exclaimed. "I'm showing thirty-six unknowns." The NCO looked into her hooded readout again: "Anticipated entry into normal space around Terra Nova!"

"Damn!" Edgerton cursed. Slas let fly with a Tellarite curse. Lt. Edgerton did not like this at all. The general was ordering the Minotaurs to hold the skies above Terra Nova. That would cut their firepower in half Edgerton groused. No doubt that had been the Birdies plan all along. Edgerton did the mental math: If they turned about to the defense of Terra Nova they would only arrive just in time to engage the new group. The original group of Romulan attackers would be free to either join their other group in a pincer movement against the Star Fleet ships or proceed to set up camp on Lupine. Neither alternative was a good one. Here was the plan as Talh's orders came over the battlenet.

"We are committing all ships except the Minotuars to the first group," Edgerton informed his crew. "We'll mop these guys up as fast as we can than move to relieve the Minotaurs."

"That doesn't give Nova much of a chance!" Potter exclaimed.

"They have the new defense platforms El," Edgerton replied. "Between those and the fighters they should be able to hold off the Birdies." The minutes ticked away as the group proceeded to Lupine.

"Damn sir!" Potter exclaimed. "They aren't slowing down!"

Near Lupine, Wolf 359, Apr 2157

The fleet transitioned into normal space. Andorian fighters poured out of the out flung wings of the Exdem'Ac. The Curran and Archers separated allowing enough space to concentrate their firepower while at the same time being far enough away from one another to prevent them from being destroyed en masse by a high yield nuclear weapon. The Kav, Majestic and London were the last to elongate into normal space. Those ships stayed back, out of range of the deadly Romulan plasma cannons. The small allied fleet soon had company. Green ships stretched into normal space all around them.

Three of the patrol craft were instantly destroyed when a Romulan Veronus class cruiser warped into them. The green ship was consumed by the collision as well. The London was turning about like a wounded whale when two Sabinus class ships appeared before the destroyer. Space between the Romulan ships and the destroyer was littered with missiles for a few seconds before all three ships were consumed by a massive nuclear fireball. The far more maneuverable Archer and Currans dispersed firing missiles as they went. Two Romulan Cabbages elongated into the path of a flight Amazon missiles and were vaporized instantly. A Curran speeding along a flight path jerked up wildly as a Chowder cruiser warped into normal space no more than five meters from the small craft. One of the new Janus class missiles leapt out of the Curran's belly tube. So close the ships were though; that the missile became embedded in the Romulan's hull as the tiny Curran sped away. The Chowder exploded seconds later.

The space between the remaining allied capital ships and the Romulans became filled with hyper accelerated projectiles and anti-ship missiles. The Archers and Currans evaded in an attempt to get out from between the fire. Romulan plasma beams exploded short as Amazon and Janus missiles intercepted the accelerated mass of plasma. The Maxim vectored beneath the hull of a Chowder. The small Archer class ship fired its pulse lasers cutting a glowing red gash in the side of the Chowder. A small expulsion of gas blew out of a similar gash that appeared in the side of the Maxim. The tiny Archer fired an Amazon at a distant Sabinus class cruiser. Seconds later it fired another. The first exploded short of the Cabbage. The second flew through the dying heat of the nuclear explosion of its mate to explode near the Cabbage. The Sabinus blew apart into two torn, wrecked halves.

Romulan spheroid fighters joined the deadly mix. The Archers were coming out behind the Romulan group when the first flight of Andorian fighters blasted through several Romulan ships. Three Sabinus class and one Veronus class cruiser were completely destroyed. Another Veronus spun helplessly for several seconds; its warp nacelles blown off and spewing energetic plasma, the Chowder exploded seconds later. Romulan plasma beams belched forth again. Most missed owing to the new sensor upgrades that the Star Fleet ships had. One cannon did not miss the Archer class Browning however. Caught squarely in the white bean the craft exploded.

PC-112 Maxim, near Lupine, Wolf 359, Apr 2157

"Andies forming up on us," Slas said. "Engineer reports the hit blew out the starboard deuterium tank."

"Acknowledged," Edgerton answered. Edgerton knew that things were not going good. The Romulans were down to thirty-one ships. But the allies had taken a beating as well. They had lost a third of the Archers and Currans and the loss of the London was disastrous. The orders were coming over Edgerton's earpiece. "Okay let the Currans blast away with their Janus missiles. We'll follow them with the Andies!"

The new Janus missile once fired accelerated far quicker than its slower Amazon cousin. It was also highly maneuverable allowing it fly a twisting course through space making it harder to be intercepted by lasers or neutronium pellets. The Currans let loose with a spate of the new missiles. The Archers followed, firing Amazons as they went.

"S'ith'mz!" Slas exclaimed slamming a furry hand down on his consoled. "Captain Phillips' ship has just been destroyed."

Edgerton ran through the casualty list in his head. Phillips had been the patrol crafts' squadron commander. With the losses inflicted already—

"That leaves you in command of the squadron sir!" Potter exclaimed.

"Patrol squadron 5 this is command; lay down a pattern of missiles and arc around in front of the shield it makes," Edgerton commanded over the battle network.

"El send the course guidance out for that," Edgerton said transitioning from commanding a squadron to commanding the Maxim. Edgerton's plan was to launch a flight of missiles into the Birdies, wreck some havoc then turn into that havoc. Edgerton heard the answering confirmation calls from his squadron mates and their Andorian allies.

Terra Nova, Wolf 359, Apr 2157

The Minotaurs spun along their flight paths laying down blistering invisible laser fire. Exhaust trails of Corsair missiles lanced out from the ships as the fighters spun like the blades of an old fashioned helicopter while flying along a vector. Such was the nature of space warfare that they could do that. Five Romulan cruisers exploded. The Minotaurs did not continue outbound for long rather they turned back in a high speed arc which allowed them to keep their speed while staying close to the Romulan cruisers.

Four Sabinus class cruisers maneuvered into a tight formation. The Romulans' plasma cannons fired in bursts from the four one after the other. Thousands of kilometers from the heated plasma defense platforms littered the space around them with missiles and merculite rockets. Two of Romulan Sabinus class ships were destroyed by the new Hercules missile. The large missile once away from the launch tube of its defense platform accelerated to one-quarter light speed then a small warp nacelle gave the missile a brief micro boost into subspace. But despite the platform's defenses a single plasma beam managed to make it to the defensive satellite. The platform was destroyed instantly.

More clusters of Romulan ships formed. The grouped ships fired away at the defense platforms destroying two more of them even at great loss of their own ships. Between the fierce defense of the Minotaurs and the new Hercules missiles the Romulan assault force was reduced to less than ten ships in a matter of minutes. The Romulan groups separated. A single Romulan Veronus turned on a maneuvering Minotaur cutting the craft in half with its lasers. Another Minotaur avenged its mate with a Corsair that blew off one of the Chowder's warp nacelles. Romulan Eightballs emerged from a Cabbage. A few joined the fight against the Minotaurs most headed towards Terra Nova. Two Minotaurs ripped through the group of spherical Romulan fighters in pursuit of the planet bound Eightballs.

The hulls of the highly nimble Romulan fighters started glowing from the heat of friction as they contacted Terra Nova's atmosphere. Ten of the craft were grouped together. Five of the spheroid fighters suddenly shot out of the atmosphere and made their way under a Star Fleet defense satellite. The defense platforms poured merculite rockets and rail gun fire into the approaching Romulans destroying three of the approaching attackers. The Romulan survivors flew on unmolested for several seconds. High speed Romulan missiles were ejected by the fighters. The platform was hit near the bottom of its cylindrical length. Another of the approaching Eightballs was destroyed. Pieces of the wounded station slowly entered the atmosphere of Terra Nova as the last Romulan fighter collided with the platform lighting up the sky of Wolf's third planet and destroying the automated orbiting defender completely.

The Minotaurs followed their intended Romulan prey into the atmosphere until the agile sphere fighters turned releasing missiles at their pursuers. Bright red laser beams now visible in the atmosphere of Terra Nova spat out toward the Minotaurs. One of the blunt nose Star Fleet fighters was hit causing it to maneuver up and away. The remaining Star Fleet fighter evaded the withering Romulan fire as best as it could. Blue lasers arced out of the Minotaur's nose hitting a Romulan Eightball causing it to shred to molten pieces in its uncontrolled atmospheric descent. A single Corsair blew up another Romulan fighter. But the earth fighter's moves had put it behind the attackers. The Romulans descended further towards Walston City.

Smoking trails rose up from the small city below. Hyper accelerated metal slugs created a metal filled sky. Laser fire lanced out from various points. A single Romulan Eightball was hit. The craft rolled sickly going from controlled flight to the flight of a dropped object. The doomed Romulan fighter blew apart from within. The three survivors flew were now less than five-hundred meters above and four kilometers away from the city. Another of the attackers was cut into two pieces by a ground based laser. Both halves exploded instantly. The two survivors flew over Walston City at well over the speed of sound. Windows shattered from the sonic booms created by the spherical space fighters. Small packets and canisters rained down from the passing craft. One Eightball pulled up sharply only to be destroyed by a slugs from a railgun. The last fighter plowed into the city center sending a nuclear blast wave six kilometers in all directions.

The small packets hit the ground of Terra Nova in a line formed by the path of the ships that had released them. White hot bursts went off as the packets hit. A great burning white hot rent formed in the land along the path of the weapons' release. Buildings were destroyed instantly where the packets white hot explosions occurred. A slow rolling firestorm of intense heat and pressure blew out from the line destroying buildings for kilometers along either side of the line.

PC-112 Maxim, Near Lupine, Wolf 359, Apr 2157

"The survivors are forming a line," Chief Ellen Potter said in a tense voice. "Christ they are going to warp!"

"Okay El," Edgerton said calmly. "What is their course heading?" Patch Edgerton had a sick feeling that he knew the answer to that question. He was not disappointed by the answer but he wished that he would have been.

"Eighteen Birdies inbound for Terra Nova," Potter said quietly.

"Form up our survivors El," Edgerton said. Patch activated his link to the Andorian carrier. The lieutenant got news he expected but didn't want to hear. "Okay guys General Talh is warping with us. That means leaving the Andie fighters out here." That was one bit of good news Patch thought. The carrier would be able to use its suppression fire in an anti-ship role.

The lieutenant suspected this had been the Birdies plan all along: To draw away the carrier while the smaller force opened a gap in the defense network over Terra Nova. When that was complete the larger force would warp in. Without the non-warp capable Andorian fighters the force's ability was severely degraded. The eight remaining Archers and Currans formed up. Edgerton ordered them to go to warp along a course for Terra Nova. The Andorian carrier Exdem'Ac and the Tellarite heavy cruiser Kav followed the spearhead formed by the patrol craft once again. The wounded Majestic rolled through space.

Where once it had been a great cruiser the Majestic now looked like so much space debris. White hot plasma leaked from the torn struts where the ship's warp nacelles had once hung. Shuttles launched from the bays of the ship. The hulk rolled over lazily revealing a port side with no hull plating. The stacked rows of the decks were plainly visible through the wreckage. The last shuttle was away when small explosions started in a chain reaction that worked its way to the Majestic's fusion reactor. The ship along with the last escaping shuttle was consumed by the hellish explosion of the Majestic's power plant.

"Lot's of jamming between us and the Minotaurs," Patch said to his pilot and copilot.

"The Minnies have to know they are coming," Slas said.

"I hope that you are right lieutenant," Edgerton said.

"Of course I'm right!" Slas exclaimed with a laugh. "You terrans still don't recognize our greatness!"

"Three minutes until Terra N," Potter said.

Edgerton acknowledged the chief. The subspace sensor display which Patch had ordered displayed on the viewscreen showed a glowing hotspot where Walston City lay on the surface of Terra Nova. The oncoming Romulan group was now a little more than a minute from the planet.

Walston City, Terra nova, Wolf 359 Apr 2157

Eli Janski pulled his son along by one arm while pushing his wife Rose along with the other. The shelter they were in had literally disintegrated before the eyes of Eli and his family. Rose was justifiably shaken. The family had watched as the Merkelsons, standing near the wall of the shelter had ignited like living torches briefly before mercifully crumpling to the ground. Janski along with a few others had decided to stay. How he regretted that decision now!

Janski and Rose had both reasoned, though now he suspected rationalized was a better word, that Wolf was safe. Unlike Centauri with its arid climate and poor soil and pitiable concentrations of heavy metals and minerals Terra Nova had yielded an abundance of natural resources. So it was that man had gravitated more to the further distant Wolf rather than earth's closest neighbor.

Janski pushed Rose harder. He regretted it as he seen his wife about to fall. Eli grabbed Rose. He didn't need to find Crispin his son. The five year old was sobbing and hugging Eli's leg. The small family paused briefly. Janski knew that another shelter was up the street by the mineral separator. But he was confused as everything was a flattened pile of rubble. It also occurred to the colonist that since their shelter had been destroyed the next one was likely to be too.

But the father took heart. No shelter could survive a direct hit. Janski along with every other human had learned that from the history of the Third World War. That is what must've happened Eli thought; it was a direct hit. Eli pulled Rose close to him. He could see her tears. He wished he could do something to help his wife. Eli pointed away in the direction that he thought they should take. Rose nodded hesitantly and gripped his arm tightly. Eli motioned for her to go and they trudged along. The human family did not see the small canister as they stumbled among the stone and metal debris. But it did not matter.

Eli thought that it was strange. Everything was darkening. It must be smoke he reasoned. He thought too that he would have to start going back to the gym tomorrow. He was having a hard time catching his breath. Eli was embarrassed to find himself drooling as his vision narrowed even further. He started to wipe at his mouth when he vomited on his sleeve. Rose and Crispin were collapsed into shuddering heaps. Eli briefly wondered what was wrong until he too feel to the ground. He vomited one more time and with the last use of his uncontrollable limbs brought his hand up to show that he had expelled blood; a great deal of it.

PC-112 Maxim in orbit of Terra Nova, Apr 2157

The Romulans were reduced to seventeen ships. Edgerton was no longer in command of his patrol as a Romulan missile exploding near the Archer had sent the craft spinning. Potter and Slas working together had regained attitude control. But that was it. The Maxim sat back and watched. At least Edgerton thought, his ship was still good for providing additional sensor coverage. He would've tried to get back into the fight but engineering was silent now. Slas' board showed that area to be decompressed.

Edgeton watched from a distance as the Minotaurs and six surviving Archers and Currans traded shots with the Birdies. The Kav moved into a precarious position exposing itself to Romulan plasma cannons. A hail of merculite rockets left the bay of the Kav. A Romulan Chowder narrowly missed the flight of rockets but a Sabinus class cruiser did not. Myriad tiny explosions ripped the Cabbage to pieces before it exploded. The Kav was going to get away Patch thought! But it was not be. A plasma cannon caught the trailing end of the two-hundred meter long Tellarite ship of war. The great vessel was sent reeling.

"Come on," Edgerton pleaded to the fuzzy video projection. "Come on guys get the hell off of that ship." Illuminated areas appeared over parts of the Kav as shuttle bay doors opened. The Andorian carrier Exdem'Ac pushed ahead steadily. Edgerton switched to subspace sensors to see the graphic of the Andorian's hail of projectiles and lasers. The curve of the graph dipped down. The carrier was running low on ammunition Edgerton thought. The Andorian cover fire lessened. A plasma beam caught the Tellarite a second time. This time it was not a glancing blow. The Tellarite ship was obliterated instantly. "Damnit!" Edgerton cursed.

The Andorian carrier was now the one in a precarious position. But rather than turn away, the lieutenant watched as the Exdem'Ac's thrust output increased. General Talh must've ordered them to move in close Patch thought. Solid blips appeared suddenly as if out of nowhere. Four pulsing numbered blips representing Romulan cruisers suddenly vanished. No doubt the work of Hercules anti-ship missiles Edgerton thought as he smiled.

Patch listened to the battle network as the surviving Star Fleet ships rallied against the Birdies. A flight of Eightballs was followed down to the surface of Terra Nova but not before some damage had been done by the sphere fighters. Edgerton looked at the graphic of the subspace sensors. He switched onto the net:

"They are breaking for subspace! Their ships are forming up."

The Romulan signatures vanished from Edgerton's screen. The Eightballs that had been left behind made final suicidal rushes toward the surviving Star Fleet ships.

The US White House, Washington DC, Earth, Apr 2157

The two Andorians were uncomfortable in the warm, humid room. Their hosts were, however not uncomfortable. President Todd Allen Glenn looked resplendent in black formal wear. Carson Maclaren was wearing a most informal pullover sweater and slacks. Glenn circulated around the room refilling the Andorian's glasses as well as his own. When he was complete the president sat back down at the head of the table. The two Andorians were on one side of the ancient oak table and the journalist took up station on the other side opposite the aliens.

"I'd like to thank you both again for coming here to discuss our mutual problems," President Glenn said as he sat back in his chair. "I trust that your trip went well?" Glenn asked solicitously. At the aliens' agreeing nonverbals the President of the United States continued: "I understand that D'ehsela Lahana does not speak English but you D'ehsela Chrut do?"

The aliens spoke back and forth until finally Chrut turned and answered in heavily accented English, "true Mister President, although Lehana has been studying conversational English. And you need not use our titles—we no longer have those."

"Yes most unfortunate," Glenn replied. "We have all had to make sacrifices based on the unenlightened ideals of others."

"You mentioned in your communiqué to us that we could perhaps help one another?" Chrut asked getting to the point right away.

Glenn glanced at Carson Maclaren. "Mr. Maclaren here is a journalist. His opinion reaches tens of millions of people a week. We need as much help as possible in the upcoming election."

"By you; you mean the Sons' of Terra" Chrut asked after Lehana spoke to him hastily in their common tongue.

"I know you are aware of what that organization stands for," Maclaren interjected. "They have not had good things to say about Andorians. But I believe you yourself in speeches before the Caldonè have referred to us humans as pink skins?" When Chrut seemed about to protest Maclaren continued. "It was rhetoric to garner support for a position. We are not here to argue politics. I believe that both of you are wise enough to see that people can make uninformed decisions when they are not led properly."

"Yes indeed," Glenn interjected. "This needless slaughter of Andorian warriors over this senseless war; we believe your decision not to come to Thorpe's aid was a wise one."

Lehana spoke loudly and stridently in her native language. After several seconds Chrut translated:

"Lehana has said that Rastan's ill-conceived action has put Andoria at risk. This war was between you and the Romulans. Your expansion has not gone unnoticed."

"A lot of people agree with you," the journalist said; "A lot of humans that is. We moved too fast too far. We let people lead us by the ears whose only interest was exploration. We need to settle issues on this planet. Admiral French tells me that there was an opportunity to establish a dialogue with the Romulans but Thorpe prevented him from doing so."

Chrut and Lehana spoke quietly to one another in Andorian. Thorpe spoke up when the aliens' discussion seemed to be complete. "We deeply regret the deaths of the Andorians who died in this last battle of Deneva and lately the slaughter on Terra Nova. I assure you were others in charge here on earth your warriors would not have to fight and die."

"How…can…we…help…you?" Chrut said in stumbling English.

"There is a feeling of," Thorpe paused searching for words. "A feeling of fellowship is forming among our naval personnel and the aliens—excuse me," Glenn added quickly seeing Chrut's reaction. "It is spreading into the general populace. School children are being taught about Andorian traditions since the death of Rastan. We can't abide these things."

"There is much that we can do here but we need help," Maclaren interjected. "We know that you had some support," the journalist indicated the Andorian visitors; "before being turned out in a no confidence vote. Bring home the fact that your Guardsmen are dying needlessly to defend," Maclaren paused and took a deep breath before continuing: "To defend pink skins."

The two Andorians spoke quickly among themselves. A debate seemed to ensue between the two aliens. Several times fingers were pointed at the president of the United States and his human guest. Finally the two former Andorian politicians seemed to have come to a consensus.

"We see," Chrut said at last. "And what does this gain for us?"

"With our people in office we can slow down this war," Glenn answered. "Oh we know that we won't be able to capture a majority in June. But we will have enough seats to stall things with investigations and procedural maneuvering." Glenn motioned at Maclaren. "In the meantime Carson here will ensure that the people forget about the colonies and Panama City. That is the advantage of having a professional journalist on ones side!" This last Glenn added with a chuckle. He continued; "in time people will grow tired of hearing of the casualties. They will demand an end to this war." Glenn saw the almost shark-like look, first on Chrut's face then Lehana's.

"If your people seek an agreement with the Romulans then our traditionalists will be seen as having led our Guardsmen into a needless war." Chrut said. The two spoke stridently in their own tongue before turning back to their human hosts. "Once we regain power we can sever our ties with your people—save for the economic ones."

"We share a common vision my friends," Glenn declared grandly.

The small group made such small talk as was possible between beings with a gulf a space between them. The Andorians finished their beverages and after some ceremony excused themselves. President Glenn signaled for his aides who then escorted the aliens out of the meeting room. When the door closed Glenn turned to the Scots journalist.

"I still can't get over the smell," Glenn said huffily. "But I suppose it is as you say Carson we need all the help that we can get."

"One must sometimes put up with unpleasantries in the pursuit of goals sir," Maclaren replied. "You can always have the conference room sprayed." The journalist said adding an exaggerated wrinkle of his nose. "The important thing is that they go back to Andoria and say what we want them to."

"It is a sure way for them to regain power," Glenn replied. "Once Andorian support waivers Tellarite support will fall right behind it."

"Speaking of support," Glenn said with a grin; "how is our boy from eastern North America doing?"

"Hawkins is holding his own," Maclaren replied. "It is going to be a narrow race." The journalist sighed. "Frankly I'm surprised he has went this far. It is only because of considerable support from the northern half of the US district that I hold out any hope for him at all."

"You must bring your influence to bear Carson," Glenn said simply.

"About that, you doubtless saw the debacle in Paris?" the journalist asked. At Glenn's nod the Scotsman continued. "One of my newscasters was assaulted by a woman whose boy had perished on the London. He was quite frightened by the ordeal but the worst part was the crowd's refusal to help him. I have been in this business long enough Mr. President to know when it is time to back off. We are at that point now."

Todd Allen Glenn sighed. "Thorpe has whipped these people up with a combination of false patriotism and fervor for this alliance." The president of the United States shook his head sadly. "He wants us to give ourselves over to this alien trash. Just like those two who were in this conference room. And the people are too stupid and unenlightened to see the future." Glenn looked thoughtful for several seconds before continuing. "You know you business best Carson."

"Also I don't know what it means yet," the journalist started. "But Mark met a newcomer at one of his rallies. The man turns out to be in intelligence in the Stellar Navy."

"That sounds suspicious," Glenn said quietly.

"We haven't much support from the military," Maclaren said. "No surprise from that bunch. But there is some. This gentleman could be the real deal. And anyway if Thorpe was trying to get someone into the Sons' of Terra to snoop around you would think he would not be so transparent about doing it."

"Is this fellow an officer?" the president of the United Stated asked. When Maclaren shook his head Glenn continued. "Then it is possible he is with us. Enlisted people are always a step below and want to gain whatever little stature they can in their lives." Glenn came to a decision. "Tell Hawkins to feel this individual out. Imagine having someone from naval intelligence in our organization?" The journalist nodded and grinned. The men spoke for several more minutes before getting up to go their separate ways.

UES Fearless, Allied Battle Group 7, in orbit of Terra Nova, Wolf 359, Apr 2157

"When do the first evac freighters arrive?" Commodore Jocelyn Stiles asked.

"Two days," Commodore Pierre Oulette replied.

"Of course," General Shran added. "We should have been expecting something like this."

The three commanders were seated around a conference table in the Fearless' wardroom. The crest of the Pioneer class cruiser adorned the table top. When Stiles asked the Andorian what he meant Shran got up and made his way to the room's holographic viewscreen.

"Your people are rerouting the freighters that were carrying the Hercules missiles to Tellar for the evacuation," the general answered pointing to a line indicating the relief freighters' course. "Not only those weapons but the replenishment parts and ammunition for the outer squadrons—Forrest's people. We have responded in like manner."

The Andorian was referring to the recent evacuation order given to the remaining populace of Terra Nova. Thorpe was aware that many had volunteered to stay but after the combination Romulan ground attack of burning plasma and nerve gas the president did not want to see anymore civilian casualties. The pictures beamed back to earth had horrified many.

"That was it all along!" Stiles exclaimed. "I thought there was more to this than a terror attack."

"The industrial base is gone here as well," Oulette added. "We counted on the Birds to be knocked out after the Battle of Sol and the pasting that Admiral Forrest gave them but it seems that we were premature."

"Sir," Stiles started to say to Oulette when he interrupted her.

"You have as many of these," Oulette said holding up an arm and pointing to the stripes on his sleeve; "as I do. Call me Pierre or even better Grizz."

"Grizz," Shran said in a puzzled voice. "There is an Andorian word that sounds like that. It refers to an unpleasant odor."

The French-Canadian laughed. "I was told that once before General. I like the idea of making a stink; especially with our Birdie friends."

"You know," Stiles looked uncomfortable. "Grizz I could use my emergency war order cargo capacity and deliver some of those missiles to Tellar using Taskforce 18."

"We were ordered to defend Wolf!" Oulette answered emphatically.

"Do either of you seriously believe Wolf is the target again?" General Shran asked the two humans.

"Sounds like they might go for Tellar," Stiles started then said in a hushed voice: "Or Kamaga. One thing about the Birdies is that they are like chess players—move and counter-move."

Oulette cursed in French. "The station has been a thorn in their sides. Forrest could defend the station but if he is engaged in skirmishes he will be badly under-supplied."

"Those are two possibilities," Shran said. "I think one is as likely as the other except that removing the Tellars' station would reduce our eyes in that region and allow the Romulans to operate with freedom out of Deneva once again."

Oulette scratched at his head. The Canadian was the senior terran officer. The combination of Taskforce 18 and Oulette's Taskforce 25 along with carrier and heavy cruiser support of the Andorians and Tellarites had been dispatched to defend Terra Nova after the devastating attack the planet had just been subjected too.

"I agree," Oulette said at last. When Stiles started to speak the French-Canadian bade her be quiet then added: "I will take on as much cargo as I can with Taskforce 25. I am old. If I am court-martialed for disobeying orders it will only result in me being retired. Besides we have yet to run this past Forrest. The subspace delay should give us a little time. Nonetheless I will order the freighters to transfer their cargo to my ships after they arrive."

"I can offer you the space aboard the Hazat'Te," Shran said referring to the Andorian carrier component of Battle Group 7. "We can leave our fighters here. That will provide an edge should the Romulans come back here. I shall go with you as well. I believe that the Romulans have accomplished their objective here at Wolf."

"At least they can defend Terra Nova," Stiles said. "Their Eightballs are no match for either of our fighters." Jocelyn told the alien general.

"It is decided then," Oulette declared. "In the meantime you should suit up as many of your people for disaster relief Commodore Stiles."

"Since I'm calling you Grizz how about Jo-jo instead," Stiles said with a smile. "I've already sent some shuttles down. Bastards have rigged those gas canisters to go off at random times!"

"They wanted to force your government to evacuate the planet," Shran said.

"They were effective," Oulette said bitterly.

"We have to start taking some of our colonies back," Stiles said quietly; "especially Deneva."

"One thing at a time Chocolate," Shran said.

UES Fearless, Apr 2157

"These are the fuel figures ma'am," Lt. Cmdr. Jeff Sutton said handing the clipboard over to the blue-skinned officer.

The Andorian woman looked over the clipboard carefully before signing it and returning it to Sutton. When Talas saw Sutton's stare she spoke up. "Is there something else?"

"I'm getting requests about shore leave ma'am," Sutton answered.

"Did you not read the reports about Terra Nova?" Talas asked in an exasperated tone.

"I did," Sutton answered. "I've been a little reluctant to tell others what happened—I mean the full report. They'll definitely want to blow off steam after they hear what the Birdies did there." Sutton added quickly; "the humans anyway sorry ma'am it means to—,"

"I have served among humans before," Talas said. "I know what 'blowing off steam' means. You pink skins are too soft." The Andorian woman leaned back in the Fearless' captain's chair. "Organize some sort of activities. Your records indicated that you had an additional duty as a recreation NCO several years back." The Fearless' first officer looked pointedly at Sutton; "for instance some physical activities." Talas poked at Sutton's midsection. "You could use some yourself lieutenant commander. You will meet me in the gym at 1800."

Sutton agreed and gathered up his reports for distribution. The lieutenant commander exited the bridge for his next duty call. Jeff knew that he was getting a little thick in the mid section. He had always relied somewhat on his metabolism but Sutton guessed that was slowing down somewhat. The navy officer was not happy to be reminded about his physical shape on the small darkened bridge of the Fearless. Jeff hadn't missed a few snickers from the bridge crew after Talas' comments.

Sutton was still steamed when he arrived in engineering several minutes later. The Fearless' operations officer found Lt. Shato in his small office. The Andorian was looking at circuit schematics on his desktop viewscreen. Shato glanced up then seeing that it was Sutton he shut the display off.

"I haven't been among your people as much as others," the Andorian started. "But you look like you have a problem. By the way our quarters are hot enough to grow plant life in. Could we settle on a pleasant eighteen C?"

Sutton handed the engineer the report that Talas had signed. The operations officer looked around then after Shato motioned for him to be seated in the small office Sutton finally said:

"Talas has been on me ever since that first day! I know I should've reported in to the first officer first thing here but stopping off in another department is no crime!"

The Andorian engineer leaned back in his chair. "Look Jeff," he said to Sutton. "We have a very strict code of duty in the Guard. I'm not saying that you pink skins are lax; it is just that you sometimes seem to worry too much about feelings."

Sutton told the engineer about the latest episode on the bridge. Shato seem to take it all in stride until Jeff got to the end of his story. That seemed to make the Andorian take notice. At least Jeff thought so since Shato's antennae were both standing straight up.

"See, even you think that being poked in the gut is a little belittling," Sutton said defensively.

"No it is not that," Shato said with real trepidation in his voice. "She invited you for physical activities?" The Andorian asked putting an emphasis on his last two words. At Sutton's nod the engineer continued in a warning tone. "That is very serious indeed."

"You see, you see!" Sutton said emphatically. "You agree--She has it out for me! How am I going to make things right? You're an Andie—Andorian; what do I need to do here?"

"She has it out for you," Shato said ruefully. "But not in the way you think. An invitation for physical activities from one of a different sex is one of the first steps in Andorian courting rights. A female would want to see what kind of potential mate you would make." The Andorian seemed thoughtful, "still it could just be that she has been among humans." Shato laughed. "I warned you that first day pink skin!"

"I think you are just pulling my leg," Sutton said with a grin. "And I'll try eighteen C; but it is on your head if I come down with pneumonia."

"Perhaps our first officer will be pulling your leg Jeff," Shato said with a very human grin.


	8. Chapter 8

Salintac, Capital city of the Tellarite Union, Tellar Apr 2157

"It is about time you made it back here you smelly sack of excrement!" Creel Zarn exclaimed.

"I was in no hurry to see an ugly creature like you Zarn" Ambassador Kelly O'Donnell answered with a smile. "But you know what I have come for."

"Free food," the Tellarite answered then continued after a growling sigh. "There is a possibility that we can expect an attack here or on Kamaga. Yes, yes we are not as backwards as are you smelly, sweaty humans. Tas Shavma sent a coded message saying that was the likely reason for the atrocities against your people on Terra Nova."

"Taskforce 25 is enroute with Hercules missiles," O'Donnell said then continued quietly; "but they can't possibly get here on the schedule we had issued previously. They had to take extra time to transfer cargo and so forth."

"I won't lie to you Kelly," Zarn said giving the Tellarite equivalent of a shrug. "We were counting on those missiles. But my engineers tell me that they can modify the guidance system on our merculite rockets for greater distance. We have put that in place on several of our orbiting missile platforms."

"President Thorpe has told me assure you personally that earth stands with you and your people," O'Donnell said formally. "We do not forget our friends." The human ambassador's voice took on a conspiratorial tone. "We hope to deal with a Birdie attack on your world or Kamaga in another way."

"Which you cannot tell me?" Zarn asked in a clearly disappointed voice.

"You are too thickheaded to listen anyway," the ambassador said. "It is not that I am keeping secrets. I believe that the president is worried about Romulan spying." O'Donnell related to Zarn the discovery of Romulan spy drones near Saturn and as far in the Sol system as Mercury. "They self-destructed," O'Donnell explained. "But we have no idea how long they were there or how much information they gathered. All I can say to you is that I believe Thorpe when he says we are going to be there for you."

"We received dispatches through your military about the drones," Zarn answered. "We have discovered one in our system so far." The Tellarite let out a growl of frustration. "It will not bode well if Tellar is attacked. We Tellarites are stubborn bastards but the political alliance I had to form for us to go to war is very tenuous."

"I believe that the president is aware of that," O'Donnell answered.

"Is he?" Zarn answered pointedly. When O'Donnell asked the Tellarite leader to explain Zarn continued: "Some agents representing the Sons' of Terra have been in contact with some of our politicians here. I do not know what is going on in your mud pit Kelly but you need to settle your internal differences. Even an idiot like you must see that when your world appears unsure of its direction that it makes it hard for allies to stand with you."

"I understand," O'Donnell answered bitterly. "These Sons' of Terra; I know you have a word that means bottom-feeder only worse."

"Z'ar'taz," Zarn answered.

"That is what these Sons' of Terra are," O'Donnell answered. "The president is reluctant to engage them in anything more than the political arena. As much of a pain in the ass as the Sons' are; we have experienced more than one horrible time when members of one group tried to suppress the voices of others. Thorpe is hoping that the idiocy they are spewing out will destroy them."

"I understand Kelly," Zarn replied. "But tell this to Thorpe—and this is a formal message between our governments. Your people are at war. It is time for you to admit that. Thorpe needs to crack down on his internal dissidents within the reaches of his power. Even we Tellarites would not permit this sort of thing in public. While it is true that we have our own variety of Z'ar'taz by custom they do their actions in private. Thorpe allowing these Sons' of Terra a voice without responding to it is setting up a dangerous situation for your allies Kelly."

Kelly had seen the situation back on earth. It had been almost a century since humans had experienced a war. For humans it had become as Kelly recalled an old speech made by Zefram Cochrane saying: War, poverty, hunger, they are all going to be gone soon. The old scientist had sounded so self-assured of his prediction. But it had come to pass. Earth hadn't experienced war in almost a century. Everyone had more than enough food and no one was poor. So it was that no one had seen the like of the political machinations that were occurring now.

O'Donnell had been studying history. There was certainly precedent for opposing groups during times of war. O'Donnell had gone all the way back to the English occupation of Ireland all the way through earth's last global war. Political opportunists had always existed on both sides. The only thing that bothered O'Donnell about the present situation was that for once man was not at the throat of his neighbor. No one knew the Birdies' politics. But it seemed likely that they had little regard for human life. So much, the human ambassador thought, for the old assertion that an external enemy would unite mankind.

Still, the Sons' of Terra were a comparatively small group. Their outlook for the June elections was not a good one: Andorian and Tellarite aid as well as the victories over Sol and Deneva had cost the group. Polling data showed that they were likely to lose some council seats that had looked like easy victories for them in December. The Sons had even taken money away from those losing campaigns to put against others where the outlook was better for them. But O'Donnell knew that many small groups had been the seed for much larger activities. The genetically engineered supermen of the late twentieth century were an example of that.

O'Donnell looked up to see the Tellarite coolly appraising him. The ambassador knew that he had been quiet for several minutes now. Zarn was right, O'Donnell reflected. Thorpe had once been nicknamed the 'gentleman campaigner'. But it was clearly the time for United Earth President to take the gloves off with regards to his opponents.

"Your concerns are what are expected from one as hysterical as yourself Zarn." O'Donnell said at last. "I will relay your foolish concerns to President Thorpe." O'Donnell rose and after exchanging minor insults left Zarn's office for his own residence.

Taskforce 27, Tellarite Station Kamaga, May 2157

The Pioneer class vessels Excelsior and Protector were at opposite points around the alien space station. The destroyers Wolverton, and Melbourne were arrayed at different points as well. The Mons Olympus tankers Thera Macula, Mount Cuba, Mont Blanc, Cho Oyu and Ceres had been drained of deuterium and were currently being used as a secondary line of defense around the station. The two remaining Andorian battleships and four of their light cruisers had established a formation. The Tellarite destroyers were still docked at the station having their supplies of merculite rockets brought back up to one-hundred percent. Roving patrols of the small deadly Andorian fighters completed the station's bolstered defenses.

At the station itself a smaller battle was in progress. This one rather than being fought with lasers and missiles was being fought with words. Admiral Maxwell Forrest had summoned a meeting with his commanders. The group was in the same compartment from where Forrest had made the historic decision to come to the defense of earth no more that four months earlier.

"We never expected the Birdies to give up easily," Forrest said to the assembled human and alien officers.

"I don't know if I really expect them to hit here," Capt. Rizal Raja of the Protector said. "As much as losing Kamaga would hurt losing Tellar as an ally would be far more serious. It is with that thought in mind that I question why we have invested so much in the defense of this station; respectfully sir."

"I realize why you are concerned," Forrest replied. "I am taking another gamble here." Forrest looked around at the assembled officers. "The carriers Nimitz, Prince of Wales, Intrepid and Cowpens are being deployed about Tellar." The tall admiral sighed. "Originally I had planned on using the carriers on a drive to re-take Deneva. Since the action that occurred over Wolf I've had to change those plans." Forrest nodded towards Raja. "President Thorpe wanted me to commit the entire force to the defense of Tellar. I convinced him to rely on Buchanan's carriers instead."

Capt. Kozumi of the Wolverton let out a low whistle. "You did indeed lay everything on the line sir."

"If we can hold Kamaga as well as defeating an attack on Tellar I hope that will cause the Birdies to stop long enough for us to mount an invasion of Deneva." Forrest said. "If the main hammer stroke falls here we are as prepared as we can be. I have authorized Grizzly Oulette to push out with his cargo of Hercules missiles for Tellar. But I can tell you that the birdies didn't waste their ships on that attack on Wolf. Grizz will be here in three weeks. I expect any attack to come sooner than that."

"We need some of the new mam ships," Kozumi declared. "With those we could have taken up station between here and Tellar and made it in time to defend either target."

"A lot of the Powhatons were built but they are escorting the carriers," Forrest answered. "Taskforce 30 is scheduled to relieve us but they won't be here for another six weeks. Until then we have to hold this station."

"What have the readings from Deneva been?" Capt. Raja asked.

"Nothing conclusive," Forrest replied with a frown. There are ships seen entering then leaving the system. I suspect they could be rebuilding their facilities there. Examination of the Minotaur's video showed what we believe to be a deuterium manufacturing plant as well as buildings which could be anything from living quarters to warehouses—or both."

"They are there no longer," Colonel Kanza of the Andorian battleship Shonn said with a dry chuckle. The Andorian officer was about to say more when the warbling tones of what passed for a Tellarite alert klaxon sounded. A Tellarite lieutenant entered the briefing room seconds later.

"This is no time for a party!" the Tellarite exclaimed with the abrasiveness typical of his people. "Sorry admiral the sensors show an approaching force of unknowns. Nineteen ships on a heading for the station at warp 2.5."

"This looks like it folks," Forrest said as the group broke up to shuttle back to their respective ships.

"I wonder," Colonel Kanza said quietly. "It is an impressive force but not enough to penetrate our defenses here." The Andorian looked at the human admiral. "Perhaps it is time to send some sort of warning to Tellar."

Star Fleet fighter Squadron 12, UES Intrepid, half of a light year out from Tellar

Walters hated this part. The Minotaur was part of a revolving chamber inside of the two-hundred and thirty-five meter length of the Intrepid. The pilot always feared that the launch mechanism would fail before the Minotaurs could be launched. Being lead for Squadron 12 allowed Walters to launch first. Logically the lieutenant knew that if any of the fifty meter long cigar-shaped fighters were to become jammed then blow-out plating would open up parts of the Intrepid herself allowing the carrier to launch its fighters.

"Sensors show forty-two Birdies on a course for Tellar Prime," Ensign Vince Mason said. "It also looks like they are making some kind of a move against Kama station." The naval officer said using the human slang for the Tellarite station.

"I guess that was the third alternative the Admiral was talking about," Walters said to Mason. "That the Birdies try for to sweep everything."

"Minnie 5 just launched out," Walters' copilot announced. "Okay get ready to go to warp Vince." Lt. William Walters notified his charges to form up on his ship as the small fighters prepared to expel their small anti-matter packets in a micro-flight to Tellar Prime. Walters watched the small video screen on his console depicting the layout of his fighters. The Star Fleet fighters were soon formed into a V-formation. Seconds later the fighters stretched away to infinity as they entered subspace.

UES Excelsior, in orbit of the Tellarite station Kamaga, May 2157

"The battle group is reporting in ready admiral," Captain Yoshi Nakamura told his commanding officer. The Naha native looked at the admiral when Forrest failed to acknowledge his information. "Is everything alright sir?"

Forrest was looking intently at the viewscreen. The admiral had ordered a tactical display overlaid on the bridge viewer. Forrest looked at the captain then back at the display. Finally he said:

"This doesn't feel right Yoshi. Lieutenant Ma'z," Forrest turned to the Tellarite navigator. "Calculate a likely point where the Birdies would start to turn aside were they to press on to Tellar."

"Do you think that they are going to throw their combined forces against Tellar?" Nakamura asked pointedly. The battle group had received word of the ships headed for Tellar.

"I don't know," Forrest replied quietly as the admiral stroked his chin distractedly. "The Birdies have never split their forces like this for an attack. There are just too damn many variable here."

"Sir," the communications NCO chimed in. "The fighters report fully engaged near Tellar." The woman got a concerned look on her face before continuing her report. "They are reporting what they say is an inordinate amount of fighters." The woman held her hand up to her earpiece. "General Yial is asking to deploy his fighters' sir," the woman said.

"Negative," Forrest said abruptly. "Lieutenant Ma'z how close are they to the line of divergence?" Forrest asked the Tellarite. The navigator reported that the Romulan group was four minutes from that point.

"Yoshi," Forrest tuned to his first officer. "Hold our fighters until they hit that point. I have a feeling that the Birdies aren't planning on stopping here."

Three minutes dragged past like three hours for the human and alien bridge crew. Yial had done as instructed although Forrest was painfully aware that if the Romulans did choose to attack the station it would be a scramble for the Andorian to position his fighters. The blips on the viewscreen drew closer to the point that Lieutenant Ma'z had caused to be illuminated on the bridge viewscreen.

"Sir Admiral Buchanan reports that the Birdies have launched more fighters from this group than he has seen previously," the communications chief reported.

"They are moving past the point!" Ma'z exclaimed. "It is still possible that they could alter their heading for the station but the pirates are currently on a heading for the Tellar system!"

"Order the fleet to form up and pursue," Forrest told Captain Nakamura. The admiral slammed his clenched fist down on the arm rest of the captain's chair. "That was it all along. Chief put Admiral Buchanan over the bridge speaker."

The communications NCO complied by running the time lagged recording she had made of Admiral Buchanan from the Intrepid. The admiral's voice had a mechanical tinge to it as it had been run through a digital decoder:

"Intrepid actual to Taskforce 27; Romulan group has released a large number of fighters. Eightballs number at least twice what we have seen the Sabinus class cruiser launch before."

"Fleet is formed up," Nakamura said.

"Lay in a pursuit course and engage at warp 2.7," Forrest said. The admiral's worry showed in his face.

"That could mean that they could have converted interior space to hangar more fighters," Nakamura conjectured.

"That and it is also possible that these extra fighters are on a one way mission," the admiral said. "We use of every bit of space we have necessities and fuel. I'm betting the Birdies do the same thing."

"You can only remove so many crew quarters," Captain Nakamura said as dawning realization came over his face. "But removing storage tanks would create a lot of extra space."

The United Earth Stellar Navy ships of Taskforce 27 warped away into subspace along with their alien allies. Minutes ahead of the allied force, the Romulan ships continued on toward Tellar.

Star Fleet fighter Squadron 12, near the fifth planet of the Tellar system, May 2157

Lt. William Walters was vaguely aware of his own breathing echoing in his helmet. The Minotaur had not been in combat for five minutes before it a hole was cut into its hull opening the interior to the vacuum of space. Walters had decided to dump the ship's atmosphere before going into combat so the loss had been minimal. The fighter squadron had warped into hell. Two of the Minotaurs had failed prelaunch checks so the humans were reduced to eighteen rather than twenty of the fighters that had been planned for. They were confronted by wave after wave of the spherical Romulan fighters.

"Christ I don't even have to aim and I'll hit one!" Ensign Vince Mason exclaimed.

Walters' copilot though exaggerating wasn't far from the truth. Romulan fighters outnumbered their human counterparts by better than three-to-one. Only the thick pattern of highly reflective metallic mumbo-jumbo had saved the humans from sudden annihilation. Apparently Walters mused the Birdies had not found a way to defeat that—yet, he thought bitterly. Walters turned the craft on its axis causing it to flip over perpendicular to its flight path as two of the spherical fighters passed beneath the Minotaur.

"Line 'em up!" his copilot shouted as Mason fired a Corsair at one of the Eightballs while the second split in half as the two nose mounted pulse lasers of the Minotaur caught the Romulan in their deadly beams. The Corsair tracked in on the second sphere fighter but the nimble ship narrowly avoided the missile.

Walters caused his Minotaur to accelerate along its new heading as the tone of the threat warning system told the pilot that he was in someone's gun sight. The pilot ordered more of the radar fouling micro-metallic particle dropped along with a Corsair. No sooner had Mason done as ordered then Billy reoriented the Minotaur toward three passing Eightballs. One of Romulans pursuing Walters were destroyed by the near explosion of the Corsair the second was cut into shreds by Walters wingman. Mason cut loose with the Minotaur's lasers again destroying one out of the group of three. A second Eightball maneuvered wildly but did not escape the blast of the Corsair that Mason had fired at it.

"Damnit Sluggo some of the cap ships are making a run on Tellar!" Lieutenant Sharon Patelli agitated voice cried over Walters' helmet headset.

"Squadron's 14 and 8 pursue," Walters heard Commander David Hennessey's voice ordering over his headset. Hennessey was overall commander of the combined group of fighters. Damn Walters thought; that only left twelve or so of the surviving Minotaurs to contend with three times that many Eightballs. Walters looked in his heads-up display to see the formation he was facing. Mason let out a whoop when he blasted two more of the spherical Romulan fighters.

Everything was extraordinarily slow. Walters changed the relative vector of his fighter three quick successive times. Even Billy who was controlling the craft felt the slow wave of nausea pass over him as the fighter's artificial gravity strained to keep up with Walter's flying. Billy glanced over quickly at Mason whose mouth was visibly moving in his helmet. Walters heard Mason but it was a surreal sound like someone calling out to him in a dream. The pilot tuned his attention to his display as another spherical enemy craft was shredded by laser fire. Walters could see the pieces visibly separate in a slow nightmarish sequence.

Walters glanced at Mason again. A red flash visibly lit the up the interior of the Minotaur. Walters was consciously aware that the flash had been quick but it seemed to Billy to linger on forever. Walters heard Mason's gleeful exclamation as his shooting scored another Eightball. Mason was smiling when the back of his chair near the top of his helmet along with Masons head was removed by shrapnel. Walters turned away quickly although it seemed like he was presented with the view of his dead friend's corpse for several minutes. Billy took over the weapons' control sending a combination of blistering laser fire and a Corsair towards three of the Romulan spheroid fighters.

UES Excelsior, inbound for the Tellar system, May 2157

"Time to intercept?" the admiral asked Lieutenant Ma'z. The Tellarite studied some readouts briefly before returning with an answer of three minutes. Forrest sat back and rubbed at his forehead.

"You still think that something is wrong sir?" Captain Nakamura asked.

"Helm same as before," Forrest started. "Calculate a break point where the Birdies would either turn inbound to Tellar or continue on. Chief Kalam," the admiral said turning to his communications' NCO. "Is Kamaga reporting anything?"

"Negative sir; but we now have a two-minute time delay between them and us." The chief replied curtly.

"Chief Kalam," Forrest said, "using the point that Lieutenant Ma'z calculates as a point for the Romulans to continue on to Tellar or turn away what will the time-delay be at that point?"

The Indian woman turned and tapped a few commands into the keyboard below her communications' console. Seconds later she turned back to the taskforce commander with the answer. "Three point six minutes at that point sir."

"Damn," Nakamura said softly under his breath. "That also means an attacking group laying just outside of subspace sensor range could make a run on the station."

"Exactly," the admiral replied. Forrest's face was pinched. "We'll continue on. The president's orders call for protecting Tellar Prime. If those ships do turn inbound they are sure to do damage to our friends."

Near Tellar Prime, May 2157

The space became littered with high speed merculite rockets. Three Romulan Sabinus class vessels and two accompanying Veronus class cruisers were instantly obliterated by the barrage of high speed explosive projectiles. Minotaur fighters engaged some of the Romulans resulting in the destruction of another Chowder and two more Cabbages. Three of the little Minotaurs were sliced to pieces when they were caught in the deadly, invisible crossfire of Romulan lasers. Tellarite cruisers traded blows with their Romulan counterparts. Four more Cabbages and three of the smaller Veronus class cruisers were reduced to scrap by Tellarite destroyers. The costs were high though as three of the Tellarite vessels were destroyed as, depleted of their rockets they attempted to escape Romulan counterfire.

Tellarite rocket satellites sent out wave after wave of the little needle-nosed merculite rockets. Romulan cruisers soon found that not all of the defensive platforms had as long a range as others. These satellites soon found themselves under assault from Romulan plasma cannons. Dangerous gaps were being opened in the orbital defense nets. Twelve Sabinus class cruisers along with five Veronus class vessels broke away from the fray and made their way closer to the green world of Tellar. Four Minotaurs elongated into normal space with a flash. The squadron of Star Fleet fighters raked across the separate group of seventeen Romulan ships. The small fighters fired lasers and Corsair missiles at the group of Romulan attackers heading for Tellar. Two Chowders and and a Veronus were destroyed by the strafing run of the fighters.

Gradually fighters that had been engaging the main group broke away to defend Tellar. The seventeen attackers were soon reduced to eight. At the same time the main group vanished into subspace. The final group of attackers was eliminated when the last Sabinus class cruiser was hit by a combination of three Corsairs and a flight of merculite rockets.

Tellarite space station Kamaga, May 2157

The six green-colored ships lined up in a loose formation. Andorian fighters rushed out from their defensive positions to engage to Romulan attackers. White beams of Romulan plasma cannons flashed across space hitting several of the nimble Andorian fighter craft. Several of the beams aimed at the station itself detonated short of their intended target; intercepted by high speed area defense missiles. Five of the Sabinus class ships formed a separate group. The five Romulan cruisers fired another salvo of their plasma cannons. Andorian fighters were swept away by the concentrated withering super accelerated plasma. The remaining Sabinus cruiser briefly accelerated in normal space then went into warp.

A split second later the Romulan cruiser hit the cylindrical bulk of Kamaga just under one of the stations many arms that were the berthing places for arriving ships. The station was cut in half by the resulting impact and silent explosion of the Cabbage. The two halves of the station spun lazily through space. Expelled gases crystallized into frozen particles at the same time as melted metal and plastic left a glowing trail. The lower half of the wounded station containing the fusion reactor exploded seconds later. Only a few pieces of torn superheated metal marked where the station had once been.

The five Cabbages fired again at the oncoming Andorian attackers then turned away. The Romulans picked up speed as glowing gashes appeared on the hulls of some of the escaping Cabbages. Some of the fighters were within range. Missiles leapt from beneath the spear-shaped Andorian fighters. The deadly speeding devices were closing on their targets when the Romulan ships lengthened into narrow points and vanished into subspace.

Taskforce 27, inbound for Tellar Prime, May 2157

"They are continuing on in warp admiral," Chief Kelvin Harris said from his post at the Excelsior's sensor station. "The group attacking Tellar has gone to warp as well. It looks like a coordinated effort that should put them together at a point less than half a light year out."

"Distress beacon coming from Kamaga admiral," Chief Rehinka Kalam said as she twisted on her earpiece; "sounds like an automated disaster beacon."

"It is a disaster alright," Admiral Forrest said softly. "Okay chief," Forrest said to the Indian communications' NCO. "Raise Admiral Buchanan on the secure channel; tell him he is cleared in to retrieve his fighters. Tell him to dispatch the Prince of Wales and its group to Kamaga." Forrest sighed as he spoke the name of the now destroyed station. The admiral continued, "Call the Protector and Mount Cuba then and have them rendezvous with the Prince of Wales for rescue work."

Captain Nakamura approached Forrest. The oriental officer spoke quietly: "There is no way you could've seen what happened. If we had split our forces no doubt the Birdies would've continued the attack on Tellar. You know and I know a few of them would've gotten through."

"Maybe," Forrest replied sadly. "We needed that station as a stepping stone to retake Deneva. Now the Birdies can operate unobserved out of there and it'll make the invasion all that much harder."

"No one, least of all you," Nakamura said; "Harbored any illusion that the Birdies were done."

"It is almost like we are back at the beginning of this thing again Yoshi," the admiral said. "We need information! We need to know what drives the Birdies. Who knows how many ships they can deploy from Topaz now." Forrest looked around at the downcast faces of the Excelsior's bridge crew. The admiral realized that they did not need to hear gloom and doom. "But we have new ships on the way and the mam reactors. The carriers kicked butt today against a foe with three times our number! And we did what the president ordered; we protected Tellar. Despite the loss of Kamaga a raid on one of our allies might have caused our friends to back out."

"Put us in orbit around Tellar Lt. Ma'z," Forrest said with a visibly renewed sense of vigor, "looks like this war is going to go on for a few more months."

New Orleans, Louisiana, Earth, May 2157

Frank McCoy started salivating at the spicy smells emanating from the kitchen. The intelligence chief took another sip of his coffee as he waited for his guests. McCoy was glad that they had picked this place to meet. At least the food smelled delicious. McCoy hoped that his new companions would be as hungry as he was now. The NCO was glad when two men and a woman entered the restaurant. McCoy recognized the one man. He did not know the other two but he found the woman, a tall brunette with her hair tied up and behind her in the latest fashion to be quite attractive. She was also a full decade younger than Frank. The other stranger was a tall young man with a close cut head of prematurely graying hair. These had to be his contacts that he was scheduled to meet.

McCoy had attended a second meeting of the Sons' of Terra. The local chapter in Virginia had been quite small so the members were always on the look out for new people; especially people who might be considered for later membership. The intelligence officer had started a heated discussion about the deaths of young humans in defense of aliens. McCoy's anti-alien rhetoric must have interested the hardcore members of the political organization. The local chapter head; a tall thin woman with severely bitten fingernails had called McCoy two days after the meeting and asked if he could meet with candidate Mark Hawkins along with two others in two weeks. Captain Soames had great fully approved McCoy's request for a short leave of absence.

Frank stood up and greeted the newcomers. There was much pumping of hands and a little small talk as McCoy discovered that the young lady; she was in her early thirties but still Frank thought of her as a young woman, was named Eileen Thomas. McCoy realized with a start that he recognized the white haired man as well. It was just that Frank could not recall his name. But the man figured prominently on vidcasts. But recall was not necessary as the man introduced himself as Marcus Young. Young was sporting a huge purplish bruise on the right side of his face. McCoy remembered reading of a distraught French woman beating up a vid reporter in France.

The small group seated themselves. McCoy was glad to see them all take up menus. The intelligence non commissioned officer had heard of the good reputation of this restaurant from Lieutenant Crosby so he was anxious to try it for himself. Thinking of Crosby made McCoy wonder how his former coworker and friend was doing. Crosby along with Lt. Gupta had both left under mysterious circumstances. McCoy had an old friend aboard the Wolverton when he met his buddy on his last landfall he had asked about the ship's new intelligence officer but his friend had indicated that he had not heard of Tara before. Frank had been in intelligence long enough to know when to quit. The NCO had quickly backpedaled and told his friend that he, McCoy, was mistaken. Frank realized that Hawkins was speaking.

"You seem to have some interesting views about aliens Frank," the fat candidate said. Hawkins took a drink of water and then continued. "Fran McCarthy was very interested in what you had to say at the last Virginia meeting."

"Just saying what is on my mind is all," McCoy answered quietly.

"Those same thoughts are on a lot of people's mind Mister McCoy," Marcus Young said. "I wish that we had more people like you in the military who follow in the fine example of Admiral French." Young paused then continued; "hell of deal that: Being made to retire like that after he had led the battle against the Romulans; another hero lost that can be put down against Thorpe."

"Yes sir," McCoy started but was interrupted when Young continued.

"And now more of our people dead," Young said bitterly; "dead defending a bunch of the pig-snouts!"

"Yes sir," Frank started to speak again when this time Eileen interrupted.

"I'm sure that Mr. McCoy, Frank, may I call you Frank?" the woman asked. At McCoy's answering nod she said: "I'm sure that Frank can speak for himself, Marc. I mean after all someone doesn't get to be in naval intelligence by being stupid." The woman looked at McCoy with a slight smile on her lips.

"We certainly wouldn't be out there if it wasn't for the aliens," McCoy said smiling back at the woman. He found her quite attractive until it occurred to him that was perhaps the intent of bringing her to the meeting. "A lot of the expansion that led to this thing wouldn't have happened if we hadn't had the alien influences making us push out further than what we should have." There McCoy thought; the trouble was that his rhetoric came so easy. All one had to do to become like these people the NCO thought was to shut off the cognitive portion of one's brain. Once that was done it was easy to spew out nonsense that appealed to people who belonged to the Sons' of Terra.

"You are right there Frank," Young said. "I can see that you are a very bright man; very smart indeed. One does not come to those types of conclusions without deep thought."

No, Frank thought, one comes to those types of conclusions out of emotionalism and hysteria. Young waxed on until McCoy became sick of the vidcaster's increasingly patronizing attitude. Despite McCoy's feelings about Mark Hawkins ancestry and probable relationship to his mother he was glad when the candidate interrupted the officious journalist.

"Marc takes a long time to say that we are interested in you," Hawkins grimaced at the warning glance he received from Young. "We are 'sposed to feel you out. But y'all are smart enough to see that. I like your views; hell we all like your views. We know you can't do much for us publicly since you are a serviceman." Hawkins winked at McCoy. "But you could do other things for us. Help us with information."

"Or write up some of your thoughts down for us," Eileen interjected with a warm smile on her face. "We won't mention you by name but remember Thomas Paine did a great service for the old American colonies by writing his thoughts down." She looked into Frank's eyes. "I would love reading anything you wrote Frank."

Yes I bet you would, McCoy thought. It would also indict McCoy if it was ever discovered that he was writing seditious comments. Freedom of speech was a civilian luxury. The military was all too clear about the consequences for its people who spoke out in political capacities; especially when they were wearing the uniform.

"Sure I can do that Miss Thomas," McCoy answered.

"Please call me Eileen, Frank," The woman said. "I do so admire our men—and women in uniform. Intelligence must be fascinating work." Eileen paused and frowned. "And sad too, seeing our people lured into this unjust war by aliens and race traitors. That Thorpe! Why he isn't even an American. If it wasn't for him we could be looking at winning several seats this June."

Thorpe had been sinking in the polls despite support from some of the other major political parties. It was not Christophur Thorpe but rather his wife Maggie who had made comments during an interview saying how many in the Sons' of Terra had never worn a uniform—except perhaps for prison coveralls. The blistering remark, said in jest had been circulating among the populace and was being repeated. Frank happened to think that the statement held a grain of truth to it: The majority of supporters of the Sons' had never served in the military and many had been actively opposed to exploration. That some had been in prison Frank knew was a crass exaggeration. McCoy smiled nonetheless.

"I see that you agree with me," Thomas said catching McCoy's eye. Frank realized that she had mistaken his smile for agreement and perhaps a little more. At least he thought he read that in her eyes.

"Of course," McCoy said agreeably. "The president needs his wife to defend him." Yes it was too bad Frank thought. Thorpe should have said those words himself and more. The president, McCoy thought didn't deserve to be taking a beating from this ilk.

"Yes hiding behind his wife who was nothing more than a corporate hack," Marcus Young interjected. The vidcaster cooled down somewhat then continued in his patronizing manner. "You and I and all of us here are smart enough to see that." The journalist said sweeping his arm around the table. "But the people are not that smart Frank. They are easily beguiled by coy expressions; especially at a time like this. We need men such as you to tell them the truth."

"Yes indeed," Hawkins said. "Look at Marc! That French woman whacked him a good one! And the goddamned police didn't do anything about it!"

"That is terrible!" McCoy exclaimed while thinking that the woman hadn't hit the journalist hard enough.

"It is!" Eileen added; "just think; if it wasn't for the war which we are against anyway her boy never would've had to go out there to fight and die! How stupid—well that is not nice. The woman was grief stricken of course."

"Well enough of business for now," Hawkins said rubbing his ample stomach. "I am hungry." The candidate looked around for a waiter and finally signaled towards a tall black man wearing an apron. The man looked anything but pleased to be waiting on customers. The group soon found out why.

"Good evening," The waiter said pleasantly enough. "I hope y'all are enjoying New Orleans." The waiter made that sound like 'nawlins'. "But I'm afraid I cain't serve you tonight." The man turned serious. "In fact I suggest y'all finish your water—hey it's on the house; and leave." The man gestured around the restaurant. "A lot of my customers have boys and girls servin' in the navy. We even get a few navy people here when they are home and not out fightin' for all of us." The man looked at Hawkins and then at Young. "So you see Sisko's here is a nice place. We don't need your kind in here."

Hawkins seemed to be about to say something when Young reached across the checkered tablecloth and took the perspective politician's arm. Young motioned for Hawkins to not make a scene. Eileen Thomas looked shocked and even a little like she was on the verge of tears. McCoy chuckled inwardly until he realized that these people were supposed to be his friends. McCoy waited until the big man, who he now supposed must be the namesake behind Sisko's left. Then he tried his best to look as outraged as the rest of the tiny group. Frank did feel a little sorry that Eileen had gotten hurt. She was a pretty girl he thought. The trio finished their water and got up and headed outside. McCoy hoped that one day he could return to Sisko's. The food really had smelled delicious.

They all made their goodbyes after agreeing to meet again in a week. McCoy thought that the first probing move in finding out where his allegiances lay had been made. The NCO was betting that the group would discuss how much further to bring McCoy into the organization. Eileen Thomas hung back as the two men left.

"No reason why we can't find a descent place," The brunette said in what McCoy guessed was some sort of New England accent. "We could have some coffee. Maybe you can tell me more about what you do. I sure would like to hear more about you."

McCoy walked with the woman. There was a small diner around the corner of the next block.

UES Daedelus, beyond charted space, May 2157

Commander Lisa Somers paced about the small upper deck of the bridge. She leaned over Chief Peter Custis' console. The communications' chief was displaying an electromagnetic signal that he had picked up only an hour earlier. Lisa had the night watch. The Stellar Navy commander had been around long enough to know not to wake the skipper for some anomaly. Somers needed more information before she would do that. One thing for sure: This particular anomaly was beginning to become very interesting.

"I wish we had more information on this sector," Somers complained.

"Goddamned Pointies have been out this far," Chief Custis started then slammed his fist down on his console. When he saw the first officer's look of consternation the chief explained: "I told you sir; something about this signal was familiar to me—I think. Let me run it through the signal processor again only this time I want to narrow the parameters."

Somers waited while the man inputted some commands into his keyboard. The first officer had become impressed with the man's efficiency. She had looked up Custis' service record and found that, like many enlisted people he had been offered a commission to fill some of the badly depleted officer billets. The man had refused. Somers had started to inquire of the man why that was when she had detected a great sadness about him. Somers let the matter drop. She had also been around long enough to know that she would find out all that she wanted to know through the grapevine. On Stellar Navy craft that informal method of communication was sometimes far faster than electrons jammed through a microprocessor. The chief looked up at her as two graphs overlaid one another almost perfectly on his terminal's video.

"Speaking of Pointies that got me thinking," Custis said warming to the explanation of his discovery. "This signal is a lot like a standard Pointie signal. The only thing is," The chief paused. "It is old styled shortwave wireless. Like I said when we picked it up it has probably been getting beamed out from 61 Virginis for almost two years now." The man looked at his display again. "One point nine one five standard years; there the Pointies ain't got nothing on me!" The man looked at his display again. "And yes sir we were right—it is a beacon—distress."

Lisa took a deep breath. The Vulcans had been out a lot further than man. If this was one of their ships why were they beaming a signal out at sublight speeds? Given its repetitive nature both she and the chief had quickly concluded that it was some sort of a beacon. Somers crossed her arms over her chest. Lisa wondered if it could be some sort of bait laid out by the Birdies. Some of the Stellar Navy's spy drones had been destroyed around this region. They were, in the best estimate of intelligence approaching the Romulan border.

Somers stepped down into the lower deck of the bridge. "Chief Matsui," Somers asked the navigator Chief Walter Matsui. The tall Oregon native looked up at the first officer. "Calculate how long it would take if we angled through that system." Somers turned to the sensor officer Lt. Li Chang. "Li, show me a graphic of that system and tell me what you think."

The main viewscreen changed from a view of the characteristic star streaks of subspace passage to one of a representation of a planetary system. Dark areas showing planets had numerical and graphical readouts below each body showing the respective planet's mass and temperature.

"I tracked Peter's signal down to the fourth planet," Chang said. "According to my readings it has the right mass and temperature for a Minshara class world. On the other hand reflectivity and spectrographic returns say that the atmosphere—whatever that is; is pretty thin."

"Sir it would take us two days to track into that system from our present location," Matsui said. "Our closest pass is in eight hours and that would put us a little over a day and a half out."

That gives them a little time Lisa thought. No need to wake the captain. Somers looked back to see Lt. Alvin Crosby standing at rear of the bridge. She decided that an intelligence slant on the whole affair might be useful. Anyway Somers thought, she would tell Captain Cromwell about their discovery when he relieved her. After that based on the captain's decision the whole crew would find out. The commander filled Crosby in what had happened.

"A Pointie signal eh?" Crosby asked. "I think that it is worth pursuing. They haven't told us a damn thing since this whole thing started. I am a little concerned if this is a distress signal though. If we pick anybody up they are along for the duration. I'm not sure how the Pointies would react if we held their people."

"That is what I was thinking as well," Somers replied. "Also if this is two years old any survivors we find probably don't know about the war."

Picard coughed as soon as she entered the small lab space. Surely there must be some wiring burning somewhere. The French woman was about to alert the bridge about the possible electrical fire when the source of the smell made itself know. Dr. Omar Bashir sat back in a comfortably padded desk chair and let out a slow puff of blue smoke. When he saw Mariel the psychologist looked mournfully at the cigar he had been enjoying and started to make to stub it out in bowl that the doctor must have secured from the galley.

"Do not stop on my account," Picard said sweetly, although she hoped that he would continue putting the offensive thing out.

"Thank you my dear," Bashir said as he took another long draw on the cigar. So much for good intentions Mariel thought. "You are up early." The psychologist said. "I have been coming in here in the morning and having a smoke. The air scrubbers in this lab do a good job. My only other choice is the hangar bay and it is quite cold there."

"I heard that they have received a signal," Picard replied. Actually when she got down to it the cigar did not smell all that bad. "It is Vulcan in origin. I was going to run it through a translation matrix I have been working on and see what comes out."

"Ah," Bashir answered. "What an extraordinary people the Vulcans. I suppose one such as myself would be out of business on their world. No crime or violence to speak of. Why there is not even the occasional knock down drag out fight between couples." Bashir chuckled while looking at Mariel intently.

Picard was startled then realized that the psychologist had noticed her reaction to his last comment. "Yes," She said haltingly then added quickly; "I thought that your area of expertise was in symbology and psychology?"

"Specialization is so pedestrian," Bashir said. "Don't you think so?" He asked then continued without waiting for Picard's answer. "Much of psychology is based on observation and critical thinking. I have learned much from observing people. I suppose behavior could be mathematically plotted and predicted were we to know more about ourselves than we do now. One could predict say," Bashir paused; "the dynamics of a relationship, or a person's personality."

Picard was growing increasingly uncomfortable under what she perceived as the doctor's scrutiny. The French mathematician set about downloading the signal from the Daedelus' mainframe into her own terminal for analysis. Bashir rose and peered over her shoulder at her work.

"That is true I think," Mariel said as she tried to turn her attention to the information on the computer screen.

"Yes even now one would ask," Bashir started; "if something was wrong with someone sequestering themselves between their living space, work and the basic needs of the body. Mathematical analysis might suggest an answer to that. Perhaps the person is afraid of something—or someone."

Picard was about to tell the doctor to leave when the images on the screen changed. Both she and Bashir fell silent as they read the results. The psychologist coughed uncontrollably as he accidentally inhaled some of the cigar smoke.

"It's a warning," Mariel Picard stated succinctly. "We resolved the signal through a standard Vulcan liguacode filter. They are definitely trying to warn people off."

Captain Michael Cromwell sat back in the conference room chair. The small group consisted of the captain of the Daedelus, his first officer, Dr. Schultheiss, Lt. Crosby, Omar Bashir and Mariel Picard. They were all comfortably seated in the Daedelus' small briefing room. A three panel viewscreen dominated the center of the table. That screen was showing a graphic of Picard's interpretation of the signal.

"Captain," Lt. Alvin Crosby said. "I know you've ordered a course change for the planet but do you think that is wise? What if the Birdies are laying in wait somewhere?"

"The new scanner upgrades do not show any ships," Cromwell answered. "They are showing the existence of some sort of civilization down there. But they are not receiving any power readings meaning it is either a pre-industrial civilization or…"

"Or one that is extinct," Bashir added ominously.

"Exactly," Cromwell answered. "I want to find out what the answer is." Cromwell turned to his chief medical officer. "Trudy what do you make of the atmosphere?"

"We have gotten better readings now that we are getting closer," Schultheiss answered. "It is breathable for humans. Not a very pleasant place though; water makes up less than twenty percent of the surface. The average temperature is four C. I'll send a scoop down in the drone when we get in orbit."

Cromwell nodded. Stellar Navy procedures called for sending drones into the atmosphere of new planets. The drones sampled the air and took photos and video of intended landing sites. Scoops was medical shorthand for sampling packages that tried to find microbial life.

"Why would they try to warn people off?" Picard asked quietly. "They are so far from home."

"We don't know if we can attach a transmitter to the source," Commander Somers interjected. "Old style radio waves; the message could have been sent then the transmitter destroyed. Lt. Chang is reading metal fragments but the readings are obscured. For one thing the civilization down there used metal. It is possible I guess to answer your question Miss Picard that these Vulcans could have discovered Romulans or been discovered poking around by Romulans. Perhaps it was a warning to their people."

"Or there could be something dangerous on the surface," Bashir said.

"We'll make a low orbital pass," Cromwell declared. "I want detailed holo-photos and video. After that we'll make a decision on rather to deploy a landing party."

"I would love to see a new civilization," Picard said softly. "Even one that is extinct."

"That wouldn't be prudent!" the captain exclaimed. No one noticed the cold angry look that briefly crossed Crosby's face. Cromwell continued. "You are a civilian Miss Picard. Planetary exploration is very dangerous—even for trained navy personnel."

"Okay if there are no questions," Cromwell said in closing. No one else said anything. "We will be in orbit by tomorrow morning. I'll make a further determination on rather we send a landing party down then."

Ri-Fainu City,Vulcan, Earth year, May 2157

Lt. Tarang Gupta packed the last bit of food concentrates and water into his small back pack. The lieutenant was mindful of his time in survival school. The Indian Army liked to drop their people into the Gobi desert for two weeks. The soldiers had radios if they ended up in a bad situation. But using the radio before the training was over was a disqualifier. Gupta hadn't used his portable lifesaver but he had been tempted to. In the end Cadet Gupta had completed desert training; ten kilos lighter than when he had started but he had completed it and that was the important thing.

Sremen looked with some concern over the intelligence officer's gear. Tarang had now been around Vulcans long enough to discern somewhat of what they hid behind their façade of logic. Gupta noted the Vulcan's concern when he saw the lieutenant unpack the Colt 2011. One of earth's latest attempts at an energy weapon the colt discharged a supercharged mass of energized plasma. Nothing like a Romulan plasma cannon but very effective against personnel.

"You should not need that Tarang," Sremen said in that even unemotional Vulcan tone. "There are animal dangers in the desert but there are more peaceful ways of dealing with them. And as for other dangers—we Vulcans are a peaceful people."

"Then I shouldn't need this," Gupta said as he placed the sidearm in a shoulder holster under his travel cloak. Gupta saw that the Vulcan was still not pleased. The intelligence officer tried to divert the Vulcan's attention to other things.

"Now you remembered the Brazilian banana shipment is in three weeks?" Gupta asked in a business-like tone. "They cannot be allowed to sit in the port for more than half a day. Also do not let Captain Matai back you into a corner on extra shipping costs. He is quite aware of the terms of the contract."

"I am Vulcan I have forgotten nothing," Sremen replied.

Tarang knew that the Vulcan was as ready to take on the management of Pan-Pac's Vulcan division as Gupta had been upon arrival. Better actually since the intelligence officer and his Vulcan companion had learned much of the business together.

"Are your plans unchanged?" The Vulcan asked.

Gupta indicated that the plans for his journey had indeed not changed. The naval officer would meet T'Pol at the Ri-Fainu City terminal. The two had planned through messages exchanged through Sremen to board a ground transport for K'Alar City. Both would travel as individuals with no apparent knowledge of one another. The transport was scheduled for an intermediate stop. There the two would debark and head into the desert region known as the Forge.

"The beauty of it is that there are no fares or travel records for Vulcan rollers," Gupta told his alien companion referring to his nickname for the large Vulcan land transports. "We are officially going to K'Alar but no one will be aware if we are late for a few days. Minister Soval has said that there is a cover story for us which will explain our absence. We should be able to complete the journey to K'Henga in a week." Gupta sighed. "I would rather have gone by shuttle or aircar."

"It is not logical that one would try to cross the Forge," Sremen said. "That is one reason Minister Soval suggested this method. Also you know of the High Command's prohibition on vehicular travel into that region. But people on foot will have an easier time of it."

"And the pilgrims repeating Surak's trek through the desert?" Gupta asked in regard to Sremen's comments about crossing the Forge.

"Those people seeking Surak's wisdom have never gone through the valley," Sremen replied. "The High Command seems to be concerned only with the valley itself."

"I wonder why that is if it was a temple of logic of sorts?" Gupta muttered more to himself than the Vulcan.

"As you have read Surak himself once said that it was a place deemed to contain the evils of the past," Sremen said.

"And yet he is supposed to have put ancient tablets concerning his early life there," Gupta said then added; "or someone else did."

"Much that Surak did was shrouded in mystery," Sremen replied. "But when the purpose was finally revealed--,"

"It was logical," Gupta interrupted with a grin. Sremen's expression remained apparently unchanged but Gupta could tell that he had struck a nerve albeit a small one where Vulcan's were concerned. "I am sorry my friend. So it is with many ancient religions on my world. They exist for thousands of years and still there are new questions about their beginnings."

"Logic is not a religion," Sremen said in what Tarang thought was an almost emphatic tone.

"You believe that logic solves all problems do you not?" Gupta asked Sremen playfully. When he saw the Vulcan's answering nod he asked: "Why do you believe that?"

"Because it is logical," Sremen replied.

"One who has faith in a god or gods might say the same thing," Gupta replied. "Only they would substitute faith for logic."

"But that would not be logical," Sremen said. "Logic is a tangible thing. Faith has never solved any problems—logic has and does."

"I do believe that there are some people who would differ with you about faith," Gupta said with a chuckle. "Anyway I have a terrible feeling that all of this will get me a bad sunburn and very dirty and nothing else."

"Minister Soval differs," Sremen replied. "And it is most unusual for the High Command to intercede in such a matter. The minister reasons that there is something behind it."

"I will do my best to find out for him then," Gupta said as he put the hood of his cloak up. The human officer extended his hand to his Vulcan cohort and employee. "I know that it is against your customs but please indulge me."

The Vulcan hesitantly took the Indian officer's hand but when he did he shook it firmly. "Good luck to you Tarang. I will take care of the business while you are away." The Vulcan let go of Gupta's hand raised his own and split his fingers in the odd Vulcan salutation. "Live long and prosper Tarang."

Gupta returned the gesture. "May you do so as well my friend."

That said Gupta hoisted his pack and headed out of the door of his shop. It was fifty-two C outside of the air conditioned shop but the Indian had acclimatized so well that he hardly noticed it. The terminal was a short two kilometers away. Despite his going into the unknown the intelligence officer's thoughts were dominated by the price of oranges. He hoped that Sremen would make a good profit for Pan-Pacific.

The Indian had become so acclimated to the environment and culture that he failed to notice the hooded and cloaked figure who was observing the human's departure. The mysterious figure waited until Gupta was well on his way then set out dogging the intelligence officer's footsteps.

Sinjan class shuttle on descent toward the fourth planet of the 61 Virginis system, May 2157

The shuttle's hull glowed red from the heat of entry into the atmosphere of the planet. Cromwell hadn't flown a shuttle in the past ninety days. It was a weak excuse but between that and his insistence as captain Somers had finally relented on his including himself on the landing party. Cromwell changed the angle of entry slightly as the hull temperature readout climbed up close to the red line. The party's objective lay many hundreds of kilometers away and many thousands of meters below.

Cromwell surveyed the depressing landscape. The captain had seen the drone video but seeing it in person like this was something else entirely. The drab scenery was composed of dirty white almost gray sand broken by the occasional ruins of a city. Nothing emanated from those cities according to the Daedelus' sensors and observations. They had pinpointed where the signal had originated from down to a one-hundred square kilometer area. Observation of that area yielded the sighting of highly reflective metallic particles. Somers had suggested that it was either from a crashed ship—or one that had been hit by bombardment from above. The captain of the Daedelus hoped that they would soon know the answer.

The ruins increased in frequency as well as becoming more prominent as the shuttle made its way to the area under investigation. Apparently the bulk of whatever civilization that had been here occupied the area where the signal had come from. That made sense to Cromwell as the area was close to one of the dreary world's tiny seas. The ruins became more resolved. Ancient metal and stonework dominated the scenery. The ship's resident archeologist had suggested that whoever had built the cities was in a higher state of development. The man had suggested an earth equivalent of late twentieth to mid twenty-first century.

The moving map on the shuttle's heads-up display indicated that they were close. Cromwell fired a burst of breaking thrusters as the shuttle descended to less than two-hundred meters and five kilometers from the area. Cromwell slowed his approach. The shuttle over flew something that probably every human school child was as familiar with as their own nation's flag.

The Vulcan ship was the same type of landing craft that the Vulcans had sent down to earth over ninety years ago. It was recognizable despite its condition. Half of the craft was a torn piece of wreckage. It was a credit to its builders that the remaining part still stood on its insect like landing gear. It was not plain to Cromwell what had happened to the craft. It could have been attacked or there could have been an internal malfunction. Michael circled around until he saw a likely landing spot. Cromwell started down after warning his passengers that they were near to touchdown.

The Tellarite Lt. Cmdr. Houk was with the party as well as Lt. Crosby. The intelligence officer had insisted on a seat. The navy had been lucky in that one of the most renowned archeologists known was also a navy officer. Lieutenant Marcel Dieulafoy had enlisted in the navy so that he might be better able to sift through the ruins of the ancient Martian civilization. Three former marines now called Star Fleet security personnel completed the landing party. Cromwell brought the shuttle down with a short stomach wrenching drop. Oh well the captain thought that was why one had to periodically update their flying skills. Cromwell shut down the small craft's engines. He unstrapped and rose out of his seat.

"Get suited up gentleman and we'll check in," Cromwell instructed his team. "Remember to keep your masks on. Doctor Schultheiss didn't find any bad bugs in the scoop but you all know about the Denevian shuffle." Cromwell said referencing the rather embarrassing, but non-lethal illness that man had discovered on Deneva. "We'll take more samples at the site and if the good doctor clears us after that we can go about unmasked." The landing party was soon protected by heavy Stellar Navy jackets and filtering masks.

Cromwell rolled the shuttle's hatch up after equalizing pressure between the interior of the craft and the outside. The captain of the Daedelus stepped down onto the sandy surface of an alien world. The security troops fanned out and started to fulfill their additional roles gathering samples for the doctor. Cromwell walked ahead towards the wrecked Vulcan landing craft. Lt. Dieulafoy seemed to be on the verge of breaking into a run as he made his way to a twisted metal column embedded with stone debris. Lt. Cmdr. Houk surveyed the area around the shuttle.

"You aren't going in there sir?" One of the security chiefs asked as the captain of the Daedelus climbed up on a piece of ship wreckage. The Vulcan ship's main hatch was closed but entry was easily had from a great rent in the fabric of the ship near to the main entry hatch.

"I don't see why not," Cromwell answered. "We didn't read any bad radiation. It looks like whatever happened here was quite awhile go." Cromwell was referring to the time passage apparent in the drifting sand that was all over the deck of the craft.

"Sir!" Houk exclaimed from twenty meters off of the nose of the shuttle. The Tellarite was kneeling by was poor looking grass springing out of the hard scrabble. Cromwell turned reluctantly from his exploration of the hulk to find out what his operation's officer had discovered. Cromwell knelt beside the Tellarite along with one of the security chiefs. She looked at Cromwell apprehensively.

"Go ahead and take a bone fragment for examination O'Toole," the captain said. "I don't think that this fellow will be needing it anymore." Cromwell said as he surveyed the skeleton that Houk had discovered. "Although given the uniform I think that it safe to conclude that this was a Vulcan."

"He apparently lost his head," Houk said in his mocking Tellarite manner. The corpse was indeed headless. "I'd venture to say a laser shot. We'll get some pictures but it looks like the body fell forward. Maybe he was running."

"Or she," Cromwell added. "We'll see what Trudy and her people come up with." Cromwell acknowledged Lt. Marcel Dieulafoy's presence. "I'm glad you didn't stray too far doctor." Cromwell said addressing the man by his professional title rather than his rank. Dieulafoy seemed to prefer that. Cromwell asked if the archeologist had found anything.

"I believe that these people were engaging in research here," the Frenchman answered. "There is evidence of the start of a dig."

Cromwell sighed. He looked around some more before speaking. "So it looks like some sort of an attack but was it done by a second party or did these people take along their own danger?"

"Pointies shooting each other up?" one of the security chiefs asked incredulously.

"They have emotions," Dieulafoy interjected. "I worked with a Vulcan archeologist on the Martian dig. They keep, how do say it?" He paused. "They keep a tight leash on their emotions. But they have them." The archeologist looked at the skeleton then back toward the Vulcan ship. "I see what you mean sir. The shot that killed this person came from that direction."

"Doesn't mean a bloody thing," Cromwell said thoughtfully. "An external force might well have came in from that direction and used the ship for cover." The captain looked around. "Very well then; continue your sweeps. I want to have a look in that ship."

UES Daedelus, in orbit of the fourth planet of 61 Virginis, May 2157

Picard looked again at the data. The Vulcans had been thorough in their data collection. That was no surprise the mathematician thought given the nature of Vulcans. Unfortunately whoever had set out to do away with the data had been equally as thorough. Mariel had established that the Vulcans had indeed been studying the ruins of an ancient civilization. That is where the trail seems to have ended. Picard looked again at the notations on some of the ancient civilization's writings when she heard the lab door open behind her. She had a notion of who it might be.

"It is good to see you Alvin," Picard said in a sweet voice.

"Is it?" the intelligence officer asked sharply. "You haven't been too thrilled with my company for the past few weeks." He advanced on the woman. "I don't like that at all."

"We have all had our assignments," Picard said then she continued in a hopeful voice. "Alvin you went to a doctor did he not help you?"

"I never needed any help!" Crosby exclaimed. "The captain should never have been listening in on communications that day. She is another bitch that thinks so much of herself!" When Picard stood up in alarm Crosby rushed at her and pushed her back against the computer console. He seized her shoulders roughly in both of his hands. "Listen Mariel I am really becoming angry with you. If this is some kind of attempt to tease me I have had enough of it!" Crosby started raising a hand when the door slid open again.

"What the hell are you doing mister?" Captain Cromwell asked in a commanding tone. Crosby spun around his face a mask of anger.

"I was having a discussion with my fiancée," the lieutenant replied angrily. Crosby's face contorted as he tried to gain control over his emotions.

"Is that true Miss Picard?" Cromwell asked the woman. The captain saw the look of consternation that Crosby cast on the woman. "Don't feel restrained in your reply."

"No," Picard answered after some hesitation. "It was, it was just a discussion—nothing more." Mariel managed a smile as she turned to Crosby. "I will see you at dinner tonight?" She asked. The intelligence officer nodded in turn. Crosby looked about ready to leave when Cromwell spoke up again:

"It is good that you are both here. We will brief in an hour about what we found down there. In the meantime I came to ask Miss Picard about Dr. Dieulafoy's findings."

Crosby hovered close to Mariel as she answered the captain. "Much of the drives and data rods were too corrupted to retrieve anything. But the site itself was intact. Marcel gave me several photographs of alien glyphs. I believe that I can decipher some of them. I have only now started to look at that though."

"Good," Cromwell replied. "Do you think that you have enough to make a determination? It appears that we may have company in a few hours."

"Birdies?" Crosby asked quickly.

"Could be," Cromwell answered. "Anyway given where we are in relation to where we think their space is it is certainly a possibility. Subspace sensors show that these strangers will be in radar range in a little over four hours. I need to make sure that we have gathered enough data on what we have here. Our orders are to avoid detection so I intend to leave well prior to that."

"The explosion was definitely internal," Crosby said in reference to the Vulcan ship's destruction. "I ordered another probe run and there are possible fragments from a mother ship scattered over the surface. One of the teams is gathering some of the pieces but from what we observed their ship was hit in orbit then the pieces entered the atmosphere."

Cromwell nodded. "We never seen that before but that follows that the lander was dispatched by another ship. We know enough about the Pointies to know that."

"Then one of the coded sequences makes sense now," Picard said as she looked into the air at nothing. Both men looked at the mathematician. She continued; "I looked at a sequence in what was left of their data storage. It seemed to show commands entered starting a self destruct. I wasn't sure of the engineering details at the time I looked at that."

"Could their orbiter have self-destructed as well Crosby?" The captain asked.

"Now that you mention it," Crosby replied thoughtfully; "The largest piece we observed is less than half a meter square. That means they would either have taken a direct hit from an anti-ship missile—or an internal reactor problem."

"Very well both of you," Cromwell stroked his chin with his fingers. "Let me know at the brief if you need anything else from the surface. I want to be well away by the time these unknowns show up."

When the captain did not leave after that Mariel asked: "Is that all captain Cromwell?"

"No," The British officer answered. He seemed very uncomfortable. The captain turned to Lieutenant Crosby. "I would like to have a word in private with Miss Picard. That is an order."

"Captain it is not--," Mariel started to say.

"If you are about to say it is not necessary I beg to differ," Cromwell said. The commander of the starship shot a warning glance to Crosby who then headed out of the lab. The anger in the man was evident.

When they were alone Cromwell said: "Look Miss--,"

"Call me Mariel please captain," Picard replied.

"Very good," The captain answered. "Look Miss—Mariel—it is not for me to invade in people's private affairs but I've had some discussions with Doctor Schultheiss. She seems very concerned about you. I would've sworn that Crosby was about to strike you when I came in." Cromwell raised his hand over Picard's look of protest. "I have been concerned about this from the day your fiancée asked about rooming with you. This ship doesn't have a brig and it distresses me to no end at the thought of a naval officer being a—being a," The captain stopped briefly then continued. "Whatever, but this ship does not need that sort of distraction."

"Then what are you asking sir?" Mariel asked.

"First you two have to settle your issues," Cromwell answered firmly. "If you do not then I will." The captain continued in a more conciliatory tone then. "You don't need that Mariel. A young attractive woman like you," Picard watched as the man blushed. "You don't need that sort of thing. There are better men out there."

"It is not as you think captain," Picard replied. Yes it was she thought; it was just as he thought. She wondered what was wrong with her. Somehow she believed that once she married Alvin he would change. But she wondered briefly. No, she pushed that thought out of her head. Of course he would change. Mariel became aware that Cromwell was speaking again.

"I want you to talk to Trudy on a professional basis," Cromwell said. "I'm going to reassign you quarters in the meantime. See me after the brief."

"Sir I am a civilian," Picard said.

"Yes," Cromwell answered. "But you were told that you would be under the command of Stellar Navy personnel during this mission. That and this is my ship. If there is a problem that affects the Daedelus or its people it is my task to resolve it."

Mariel nodded. She was seething inside. She was embarrassed that her problems with Alvin had led to this. A tiny part of her was angry at herself that she had permitted such a thing. Picard pushed that anger down. She thought of her love for Crosby and the good times that they had together. But in spite of that the anger was still there.

"Very good Mariel," Cromwell said at last. "I'll see you in the briefing."

UES Beagle in orbit of Terra Nova, May 2157

Commodore Jocelyn Stiles looked again at the report. The Birdie spy drone had been left behind and carefully concealed after the Romulan attack on Terra Nova. Apparently the Birdies still did not have subspace sensors but they were learning how to obscure the Stellar Navy's sensors. Stiles' first officer Captain Edward Minford had suggested that the drone be removed immediately. Stiles had almost given that order until some ideas occurred to her. Thorpe had asked her to be a flag officer when the reality was that people like Minford had fifteen years or better experience on her. Stiles knew that she had a lot to deliver.

Stiles was also frustrated that she had been unable to get out and engage the Birdies. She had accepted her promotion with the thought in mind that she would make the Romulans pay for all that they had done. So far all Taskforce 18 had managed to do was send cargo handlers over to Oulette's Taskforce 25 to transfer the cargo of deadly Hercules missiles and other war materials from freighters to Oulette's ships. That and her people had sent help down to Walston City. The death toll had not been as bad as it could have been but the Birdies nerve gas canisters had wrecked havoc among the inhabitants and relief workers for several days. The deadly weapons seemed to have all been discovered and neutralized now. Jocelyn reckoned that meant something. But it was still a long way from what she wanted to do. Then the Birdies had presented her with the opportunity that she needed. Jocelyn put the report down as Minford, a tall plain looking man who said little entered her office along with Commander Anjin. Stiles knew that some of the Tellarites and Andorians had taken to wearing the Star Fleet jerseys and black uniform slacks rather than the uniforms of their respective planetary nations. But it still caused Stiles to do a double take when she saw it. Stiles did one of those double takes at the site of Anjin. She beckoned the officers to sit down after returning their salutes.

"Do you want to send a Minotaur out to nail that drone, sir?" Minford asked coming to the point at once.

"No Ed," Stiles replied at once. Jocelyn liked the look of confusion that shown on the captain's face. She continued. "Look our people are running subspace sensors on that thing. We know the ones they found around Sol and Tellar self-destructed upon approach of a ship. We also know that they are reading the electromagnetic spectrum. One of the engineers on the Marathon also scanned a periodic radar pulse. It is quick and at random intervals which is why it wasn't detected before." Stiles continued warming to her point.

"I want them to see us Ed, Anjin. In fact I want them to see exactly what we show them." Stiles lips curled up in a wicked looking grin. The officers both smiled as well. Jocelyn leaned back and continued. "I know that we are here to protect Wolf and we will do that. But I'm not going to sit back and let those bastards do as they please." Jocelyn paused dramatically. "I want to go after them."

"What is your plan commodore?" the Andorian asked.

"The freighters are being escorted back to earth by Powhatons," Stiles answered. "I wonder what the Birdies would think if several of our ships were seen leaving to escort freighters?"

"You mean to lure them back?" Captain Minford asked. "How do you know that they are even out there?"

"They wanted to operate out of Deneva unobserved again," Stiles explained. "We still have no idea of how many ships they have. But it is a sure thing that this has turned into a knockdown dragout." The commodore looked at the other officers. "You've both read the intell. It looks like the Birdies were trying to finish us in January. Right now they are poised to strike out at Andor and Tellar. If they take Wolf then they are on earth's doorstep. And that makes it harder to counterattack. We would be looking at knocking them off of three of our worlds."

"That gives them another base from which to attack either Andor or Tellar," Anjin said. "That would likely mean that the Imperial Guard would pull ships away from the alliance fleet to patrol Andor."

"The same is probably true for Tellar," Minford said.

"It's probably safe to assume that Topaz is the first staging area," Stiles said; "With Kamaga gone they can make their way to Deneva and build up there. If they had Wolf then that would be a third axis of attack against the alliance worlds."

"What is your plan sir?" Minford asked.

"Once the freighters are ready we send the Beagle, Seawolf, Choctaw, Ventizen and the Cyane out as escorts." Stiles emphasized the word escort. "The Marathon, Choctaw, Aktiba and Hazmq will stay on station here. Hopefully the Birdies don't know that the Potemkin and Harry Truman are on the way here." Stiles was referring to two of the Stellar Navy's newest carriers. "We link up with them before they get here." Stiles got out a holographic photograph of Wolf and the nearby space. "We arc around at the edge of sensor range; to a point along a likely approach vector. We hold position there and wait. If and when the Birds come along we let them pass. Our forces here will go out to meet them."

"And they will be between us and our defenders," Anjin said completing Stiles' explanation. The commander's antennae twitched excitedly.

"If they send an overwhelming force it is all over for us," Captain Minford declared morosely.

"Then either way it is over for us," Jocelyn shot back. "If they have a large force to throw against us we can make a run and stand here. The only advantage we have here are the Hercules platforms. We've already seen the Birdies concentrate their plasma cannons against those." Stiles got up and folded her arms over her chest. "The Birdies have just been in three major battles with us. They got lucky against Kamaga. One thing that seems true about them is that they don't seem to get our psychology. I'm betting they still don't it. If we appear to pull out of here that would be consistent with what they think we would do because it has been what they have been trying to make us do." Minford looked unconvinced.

"Look Ed," Stiles said. It was plain that she still felt uncomfortable using older officers' first names. "The first thing they do is a sneak attack then they send us a message and say: Now we want peace; we got what we came for it is over. So the next thing they do when the president put up a fight was to go right after earth as if to say: Okay you need some more convincin'. We beat them there so now I'm thinking that they will try a more traditional approach keeping in mind that they must see us as weak. One way or another I think Wolf is next. I want to give them what they want; cause them to maybe rush things."

"Okay commodore," Minford said at last. "I have to admit that I've been chomping at the bit myself to get a shot at these bastards. But the way things are moving now we won't be in place for this until mid June."

"I know that too," Stiles said. "But get things moving Ed. I'll speak to the rest of the captains tomorrow."

Andorian and human both rose and saluted. Both officers turned and left Stiles' cramped office. Stiles started to sit back down but started pacing instead. Minford was right. There were a lot of ifs involved in Jocelyn's plan. But she was aware that they couldn't afford to sit back and wait. Things were improving for earth and the Stellar Navy but they were far from perfect.

The Tannhausers were coming into service. So were many new carriers. Stiles had read a classified report about two new classes to be introduced sometime next year. But know one knew what the Romulan capabilities were. Stiles had read a classified report from a converted Q ship mentioning sighting a large force. The unknowns' position was almost the same as that where Taskforce 25 had staged their attack from SN1572. Stiles knew that in short order they needed to defeat the Birdies in this region of space then turn to their empire. The war was over a year old now Stiles thought and still things hung by a thread.

UES Daedelus, outbound from 61 Virginis, May 2157

Cromwell knew that the scientists were still sifting through the data. The unknown ships had made for the planet. Cromwell had departed before the ships got anywhere close to radar range. The commander of the Daedelus had an unpleasant thought in the form of Birdies coming up with their own version of subspace sensors. So far nothing had indicated that the alliance's foe had those advanced systems. It had been one of the things that had helped the Stellar Navy hold on this long. Michael shuddered to think of where things would be without subspace sensors.

Cromwell made his way from his ship's shuttle bay along the interconnecting tube to the command section. Michael would've taken the turbo-tube but Cromwell liked to walk the corridors of his ship. So apparently did a lot of other crewmembers. Michael greeted several people making their way back to the engineering hull. The captain also wanted to delay his next appointment; yet another examination of his prosthesis by Dr. Schultheiss. Cromwell had almost forgotten about his mechanical addition.

At least he could steer the conversation into more productive areas. Schultheiss and her team had completed the last autopsy on the remains that they had brought back to the Daedelus with them. The only for certain was that the fellow had been a high ranking Vulcan. No medical expertise had been needed to translate the Vulcan's rank markings from his desiccated cloak. But Cromwell and his team was still faced with a mystery.

Cromwell climbed a ladder between decks as he thought of the mummified body they had discovered in the remains of the ship. The Vulcan's body, sealed inside the lander had survived the ravages of the dreary planet's weather. The self-destruct commands had been traced back to the control panel that the Vulcan was seated at. Cromwell wondered rather the individual had been a captain, mission commander or had fulfilled both roles? Michael thought of carrying out a self-destruct. Of course that was a scenario that every naval officer might have to experience Cromwell knew. What sort of dreadful pass had the man come to that caused him to do that Cromwell wondered?

"Good day doctor," Cromwell said as the sickbay door slid open and he entered the doctor's working area. Schultheiss greeted him in a business-like manner. She asked the only other person in the room, an Andorian physician if he could leave the two of them alone. The alien made his way into an adjoining lab.

"Okay off with the shirt sir," Schultheiss said. "I promise that I will finish the exam quickly."

Cromwell hesitantly peeled off his jersey and t-shirt while speaking to Schultheiss: "Have you found out anything else since the briefing. Ouch!" The captain exclaimed as the physician stabbed him quickly with a syringe.

"We have finished with the body from the ship," Schultheiss answered as she took the contents of the syringe and injected it into a scanning device near the biobed. "I can find no apparent cause for his death. There is no evidence of violence or trauma. We are doing screens for diseases and such but right now that appears to be unlikely. Unfortunately neither I nor anyone else on my staff is up on Vulcan physiology."

"What about the remains outside of the ship?" Cromwell asked. Schultheiss put a small probe against Michael's shoulder where his cybernetic arm was connected causing the artificial fingers of that hand to jerk spasmodically. "Do you have to do that Trudy? I mean I have had therapy and can move my fingers just fine!"

"I have to check for neurological damage sir," Schultheiss explained. "You know that—and anyway it is just for another month. Rejection is usually discounted after this long. Although when you go for microfusion treatment you will," Schultheiss saw Cromwell's warning look. "Yah, okay if you go for microfusion you will have to repeat the examinations."

"As you surmised sir," the medical officer continued in answer to Cromwell's first question. "The Vulcans outside were all killed by laser fire. It appears to be from behind for the most part. I am no forensics expert but it is almost like they were ambushed one-by-one." Schultheiss looked at Cromwell then continued excitedly. "There is something very interesting about the first remains you discovered."

Michael looked at the woman expectantly and winced as she probed another location along his shoulder. "I believe that you like doing this!" Michael exclaimed with a weak smile.

"Actually I don't like hurting anyone," Schultheiss said. "But you still need some degree of neural contact on your pros—arm." The doctor looked directly into Michael's eyes. "I know that you are uncomfortable. But you should not be. The flesh has knitted to the new arm and with cosmetic surgery one would not even be aware that your arm was not--,"

"You mentioned something about our dead Vulcan friend," Cromwell said brusquely.

Schultheiss looked at Cromwell again then continued. "There are anomalies in his DNA." When she saw Cromwell's expectant look she continued. "I'm not sure what to make of him. Of course humans can have anomalous DNA and we are still conducting lab work on the remains."

"He, she, it is Vulcan?" the captain asked sharply.

"Yah," the doctor answered. "Probably; I know that isn't a good response. The Vulcans have shared their physiological database with us but not a whole lot more. For instance what diseases are they subject too? Do they have any inherited genetic problems such as retardation?"

"So what are you saying?" Cromwell asked. She was probing his shoulder with her bare hand now which was quite warm.

"Besides genetic abnormalities his bones raise questions," the doctor answered. "He may have had a form of osteoporosis. His skeletal composition is not as sturdy as a normal Vulcan's."

"Anything else besides disease that accounts for that?" the captain asked.

Schultheiss started shaking her head then stopped suddenly. "It has been observed in humans spending prolonged periods in zero gravity." The tall woman smiled. "Sorry I just remembered something that I had read about space medicine from the early twenty-first century." She rubbed his shoulder then said: "You may dress sir. I see nothing wrong. We will scan the blood and tissue samples I took for more in depth analysis but it is unlikely that there is anything wrong."

Cromwell set about dressing as Schultheiss explained that she would continue searching for more information.

"Is there anymore information from any of the other departments?" Schultheiss asked conversationally.

"Miss Picard and Lieutenant Dieulafoy found one notation in all the data that was readable and useful," Cromwell answered. "The Vulcans were studying the remains of a civilization called Debrune. That is all that our experts have figured out."

"Speaking of the Picard woman," the doctor said. "I have not spoken to her yet. Do you think that there are problems between her and Lieutenant Crosby?"

Cromwell sighed and answered by relating to the doctor what he had seen in the lab earlier that day.

"I should have explained further," the captain said. "But with everything going on at the time that fell behind. I'm sorry Trudy. I know you have degrees in psychiatry. I never thought I would live to see the day when a starship needed a counselor of sorts but I am after all just a fossil." Cromwell smiled broadly as he added this last.

"Abuse is rare these days," Schultheiss said calmly. "But it still exists. It was never my specialty but from what I do know the challenge will be getting Miss Picard to admit her situation. The abuser exerts a control both subtle and compelling on the person being abused. She has never raised any suspicions with me while we roomed together. I thought that she was avoiding Crosby but I put it down to a certain prudishness. This ship is rather small to carry on a torrid love affair in." The doctor smiled and chuckled.

"Astounding that a man—that anyone would do that to another person," Cromwell said quietly. "And even more so that someone as," Cromwell paused. He could feel his face flush in embarrassment. "As intelligent as Miss Picard would subject herself to that."

Schultheiss gave Cromwell a knowing look. She smiled. "Are you attracted to her?"

"No of course not," Cromwell snapped back quickly.

"Don't be afraid to admit it," the doctor said. She smiled tenderly. "A man spending this long in the service coming close to retirement seeing a beautiful girl--,"

"That sounds terribly pathetic and it is not me at all," Cromwell interrupted hastily. "I am not concerned about those things—especially now."

"Because you have a prosthetic arm?" the doctor asked. "It is natural for a healthy male to be attracted to a female; especially one as pretty as Mariel." Schultheiss turned away abruptly to examine some figures on a clipboard. "But regardless of that do not limit yourself sir. You are a handsome man. Many women would find you desirable."

"Continue with your research on the Vulcans doctor," Cromwell said clumsily. He disliked the way the conversation had turned.

"Of course sir," Schultheiss answered. "I will compile what we find for your morning reports. If we find anything truly noteworthy I shall notify you immediately."

Michael thanked the doctor for her work and made his way to the bridge. It was almost ship's night and he wanted to make a final check with Lisa before turning in. The captain wondered for a moment: The lighting in sickbay must be bad. He could've sworn that Trudy had been slightly flushed. Perhaps the woman was overworking herself he thought.

San Francisco, Earth, Jun 2157

"Good day admirals," United Earth President Christophur Thorpe said. The president put a special emphasis on the word admirals as his gaze fell on Erica Soames. The intelligence officer had been recently promoted.

The two Star Fleet officers came to attention and saluted Thorpe sharply. He shook both of their hands and made some small talk with them as he told them to be seated. The smell of sea air came wafting in the open window of the office of the United Earth president. The melancholy sounds of seagulls came through the open window as well. It was a warm, sunny California day. No one would have suspected that many light years away war raged.

"I know that you just got in Admiral Forrest," Thorpe began. "But I want to catch up on where we are. I've turned the San Francisco yards over to Boeing-Teledyne and Utopia Planitia is working at full capacity to provide you with more ships. I am afraid that I can't do anything for you in regards to manpower. People are just not like drones to be turned out." The president chuckled.

"You've read the reports sir," Forrest said. The admiral had a grim expression on his face. He continued, "of course we never expected to win this war quickly. But the loss of Kamaga was a damning blow. I can't sugar-coat it. The Birdies will probably ramp up their forces there now that we are pretty much restricted to flyby observations." Forrest turned his attention to the other naval officer in the room. "I'd like to thank you for all of your work. I know your people have been making guesses based on little information but without your work I don't like to think where we would be in this war. You certainly deserve that extra stripe."

Soames accepted the compliments graciously then said: "I wish that we could do more. We should have seen that they would've tried to do something like they did. I don't suspect that would have helped much as we just don't have a lot of hard intelligence on them. One good thing is the warp capable spy drones. It has been so long since man has been involved in warfare. I find that we are dusting off things from the last century."

"Daedelus should return in three more months," Thorpe said quietly. The president saw the look of surprise on Soames face. "I suppose it is okay to let our military chief of staff in on our little secret." Thorpe said with a grin. The president then told Admiral Forrest about the X program and its results.

"We could use a few more of those ships in the fight," Forrest said after he had time to digest the president's information.

"From what Mr. Brack says the construction methodology used in the X is too exotic to adapt to high capacity output," the president replied. "He has told me that we can expect to field Daedelus class cruisers in bulk by 2160 or so. In the meantime we can expect the Conqueror class by 2159."

"That is still two years away sir," Forrest said quietly. "We can still lose this war in the next few months."

Thorpe passed two folders over to the officers. The president told them to scan the contents and give him a quick appraisal. When it looked like the naval officers were almost finished Thorpe spoke up:

"It really is your fault Erica for telling me about Admiral Buchanan."

"That is a long way to what we only think is a Birdie base," Forrest answered.

"But we would be in their back yard." Soames declared. "I don't think three squadrons could do a lot of overall damage--,"

"But it would make the Romulans think and turn the offensive back over to us," Forrest interjected. The admiral looked at the cover of the folder again: "Operation Mandrake; I like it. Frankly I wish that we could throw some cruisers in the mix as well but we need what we have to hold on here."

"I understand that," Thorpe replied. "The industrial machinery is working as well as it can now. I can't lie though the loss of Kamaga upset the morale here." Forrest looked pained. Thorpe quickly added: "I'm not castigating you because of that admiral. I know that we may see worse in terms of losses before this war is over. It is just that I have to play my other role as politician." Thorpe looked as if he had accidentally swallowed something unpleasant when he said that.

"Taskforce 25 is out there," Forrest said. "I want to get back out there as well sir." Forrest took a deep breath before continuing. "I know that Taskforce 31 is almost ready for launch. Commodore Leonard is a good man." Forrest hesitated.

"But you would like to lead out his taskforce while yours undergoes upgrades?" Thorpe asked pointedly. "I've had to deliver worse news lately admiral so I'll approve that." The president paused a moment. "Speaking of good men how is Commodore Stiles?"

"That was a lot of weight to put on someone that young sir," Forrest replied. "But she has done well out there. She thinks that the Romulans may make a move for Wolf 359. I'm inclined to agree."

"That is the intelligence assessment as well," Admiral Soames interjected; "if the Birdies have a psychology and tactical perspective anything like ours. At least taking out our observation post in Tellarite space seems to point to that. They must've realized that we would defend Tellar first."

"Is there anything we can do to beef up the defenses out there?" Thorpe asked in a tone indicating that he already knew the answer.

"Not that and assume any kind of offensive posture," Forrest replied. "Our only hope is the schedule of taskforce redeployments. We hope to have extra force coverage by overlapping deployments and redeployments. But there will be times when she is on her own out there."

"I think she has what it takes," Thorpe answered. "I've always been fortunate in the people I've selected to assist me in my endeavors. So far that has carried over into politics. We will see if it carries over into war."

Thorpe thanked his officers for the briefing. Both naval officers got up and saluted. The president returned their salutes. Forrest and Soames turned to leave with Forrest in the lead. Soames hung back when Thorpe noticed her again.

"You have other questions Erica?" The president asked.

"Nothing about the military sir," the woman was clearly uncomfortable with her subject. "Or perhaps it has everything to do with the military." At Thorpe's expectant look the intelligence officer explained:

"I'm not trying to tell you your business sir. But it is these Sons' of Terra. I know you will win reelection. It is just that our people out in space hear that the war is all because of our expansion and alien politics. I'm sure Admiral Forrest would've agreed with me. I just wish you would say more. I know the people are smart enough to smell a rat. But the old maxim about repeating a lie enough times comes to mind."

"I've always thought the best of people," Thorpe replied. "I suppose an almost century old lull caused us to grow soft though. I don't want to resort to getting down to those people's level." The president got up and went to the open window. "No Erica, people have to determine things for themselves. I know things are dark now and that is where people in the Sons' of Terra like to hide—in the darkness. Once their ideas are exposed to the light of day people usually abandon their cause."

"They can still cause great harm sir," the intelligence officer replied. "I've read the diplomatic dispatches. Our allies can interpret your inaction with these people as a sign of weakness."

Thorpe breathed a deep draught of the clean sea air then turned back to the admiral. "I'm forced to agree there. Hopefully my reelection will lay their fears to rest."

Admiral Soames smiled at Thorpe. "Very good sir," she said simply. When Thorpe asked her if that was all, the intelligence officer nodded and saluted once again. Thorpe turned back to San Francisco Bay as Erica Soames left his office.

Taskforce 25, near Topaz, Jun 2157

The Fearless cruised through subspace in the company of her sister cruiser the Pioneer along with the destroyers Wolverton and Charleston. The new Torsk class ships Navaga and Stingray accompanied the small taskforce. Completing the mix was the new Tannhauser class cruiser Badr. The ships flew past the star streaks of warped space as they proceeded along their way.

Commodore Pierre Oulette reviewed the fuel figures that Lt. Cmdr. Jeffrey Sutton had just handed him. It amazed the French-Canadian to no end how far they had come and they still had over fifty percent of their deuterium reserve. Oulette recalled making the same cruise with fusion power only. The Fearless would have needed to tank up three times to make it this far. The commodore perused the report then signed it and returned it to his operations officer.

"Chief Traz," Oulette called to the Andorian operating the Fearless' sensors. "How is our bait doing?"

"Still on course at warp 1.9," the chief replied.

"Grand," Oulette replied.

Pierre was growing a little tired of the fishing expedition. The taskforce had been at it for over three days now. The converted Bison class Jade Queen was the bait to which Oulette had referred. The little Q ship after some minor yard work now had much the same subspace radar signature as that of a Tellarite freighter. It was there for the apparent taking of the Birdies Grizzly thought. But the Romulans had been silent since their successful attack on Kamaga.

That worried Oulette. The commodore thought of all the possible clichés like; 'the calm before the storm'. But the simple fact in terms of military affairs was that the lull in enemy activity probably signaled the beginning of a new offensive. Then again Oulette had to remind himself that no one knew anything about Romulans. Maybe they were seasonal creatures who needed to hibernate, Pierre thought. Or perhaps they had some strange alien ethos that had been satisfied after the last attack. So far the largest piece of Birdie wreckage recovered had been no more than twenty meters square. The only thing that could be made of it was that Birdie metallurgy was similar to that of humans and their alien allies. No Romulans living or dead had yet been observed.

"Captain Townsend is reporting unknowns just entering subspace sensor range," Chief Brandt reported from communications. "He is sending us a data link."

"Put it on the viewer chief," Oulette ordered. The commodore rubbed his thumb over the ship's PA switch. Maybe now was a good time to summon Talas to the bridge. But no, Oulette thought, he would wait until he had more details.

The bridge viewscreen resolved to show an image of eleven unknown vessels. Graphs beneath each vessel showed speed, course and heading as well as a relative power output. The new upgrades were indeed better than the old sensors.

"Those power readings are the same we've seen in other Romulan ships." Lieutenant David Guerrero said from the helm position. "Standing by to increase speed," Guerrero said.

"Wait a few more minutes David," Oulette said patiently then ordered the Fearless to general quarters. Pierre watched as the distance between the unknowns and the Jade Queen decreased. The Queen started turning away. The commodore thought that Townsend was making a fine show of things. The bridge hatch trundled open to admit Commander Talas.

"We have sighted the enemy," the Andorian said. It was obvious that she was relishing the thought of a fight. Unlike so many of the other Andorians and a few of the Tellarites Talas had elected to continue wearing the form fitting Imperial Guard uniform. Oulette nodded.

"Helm prepare to take us to warp 3 on an intercept course with those bogeys," Oulette ordered. The commodore turned his attention to his first officer. "Please notify the other ships of the taskforce of our plans Talas."

"Eleven-to-one," the Andorian first officer remarked after making the necessary calls to the other ships of the taskforce. "At least our ships have an advantage over theirs even with their plasma cannons."

"That also means that they have this many ships to harass convoys and single freighters," the commodore said. "Of course one hopes it is caution on their part as well." Oulette was aware of the spy drones that had been found near alliance worlds. How much did the Birdies know of man and his alien friends wondered? And how little the alliance knew of the Romulans. Oulette sighed.

"Is all well sir?" Talas asked.

"Oui," Oulette replied. "I was just thinking that we cannot even put a face to our opponents."

"We can put missiles and lasers to them though," Talas declared emphatically.

"Let us be to it then," Oulette said.

The space just outside of the Topaz system, Jun 2157

The small fleet accelerated. Ahead of them the Q ship dropped out of warp. Explosive bolts silently went off along several points along the length of the converted Bison's hull. Metal plating was blown away revealing among other things twin laser turrets and the snout of a rail gun. Two openings along the Bison's keel were revealed showing the tubes for anti-ship missiles. Thousand of kilometers from the Jade Queen several flashes could be seen as the little ship's potential attackers emerged into normal space.

Six of the three-nacelle Sabinus class cruisers were escorted by five Veronus class ships. The little freighter was invisible over the thousand of kilometers as the green jellyfish looking craft closed on their intended prey. The ships were soon at their weapons range when the little freighter discharged two deadly missiles. The high speed darts streaked away leaving a brief flare of chemical thrust. Smaller Spider area defense missiles followed their bigger and slower Narwhal cousins. Romulan plasma cannons discharged into the missiles' flight path cancelling out the cannon fire as well as the Queen's missile fire. More streaks filled space as the Jade Queen fired a second round. This time it was accompanied by the lightened traces of rail gun fire. One Narwhal avoided plasma cannon fire and made a close approach to a Sabinus before being shredded short of its target by a pattern of neutronium pellets.

The green ships closed the distance to the besieged freighter. More ships stretched with a flash into normal space behind the Bison class freighter. These ships added more missiles to the emptiness of space. The newly arrived Taskforce 25 ships intercepted more plasma cannon fire. The Jade Queen fired one more combination of Narwhals and Spiders before escaping away into subspace. This time one of the Queen's Narwhals made it past the Romulan missile defense pellets and turned a Chowder class cruiser into an expanding ball of molten wreckage.

Missile fire from the Star Fleet taskforce scored two more hits adding another Veronus and a Sabinus to the list of destroyed Romulan ships. Several of the spherical Romulan fighter craft were in the process of launching out of a Cabbage when a Narwhal inbound for another Romulan cruiser struck an Eightball sending the fighter craft reeling back into its launch bay where it exploded. A series of small explosions started going off in the bay growing in intensity until in a final blast the entire cruiser detonated.

Four of the Romulan craft turned about presenting their nacelles to the attacking alliance taskforce. They leapt away into subspace. The three remaining Romulan ships, two Chowders and a Cabbage fired their plasma cannons. Two of the beams of deadly super-heated material were intercepted by Spider area defense missiles. One beam made it through to hit the unlucky Charleston. The Star Fleet ship spun away as static discharges went off along the portion of the destroyer's hull that had been hit. More missiles were exchanged between the Romulans and their adversaries. Spider area defense missiles and point defense lasers destroyed incoming Romulan missiles. The three Romulan ships were soon reduced to radioactive debris as their defenses were overwhelmed by Star Fleet missiles.

Taskforce 25, UES Fearless, Jun 2157

"Number of inbounds is thirty-three ships," Chief Traz exclaimed as his antennae stood up. "Warp 2.8 on an intercept course out of Topaz. I'd say from the power signatures that they are a mix of Chowders and Cabbages—estimated time of arrival is nine minutes."

"Status of the Charleston?" Oulette asked anxiously.

Talas cocked her head as she listened in her earpiece. Finally she replied: "Captain Toranaga is dead along with most of the command crew. Their engineer has taken command. They have decompression on three decks. The power feeds from the mam reactor to the warp nacelles are damaged. They can't initiate a warp field."

The commodore uttered a curse in French softly under his breath. Then he looked up and said: "Very well; tell their engineer to start an evacuation of all nonessential personnel. Weapons," the commodore called to his weapons officer Lt. Moran. The chestnut haired woman acknowledged him. "Prepare to lay down a pattern of missiles at their likely exit vectors." Oulette turned to Guerrero at the helm. "Tell me where that would put them? I know they will read our missiles."

"That would put them out of warp at a position well out of range," Guerrero replied. "It would buy us another six minutes."

"Okay Talas that gives their engineer a little extra time." The commodore stated. "But relay to him or her, the following: They are either ready to go to warp in ten minutes or they initiate self-destruct and get their butts to the shuttles. I want to target the Charleston as well as a backup measure. It wouldn't do for the Birdies to get any of our technology."

The time wound down. The bridge was silent except for the background noise of cooling fans and the persistent calls from the various departments confirming their readiness status. Oulette got up and went from duty station to duty station checking on the status of his people. Grizzly was worried. He was cutting it close but the taskforce commander knew how precious ships were despite the new yard over Mars. The silence was broken at the eight minute point by Lieutenant Sylvia Moran.

"Firing and away," the gunnery officer reporter as the Fearless along with the other ships of the taskforce fired their covering barrage of anti-ship missiles.

Just short of the nine minute point the viewer showed the pinpoints of the faraway detonations of the taskforce's missiles. The explosions went on for almost thirty seconds as the gunnery officers had calculated a pattern designed to bring the Romulans out of warp. The plan worked.

"Romulan vessels transiting to normal space," Chief Traz announced. "They are accelerating to full impulse. That will put us in range of their plasma cannons in five minutes."

"The shuttles from the Charleston are all safely aboard other ships now sir," the first officer reported.

"Tell their engineer that his time is up!" Oulette exclaimed. The commodore was well aware of the time it would take for the remainder of the Charleston's crew to make it to a shuttle bay, launch then be recovered by another ship. "I know they want to repair their ship but it is--,"

"Sir the Charleston is ready to go to warp!" Talas exclaimed.

"Then let us leave this place number one," Oulette said with a smile. "Sylvia please make sure we lay down covering fire. We do not want any uninvited company from the Birds!" The commodore said to his gunnery officer.

Taskforce 25, UES Fearless in subspace several hours after the battle, Jun 2157

Sutton ducked a quickly aimed jab. The operations officer swept his leg out in an attempt to knock his opponent to the ground. It failed; instead his sparring partner nailed the Fearless' third officer in an embarrassing spot on his rear. Sutton stumbled forward then caught his balance and turned back to the attack. Jeff was just in time to deflect a gloved fist aimed for his jaw. He caught his opponent's arm and the two of them wrestled until they ended up falling onto the exercise mat. For once Sutton had the advantage. The officer pinned his sparring partner when beneath him.

"There!" he cried triumphantly. "I finally got the best of you!"

Jeff was ready to gloat when Talas sprang up and kissed him. Sutton was so surprised that he barely noticed her moving beneath him until he went reeling over onto his back. Now the Fearless' first officer was in the superior position.

"You did that on purpose!" Sutton exclaimed. Talas smiled at him and was about to reply when they heard the sound of a third person in the gym. They had been alone until the new arrival. Both officers looked up as Grizzly Oulette cleared his throat.

"Sorry to interrupt your," the commodore paused; "your exercise, but there is a problem with the Charleston."

Talas sprang lithely to her feet. Her skin stayed the same shade of blue leading Sutton to believe that either her people didn't blush or she didn't care. Sutton was certainly blushing now as he climbed to his feet.

"What is it sir?" Talas asked directly.

Oulette explained that the ship though it needed some more repairs was still spaceworthy. The problem was with the surviving crew. The command staff was gone. Sutton wondered if there was a problem with the Charleston's engineer. The operations officer knew that many engineers were enlisted. That didn't make them less able it is just that a lot of them never aspired to command anything more than their engineering department. Sutton mentally scratched his head trying to recall who was on the Charleston. Like any other person who had spent a decade or more with earth's Stellar Navy Sutton usually knew someone who knew someone else aboard a ship. In this case the lieutenant commander could not put a name to the Charleston's engineer.

"Is the engineer not up to the task?" Talas asked reflecting what was on Sutton's mind.

"He is a Tellarite," Oulette replied. The commodore sighed. "I have read through the terms of the alliance. Alien forces," Oulette looked at Talas, "Sorry commander," when she nodded in a human fashion he continued. "Alien forces are fully integrated with our own. But this is the first case of one of our allies taking command of a Stellar Navy craft. I have reviewed Goval's record. By all accounts he is a fine officer as up to the task of command as one could be given the circumstances."

"Will the navy buy off on that sir?" Sutton asked pointedly.

"That is what I am wondering," Oulette replied. "I want to give him command but I do not want to be reversed at a higher level that would look bad. It would also affect our relations with the aliens." The commodore started to turn a shade of pink as he looked at Sutton and Talas. "I mean association not that anyone is having relations." Oulette stammered. "I mean—merde!" Oulette took a breath and continued. "I have made my decision."

"Are you putting this Goval in command?" Talas asked.

Oulette nodded; at that Sutton spoke up. "That is putting a lot on the line sir."

"We shall see," the commodore replied. "Manpower is abysmally short these days. If BuPer reverses me they had better be prepared to pull an experienced human captain out of their," Oulette paused for several seconds; "out of their files to give to me."

"I will leave you two to your," Oulette hesitated; "exercise. If you have any further inputs on this let me know," the commodore turned and left the human and Andorian alone again.

"I have had no problems being in command of your people before," Talas said. "But it is true that there was a human officer backing me up."

"Think about the reverse situation," Sutton said. "How would the crew of an Imperial Guard ship feel under the command of a human captain?"

"There would be problems," Talas said reluctantly. "We have come to know one another but not nearly enough it seems." The alien woman got closer to Sutton. "Alternatively you and I could change that."

Jeff started turning colors again which caused Talas to remark: "You know that when you do that you really live up to the name Pink-skin?"

Taskforce 18, UES Beagle, near the Wolf system, Jun 2157

"Nothing for days now," Jocelyn Stiles said bitterly. "I thought that the Birdies would take the bait."

"We have scanned them on the edge of our range." Anjin said.

The bridge of the Beagle was a busy place as the small taskforce sat alone in the depths of space. Wolf was a bright star among many others now. They had been in holding at their present location for almost a week now. What the Andorian had said was true. The Birdies were on the move but exactly where they were on the move too was a mystery. It might well be routine Romulan patrols around Deneva. One thing Stiles had gotten from the coded dispatches was that the Birdies were busy patrolling around Deneva. It was obvious that they wanted to hold on to the world.

"Sir we are getting a coded message from the Minotaur patrol," Ensign Cruz said. The Tellarite had been assigned as the head of communications for the Beagle. Stiles asked what the message was. "They say that they are picking up a large volume of activity. They are scanning fifty-four ships holding a relative position near one of the approach vectors you guessed they would come along."

"This could be it," Captain Ed Minford said.

"Cruz, send a message back to Wolf to tell our people there to get ready," Stiles said. Then she added quickly: "And make sure that they don't execute until they get the final order!"

Stiles gripped the arms of the command chair tightly. The alliance forces had managed to leave a Narwhal anti-ship missile near to the Romulan spy drone. The commodore hoped that the Birdies had not detected that. So far emissions from the drone were like clockwork. Rather that meant the missile was undetected or if the Romulans were now themselves laying a trap remained to be seen. If all went as planned the Birdies would make an approach. Once they crossed a point of no return between where they could not possibly get a transmission from their drone in time the Narwhal would take out the spy drone. Then the remainder of Taskforce 18 would make for Stiles' position.

It was a terrible gamble Jocelyn realized. If she was wrong then Wolf would lay defenseless save for its ring of Hercules missile platforms and two fighter squadrons. But she had poured over every detail of previous engagements between the Birdies and Star Fleet with a ferocity brought about by her hatred for them. Stiles recalled reading about people called profilers. She remembered how they had helped law enforcement people track down criminals by almost getting into the mind of the criminal. Stiles felt that she was in the mind of the Birdies enough to guess their moves. Somehow she felt that whatever they were they were arrogant—or some alien approximation thereof.

"I've sent the message sir," Cruz replied. The Tellarite cocked his head as he listened into his earpiece, made especially for his species. "The patrol is reporting that the Birdies are on the move. They are sending us telemetry."

Jocelyn told the Tellarite to display the sensor readings from the patrolling fighter craft. The view screen changed from a view of stars against the blackness of space to one of a gray background. A large mass of blips was visible between two diverging lines showing the corridor that Stiles had guessed they would come in along. The blips were moving on a heading between the lines toward Wolf 359. The Minotaur pilot or his copilot was doing a thorough job of highlighting each unknown to read its individual power signature. The readings were an exact match for Romulan vessels.

"Tell the fighter CAP to move away discreetly," Stiles told Capt. Ed Minford. "Flash the Truman and the Potemkin and tell them to take up position. I think it is time to call our people at Wolf too."

Stiles watched the screen as the glowing blue spot with the carriers' numbers under each glowing indicator took up positions well outside of what was considered to be Romulan radar range. The subspace sensor display was badly focused in some areas. But that was to be expected outside of Wolf 359. Hell's Gate, Jocelyn thought grimly.

Stiles wondered who had attached such a sinister name to the cloud of dust, hydrogen and ionized particles. Viewed from Terra Nova at night the cloud was indeed a glowing red color. Much like earth's northern lights Hell's Gate was an awe inspiring but distant sight best viewed away from the brightly lit colonial towns that had sprang up on Nova. Another feature of the debris cloud was that sensor readings were difficult to obtain in and near the cloud. Subspace radar was similarly obscured and normal approach radars were useless. Jocelyn had factored the cloud into her plans.

When Stiles had captained the Air Force Academy's lacrosse team she had learned every centimeter of the playing field. She had coached her players to do the same so that when visiting teams came to compete they would be on unfamiliar footing. Stiles' team would not have that disadvantage. That had resulted in a sweep of home victories for her team. She hoped to do much the same thing here today; only today was not about a trophy. Today was about death and Stiles planned for many Romulans to die today.

"Distance to Hell's Gate?" Stiles asked Ensign Nandalal Bose. The Calcutta native looked into his hooded sensor display.

"Telemetry from the Minotaurs is fading sir," the ensign reported crisply. "We are starting to pick up the leading edge of their ships now. They are proceeding along at warp 1.8; estimated time until they contact Hell's Gate is eighteen minutes. They should clear the dust cloud four minutes after that if they maintain course and speed."

"What if they go around?" Stiles asked pointedly.

"That would add another ten minutes sir," Bose replied.

"You don't think they are going through?" Captain Ed Minford asked. Phrased as a question it was a statement.

"No Ed I don't," Stiles replied. At Minford's questioning look Stiles explained: "I think they will go around—it is what I would do if I were them. Ensign Cruz," the commodore turned to her Tellarite communications officer. "Tell the carriers to be ready to pull back a little further. Tell the carrier to arc around on whichever side they cross on or even better a z-plus or minus approach." Stiles looked thoughtful then added: "Tell them to launch their fighter squadrons."

"Helm take us to the following coordinates," Stiles told Chief Mary Vong then rattled off a series of coordinates.

Minford studied a tactical readout at an auxiliary station for a few moment before he asked: "You think they are coming over from that angle?"

"No," the commodore said. Stiles eyes were elsewhere as she looked at things in her mind. "They are splitting up captain. I can feel it."

"Sensor returns confirm that sir!" Ensign Bose exclaimed. The tall lanky Indian was clearly surprised.

"We'll lay down the pattern fire as we discussed," Stiles said. "That should give them a surprise. Their radar won't be any use till they round a point about here." Stiles shad left her seat to point out a position on the bridge viewscreen. "That will force them out of warp. Tell the Truman's fighters to launch on the other side of Hell's Gate and intercept them about here." Jocelyn pointed out another position which Chief Vong resolved into a set of coordinates.

"Ensign Cruz, status of our other forces from Wolf?" Stiles asked the Tellarite officer.

The ensign inputted signal commands into his console. There was relative silence for a few minutes then the Tellarite cocked his head as he listened to the reply over his earpiece.

"They have destroyed the drone and are sixteen minutes away." The Tellarite answered.

"Tell them to engage the Birdies on the left flank of the Gate ensign." Stiles said as she sat herself down in the captain's chair again.

"That is cutting it close," Minford said. "The Truman's squadron will have their hands full."

"Only for two minutes or so," Stiles answered. "The Birdies will get smacked on that side. By the time they are ready to launch fighters the rest of our people will be there."

"The Aktiba acknowledges," Cruz said at last. "The rest of the taskforce is ready."

Hell's Gate, near Wolf 359, Jun 2157

The glowing gases did not acknowledge the passing of the ships in subspace. The Romulan force made its way around the spectacular mass of illuminated gas and particles. Ahead of their position missile trails were visible. Needle-like Narwhal anti-ship missiles accelerated along their flight paths. Seconds after their passage globular white hot explosions silently went off illuminating the reddish gases of Hell's Gate even more. The explosions went of one after the other at irregular but steady intervals.

Seven Romulan ships lengthened into normal space. The only thing that marked them as Romulans were their characteristic green hulls, which were now reduced to shreds of molten metal. Three more cruisers followed. They could no longer be differentiated as Sabinus or Veronus cruisers since they were now wrecked hulks. The remaining seventeen cruisers burst forth into normal space with a flash. So did a flight of arriving Minotaurs from the Potemkin. Corsair missiles sprang from the launch tubes of the little fighters. Seconds after that, Stiles ships that had been waiting entered normal space. Narwhal anti-ship missiles filled the void between the two fleets.

The Corsairs impacted three Romulan Cabbages before they could bring lasers to bear. One of those rolled slowly through space as mounting internal explosions finally obliterated it. The other two wounded cruisers stayed in the fight until an incoming Narwhal finished off one of those. The Romulans were finally positioning themselves to fire plasma beams. The approaching alliance fleet filled space with area defense missiles as the Minotaurs paired off against individual Romulan cruisers. A Minotaur was cut in half from bow to stern by an invisible ray of laser energy. But not before it's carefully aimed Corsair hit its killer, severing one of the Chowders warp nacelles.

Across from that battle on the opposite end of the gas cloud Minotaurs from the Harry S. Truman picked off five cruisers with their opening shots. When the Romulans entered normal space they found the Minotaurs less than one thousand kilometers away from their ships in some cases. Corsairs leapt out from beneath the stubby garishly painted earth fighters destroying three more cruisers and crippling another one. The Romulans, without regard to their own safety, started firing at the stubborn little Minotaurs. Two of the little craft were destroyed but not before one of them hit by laser fire took a final suicidal run at a Romulan Sabinus class ship. The Sabinus was sent reeling by the combined explosion of the little fighter and its missiles. Seconds later it exploded into pieces. A Romulan Chowder lining up for a kill shot on a fighter was hit by missiles fired from a nearby Cabbage.

The Romulans were turning the tide here when the Tannhauser class Marathon emerged into normal space firing Narwhals. It was followed by the Choctaw and the alliance ships Aktiba and Hazmq. The Hazmq wasted no time in accelerating towards the Romulans. Merculite rockets left the bay of the Tellarite light cruiser consuming a Sabinus class cruiser in hundreds of tiny explosions. Romulan neutronium pellets filled space in what was becoming apparent as random shots. Narwhals and their Andorian equivalent streaked past the haphazardly strewn particles to take out four Romulan cruisers.

Andorian fighters entered the fray following another barrage of Merculite rockets and Narwhal missiles. Five more Romulan cruisers, three Veronus class and two Sabinus's were blasted into particle sized matter. The surviving trio of Minotaurs joined into a loose formation firing Corsairs into one cruiser after another. Augmented by their Andorian allies the fighters destroyed three more Romulan cruisers before turning about to make another pass.

Taskforce 18, UES Beagle, near Hell's Gate, Jun 2157

"They are turning away sir!" Ensign Bose exclaimed triumphantly.

Stiles watched as the twelve survivors separated. Four of those stayed behind. It was a familiar sight. The four would sacrifice themselves so that the remaining eight could escape. Across space just a few AU's away telemetry indicated that the other half of the Romulan strike force was trying to do the same thing.

"Not this time you bastards," Jocelyn said under her breath. The commodore spoke up: "Initiate phase two Ed."

The Beagle's bridge viewer displayed the Romulans now as green blurbs of information. Blue information markings started to appear in the unfocused region of Hell's Gate. Several high speed tracks left these new markings. Hercules missiles launched from platforms concealed in the dust cloud. One after the other the power readings associated with the retreating Romulan ships peaked and then vanished.

"Firing and away," Lieutenant Damon Rice announced as the Beagle along with the rest of the alliance ships on that end of Hell's Gate filled space with Narwhals.

"The last Birdie ships have been destroyed sir," Ensign Bose announced. The battle had lasted less than fifteen minutes but Bose sounded exhausted nonetheless.

"Very good ensign," Stiles said. She felt a burning sense of satisfaction deep within herself. She was not allowed to feel the emotion for too long before Captain Minford broke in:

"Shall I order the taskforce to make its way back to Wolf?" The captain asked.

Jocelyn sat back in her seat for a minute. The time seemed to drag on for so long that Minford looked like he was about to speak again when Stiles said: "No Ed." She took a deep breath before continuing. "Every time we've fought there is a lull between battles. Well not today. I want the surviving Minotaurs put aboard the Truman. That will bring their squadron back up to full strength. Have our ships rendezvous here. I want to take the Beagle, Hazmq, Marathon, Choctaw and the Truman on a little trip."

"It takes about six hours for the Tellarites to replace a rack of rockets." Stiles stated flatly. Minford nodded uncertainly. "That is more than enough time. We are going to Deneva; pay the Birdies a little visit."

Minford made a ferocious grin. "Let them guess when they are going to get hit for a change, eh?" He asked adding a cruel sounding chuckle.


	9. Chapter 9

Vulcan, the region known as the Forge, Jun 2157

Lieutenant Tarang Gupta was dark skinned normally but he knew now that the exposed portions of his skin were almost black. The Stellar Navy intelligence officer had been walking through the desert in the company of T'Pol for almost two weeks now. They had at first tried journeying at night: Partly for the practicality of walking in the relative cool and also to avoid the prying eyes of the occasional flyer. The drawbacks had been that anyone conducting satellite surveillance would have seen their heat signatures. Minister Soval had given T'Pol a schedule of the satellites' orbits and coverage region. That had slowed Gupta and T'Pol down considerably. They had proceeded that way for five nights. The sixth night they had set out at a steady pace until a ravaging Sehlat had driven them up the slopes of a small ravine.

The large creature looked to Gupta to have been over three meters long. Tarang had shined a torch on the creature long enough to see fangs almost two tenths of a meter long. That had been quite enough for Gupta who had started to unholster his Colt 2011 when T'Pol had intervened. The creature's mass was such any climbing soon overheated the animal. T'Pol using some of their freeze-dried rations had enticed the creature to try to climb at the two beings literally tiring the beast out. The pair had walked carefully along the steep hillside leaving the heavily breathing animal behind.

That had been seven nights ago and it had been the last time that they had journeyed in the dark until this night. The Vulcan days had been brutal on Gupta. He wondered that he, a native of India, could barely tolerate the heat. That led Gupta to wonder how a Nordic human would have fared. Today was different though. They had found a charted subterranean pool from which to refill their canteens. The two had rested in the cool grotto until dusk. Tonight they would start down into the Valley of K'Henga.

Gupta crouched on the leeward side of a hill over whose top laid a panoramic view of their destination. T'Pol had crawled up to the top and was looking through a pair of binoculars into the valley and ruins below. Gupta took a drink of water. The naval officer realized on a logical level that the water was quite tepid. But in the heat of the Vulcan desert it was refreshingly cool. Tarang crawled up beside the Vulcan woman.

"What do you see?" he asked quietly.

T'Pol handed Gupta the binoculars: "See for yourself." The lieutenant scanned the area below as T'Pol continued. "It is lightly guarded. The High Command may have electronic devices in place. We will have to scan for those."

"The area where Celada maintained her quarters seems to be lightly guarded," Gupta said quietly. "In fact it seems that most of the quarters used by the archeological team are deserted."

"We are to investigate the ruins," T'Pol said sharply. Gupta could hear the sharpness in her tone whereas a human unfamiliar with Vulcans would hear what they perceived as an unemotional monotone.

"I've been giving that some thought," Gupta replied. "I tried to learn archeology as you suggested. I need a few more years I am afraid. Now I haven't been a secret agent long but I believe that an agent would start by investigating strange happenings."

"If you are referring to the scientists' ritual suicide I believe that pursuit would be pointless." T'Pol replied.

Gupta put the binoculars down and looked at the Vulcan woman. "T'Pol I know that is a sensitive matter for your people--,"

"Suicide is a sensitive matter for your people as well," The Vulcan interjected.

"It is that," Gupta replied. "But please bear with me." T'Pol stared intently at the intelligence officer. They were so close that Gupta could feel her breath on his face. "The woman, Celada had no physical illness that was documented. There was no observed mental illness either. So we are left with a conundrum. Was she concealing something that caused her to kill herself? Did someone else kill her; if that is so then why?"

"It seems to be tenuous reasoning at best," T'Pol said. Gupta could barely discern a softening in her face. "But that compound leads to a less secured area of the ruins. It might be possible to gain entrance undetected from there."

The pair backed down the side of the hill. Gupta got out a pair of glasses that the navy must surely have borrowed from a security agency. When he put them on his face the map that he had became illuminated. Gupta knew that they could not proceed down the other side of the hill. That route was exposed. Gupta had discussed possible ways down into the valley with T'Pol earlier. Now that they had both seen it for themselves Tarang decided to stick with an earlier plan that they had come up with. He conferred with the Vulcan and she agreed.

The two would circle around to a lower portion of land to the north. The hill side there was jagged and took on a rolled up appearance in places. They had both felt that approach would be the one to offer the most concealment. The duo silently shouldered their packs and after taking a drink each from their canteens they proceeded along their way. It was slow going as the desert floor was illuminated only by the light from the stars. They chatted quietly as they walked.

"I hope that there are no Sehlats along our path," Gupta said quietly. The naval officer looked around with a feeling of trepidation. There was no place to run if one of those beasts jumped them in this area. "Did you really have one of those things for a pet?" Tarang thought of who he was speaking to. "Yes of course you did. Why would you say otherwise."

"They do not come close to inhabited areas," T'Pol replied softly. "Like your canines they can be domesticated quite easily."

"At least it looks like the High Command hasn't left many people to guard this area," Gupta said. They had observed a contingent of Vulcan soldiers camped by the primary ruins. Why they were there and not in the relative comfort of the prefabricated buildings the archeological team had lived in puzzled Gupta. But he supposed that the Vulcans that seemed to number around fifty had been told specifically to guard the ruins. It was a certainty that any attempt to get close to the ruins was going to prove difficult.

"The laser network they have in place is quite impressive," T'Pol said referring to the interlacing invisible spider web of laser detectors. Once one of those beams was broken it would no doubt alert the security forces there. "It is possible that they have stunning devices in place to."

"We'll start with an examination of the scientists' quarters," Gupta said. "I suppose we can spend the day hidden behind some of the rock formation down there. Hopefully we can spot a weak point while we lay in wait." T'Pol did not answer for a long time leading the intelligence officer to assume that she agreed with him. Finally she replied but it was not what Tarang had expected.

"I have wondered why you didn't mention Koss' visit to your shop?" the Vulcan woman asked.

"I a, well I," Gupta started haltingly in English then returned to Vulcan. Gupta did not know why she brought that particular visit up after all of this time. "It seemed that our business was closed. I believe that he is concerned about your welfare and--,"

"He is jealous," T'Pol interrupted flatly.

Tarang thought for several seconds before replying: "I cannot speak to that. And that would be most illogical for a Vulcan would it not?"

They were walking past a formation of volcanic rock when they heard a low rumble. The two fell silent for a few seconds while they listened intently. They looked at each other briefly and broke into a run for the jagged rock formation. They barely made it in time to throw themselves behind some boulders when the Vulcan patrol shuttle roared slowly overhead. The craft did not linger and it did not return immediately.

"That was close," Gupta mumbled between gasps of air. They sat together with their backs to a boulder. "Let's wait here a few minutes and see if they return." Tarang thought that they had not observed any flights the night before. They had been close enough to see the departure of any aircraft in the clear desert night.

"What did Koss say to you?" T'Pol asked sharply. She seemed no more winded than one would who had just walked at a short leisurely pace.

Gupta was at a loss for words. Finally he told T'Pol the details of her husband's visit to the offices of Pan-Pacific. Tarang took care to minimize Koss' statement concerning T'Pol's supposed interest in Gupta. As much as part of the lieutenant wished for that he also realized that it could be the hastily arrived at conclusion of a jealous husband. Nonetheless the woman seemed to pick up on what Tarang left out as much as what he said.

"We have been having," T'Pol paused before continuing. "We—me and Koss have been having difficulties. It seems that he has changed much since my return to Vulcan." There was more silence then she added quietly: "Or perhaps it is I who has changed."

"But that was no reason for Koss to come to you," T'Pol said. "I have mentioned you many times but it is because you are involved with my assignment from Minister Soval." She suddenly asked him candidly: "You do not believe I have any other interest in you?"

Gupta was somewhat depressed to hear that. But really it was not reasonable for him to expect more. The officer's mind told him that but his heart told him something else. Still Tarang had to keep in mind that T'Pol was not human. He reflected on the advice that Captain Soames had given him now many months ago. Gupta thought that he was reaching for something that could not be although as much as he tried to deny it he was attracted to the Vulcan beside him. Tarang became aware that he should answer her.

"Of course not T'Pol," Gupta rose abruptly. "We should continue now. I think that they are gone."

T'Pol stood up as well and followed the Indian away from their hiding place. Both of them surveyed the land ahead of them for hiding places were the shuttle to return. "It is good that you do not think I have any other kind of interest in you." She said at last.

They walked on for several more minutes before she continued: "Because I have no other interest in you. But I have come to think of you as a friend;" this last she added hastily.

"I've always felt that way about you T'Pol," Gupta replied. "There is nothing wrong with that."

They walked on in silence with only casual observations about the terrain for a little over an hour. Finally they drew close to their destination. It would be a slow climb down to the valley floor now. They scrambled down slowly going from one hiding place to another. Both were sure that the forces guarding the dig site would probably have imaging equipment that could pick them out of the night. After another two hours of slow clumsy descent into the valley the two threw themselves down behind the ruins of an ancient stone wall. The compound that the archeological team had stayed in was no more than two kilometers away.

"There is low terrain around the base of the valley," Gupta said. "Hopefully we can get behind the archeologists' encampment from behind. I suppose a stream may have run back there."

"All this area was once dense forest," T'Pol said. "Then the bombing changed the ecology." They crouched along hugging the wall until the terrain fell off somewhat dropping into a region of loose sand. They stood up and stopped. T'Pol dropped her pack and retrieved a small handheld device out of it. The Vulcan swept the device ahead of her toward their direction of intended travel. "I am detecting no traces of laser or other electromagnetic scanning devices." She bent and picked her pack up and shouldered it again. "Let us go."

"We should be more careful here," T'Pol whispered. "This sort of place is where sand worms would hide."

Great, Gupta thought. The creatures that T'Pol referred to as worms looked more like some nightmarish arrow-headed snake to the Indian. The creatures locked their jaws onto their prey and secreted a strong enzyme that started digesting whatever they had a hold of.

"My marriage to Koss was arranged when I was young," T'Pol said suddenly. "His family has some political power. While I was on earth I started to," She paused. "I started to have doubts. Our melding as children was ritualistic. After the embassy closed and I returned home I found that I did not know the man I was promised too."

"I don't pretend to understand all the nuances of your culture T'Pol," Gupta said. "But it seems that the issue is between you and Koss."

"That is so," T'Pol answered slowly. Then she asked: "You are sure that you see me as nothing more than a friend?"

Gupta inhaled the warm, thin Vulcan air sharply. He was beginning to think that females rather they were human or alien all seemed to share the same man-confusing characteristics. The intelligence officer decided to try honesty. "I will admit to having some feelings toward you that extend--extended beyond friendship." Tarang added hastily. "But I understand that we come from two different worlds and more importantly that you would want to honor the wishes of your culture."

"Perhaps I have wishes as well," T'Pol said. "But thank you for your honesty. Sremen has already told me as much." At Gupta's look of surprise she explained. "Do not think that he betrayed you. I asked him and he told me. What value would it have been to withhold that information? That would have been illogical."

Gupta nodded. The naval officer was unsure of where all of this was leading. He did have those feelings and they were still there Tarang knew. But he had his duty as well. He had been assigned a mission. This was not supposed to be some opportunity for extraterrestrial romance for him. Besides after ten days in the desert and only three opportunities to cleanse himself Gupta thought that he didn't particularly smell romantic just then. Gupta was relieved to see their destination in sight even in the darkness of the valley. They crouched down once again to observe a patrol walking through the deserted encampment. They were less than fifty meters from their destination and the roving security personnel. Gupta was glad in way for the Vulcan soldier's presence. The conversation had grown quite uncomfortable for him.

The lull also allowed Tarang time to study the layout of the camp and compare it to the report that he had seen. The intelligence officer spotted what he hoped had been Celada's small quarters. There were eleven of the small prefabricated domes reserved for the team members. Celada's should be the third one down what could be only described as a dusty street. The security team seemingly satisfied that no one was in the abandoned encampment made their way back to the site of the old monastery. Gupta motioned with his hand that they should go.

The hand torch blazed forth in the total darkness of the dome. Gupta was blinded for several seconds as his pupils had been fully dilated from their walk in the dark. When the Stellar Navy intelligence officer could finally see again he saw the simple quarters one would expect of a stoic Vulcan. Gupta was not surprised to see empty quarters. He didn't know what he would find here. He had decided to start here on instinct. But no Tarang thought there was more to it than that. He had made a career out of putting pieces of the puzzle together. That was after all the work of an intelligence officer: To look at separate distinct happenings and put those things together to try to come up with a possible outcome. The apparent suicide had mystified Gupta. It seemed to be an anomaly and any intelligence person knew that anomalous happenings sometimes led to bigger things.

The other side of the coin was that if this lead turned up nothing then they would have to try to penetrate a laser detection grid to snoop around heavily guarded ruins. Gupta didn't even want to think about that yet. He instead turned his attention to the living quarters.

"There is nothing here," T'Pol said with some finality.

"I do not understand why Celada suddenly changed her mind about where to look for Surak's ancient writings." Gupta explained as he shined his torch around the chamber. Sand had drifted in covering much of the floor. That was no surprise to Tarang as the living unit had apparently been cleared of the deceased scientist's belongings. He turned slowly surveying the room one last time.

"I suppose it was too good to be--," Gupta halted abruptly. The lieutenant shined his torch at a spot on the floor. Sand lay there but the sand outlined a square pattern. It was probably nothing Tarang thought as he walked over to the area knelt and brushed away the sandy covering. T'Pol stood behind him. The floor of the dwelling looked normal but there was a fine square cutout area. Gupta started tapping on the floor lightly.

"What are these structures made of?" the intelligence officer asked.

"A poly-ceramic crystalline structure setting upon a platform of pressed organic fibers," the Vulcan answered.

"With hollow areas?" Gupta asked. Tarang dug into his travel cloak until he found the small knife he had brought with him. Gupta dug the blade in until the floor panel popped up. A small box lay in a hollowed out space beneath the panel.

"If anyone looked in here after Celada's death the floor would in all likelihood had been clear," T'Pol said.

"In the meantime sand filled this place up and it was fine enough to sink into the crevices of this area," Gupta finished the explanation. He looked up at the Vulcan. "Are hidden areas like this the norm?" He lifted the small box out. It was a simple hinged metal storage container.

"No they are not," T'Pol replied as she knelt beside Gupta. He opened the lid and she shined her torch into the box. "It looks like a hand drawn chart and," She reached in and lifted out the small book that was inside. "It is a hand written journal." The Vulcan suddenly looked up. "Turn your light off!" She did that to her own torch as she said that. Gupta complied.

Now he could hear them: Voices. The patrol was obviously making another round. Gupta cursed himself: He should have waited longer and gotten their routine down. It was pitch black in the living dome. If the soldiers decided to inspect in here the couple would be caught for sure. Gupta tensed as a light shined through the outer door. He started to reach for the colt when it occurred to him: What was he going to do; shoot a Vulcan? Quite likely besides bringing Tarang's little adventure to a close that would also create a diplomatic incident. The lieutenant released the gun's grip. The light vanished as the sound from the voices slipped away into silence. Gupta started as he felt T'Pol's hot breath near his ear.

"We should wait for awhile longer," the Vulcan whispered quietly. "Then we should replace the cover and make sure we clear away our tracks here."

Tarang turned to reply instead he felt her lips on his. It had never occurred to Gupta that Vulcan's kissed.

San Francisco, Earth, Jun 2157

The Andorian Ale flowed freely. The president's main office which had not heard the sound of laughter since that fateful day in April of a year ago once again echoed with that happy sound. Karl Ebenstark was there along with Maggie Thorpe and General Shran. Shran's mate Ketra an imposing woman who was quite tall even by Andorian standards was there as well.

"A toast to President Thorpe!" a slightly drunken Karl Ebenstark exclaimed.

They all lifted their glasses to the newly reelected president. "Here is to five more years." Shran said happily.

"I want to thank you for all that you have done for us general," Maggie Thorpe said. "I don't know that any of us have really said that to one of our allies."

Shran's antennae dipped. "It was our agreement. But more than that I believe that our two peoples' destinies; along with those of the Tellarites are intertwined." Shran looked at the president. "I think some of Christophur has as you humans say; rubbed off on me."

"There is still much to do," Ketra said forcefully. "It seems that it is not only earth that has its own internal radicals."

"Bastards!" Ebenstark roared. The presidential aide subsided somewhat then continued. "It almost makes me wonder if these Romulans have agents on earth. It is almost as if these Sons' of Terra are puppets for them."

"It is no surprise to me that Chrut and Lahana journeyed to earth," Ketra said. "And no surprise that shortly after their return to our world our informational agencies issued that statement."

Thorpe knew more than anyone else in the room, with the exception of his wife he thought to what Shran's mate was referring to: A viscous statement had made its way to the Andorian Caldonè decrying the deaths of Imperial Guardsmen in the defense of pink-skins. It had seemingly originated from no where. Of course the terran news agencies especially that one ran by Carson Maclaren had picked up on the statement. Thorpe's numbers had dropped after the disastrous loss of Kamaga. But Stiles' victory at Hell's Gate had boosted Thorpe's polling numbers at the last minute delivering him the presidency once again.

"There is nothing for it now," Thorpe said in a mellow tone. "We still have a majority on the council." Not much of one Thorpe thought with some bitterness. The Romulan defeat at Hell's Gate had given Thorpe his office back. But the statement from Andor had hurt: Some regions had voted in candidates endorsed by the Sons.

"I wonder though if Karl does not have something?" Shran said.

"What do you mean?" the president asked. But Thorpe already knew the answer. He dreaded it in fact.

"We still do not know what these pirates look like," Shran said. "I hate to say this Christophur but given the number of humanoids we know of it is possible that the Romulans are some sort of humanoid form that can pass among us. Your own people observed that they are bipedal."

"I've thought the same thing Shran," Thorpe replied quietly. "But I don't like the possible solutions."

"Internal security is very important," Ketra interjected. "Sometimes things must be done for the greater good."

Thorpe looked around the room. Ebenstark was nodding at the Andorian woman's statement as was his own wife. Shran looked pensive. Finally Thorpe started quietly:

"I was going to say something like let's not repeat the mistakes of ancient Russia or twenty-first century America, but I would rather think of something that Shahar Rastan said. I read some of his writings after what he did."

The group looked expectantly toward the president. Thorpe seemed to be lost in thought when he finally looked up.

"I was just thinking of the speech I have to make in a little while," Thorpe said. The new president, by tradition made a formal acceptance speech the day after the election. Thorpe continued, "I don't think setting up some sort of earth security agency is the answer. I imagine that is something these Romulans do if they conquer a people. The Romulans are the enemy—not some misguided people in Europe or America." The president seemed to have come to some kind of decision. "But you are right. I have needed to say some things for a long time. Perhaps it is time to change that." The president looked at his chronometer. "Another six hours until my speech. I think another round of ales is in order!"

"I think that you have something in mind Christophur?" Shran asked conspiratorially.

Thorpe smiled and nodded. They were right: He had been silent for too long. The Sons' of Terra latest thing had been the appointment of a Tellarite captain to the command of a Stellar Navy vessel. Thorpe had stood behind Oulette's decision. Humans were either allied with the Tellarites and Andorians or they were not. But the Sons had made it sound as if Thorpe had handed the entire navy over to alien command. Thorpe had to change that. He had to point the truth out. But the president was aware that he could not sound like he was pandering.

"Hopefully in tonight's speech," Thorpe answered at last.

"It is that Tellarite officer's appointment," Maggie Thorpe said bitterly. "I never thought that I would ever hear comments like that from another human being! It doesn't make it any better that some on the council are echoing those words."

"What about the Kumari?" Ketra interjected. Everyone in the room looked at the Andorian woman. "My mate directs our war effort from the Thofsin now. The Guardsman commanding the Kumari is not an experienced warrior." They all looked with dawning realization at the Andorian woman. Shran seemed to be on the verge of protesting then his face assumed a look of resignation.

Catoctin Mountain Park, Maryland, United States, Earth Jun 2157

Frank McCoy liked the mountain retreat. It also felt good to have the lovely Eileen Thomas on his arm. He would have felt even better if it were not for the woman's politics and superior attitude. McCoy had thought that man had come a lot further along than that. McCoy was also taken a little aback at who was at the celebration. The naval enlisted man would never have suspected a lot of the people there to have had an allegiance to the Sons' of Terra. He recognized a few holo-vid actors and a few of the idle rich who would make the vidcasts for their outlandish activities. McCoy wished that he had that much time on his hands. McCoy accepted a Champaign from a passing waiter. He sipped at it and made a brief bitter face: It was of the non-alcoholic type. He felt Eileen tugging at his arm. McCoy looked down to be treated to the lovely woman's bare shoulders exposed as they were by her low cut evening gown.

"Someone wants to meet you Frank," Thomas said. She had a warm gentle smile on her face. "Although we didn't win every seat and that Thorpe got back in we still accomplished a lot."

McCoy let the woman guide him over to a small group. The enlisted man did not know what kind of perfume Eileen was wearing but he knew that it was effective. A man in a severe formal black suit was laughing with a small group of men and women. McCoy recognized the short pugnacious man: He was the president of the United States. It took McCoy a few seconds to recall: Todd Allen Glenn's ancestor had been the first to break the sound barrier or command the first shuttle. It annoyed a history scholar like Frank that he could not recall which one it was.

"Ah Eileen," President Glenn said politely. McCoy had thought that Thomas might well be a femme fatale set up to feel him out. But in the past few days he was discovering that she was somewhat high up in the hierarchy of the Sons' of Terra. McCoy became aware that the president was still speaking.

"This must be Sergeant McCoy." Glenn said using Frank's US Army rank. McCoy had come to think of himself more as a Star Fleet chief these days rather than his old rank. The president stuck out his hand. "Good to meet you Frank. That bit of news about the Tellarite captain did us a lot of good."

McCoy shook the president's hand thinking of how much he and Admiral Soames had agonized over releasing that information to the Son's of Terra. Soames had reasoned that since it would become public knowledge in a few days anyway releasing it just after the election would not hurt Thorpe much more. McCoy was only now realizing that he would have to be seen as actively aiding these people in order to find something or as the admiral had said; create something to bring them down. It left as bad a taste in McCoy's mouth as the faux Champaign did.

"Anything I could do to help the cause," McCoy said happily. Here it comes, Frank thought; just think with the reasoning skills of a twelve year old and ignore the facts. "We can't have these aliens over our people sir. That is just wrong! Why, there are probably Americans aboard the Charleston. Imagine those poor men and women having to obey a," McCoy paused. Force yourself here Frank old boy he thought, "A pig-snout!"

"I know how you feel sergeant," Glenn said putting a friendly hand to McCoy's shoulder. "We aim to change all of that. And with people like you I believe that is possible." The US president looked at Thomas. "And with people like Miss Thomas here as well," Thorpe added.

"We have made a rare discovery here sir," Eileen said as she looked to McCoy. "Not too many in the military have our support. But as things swing more our way people like Frank will be able to speak openly."

"I can't imagine what it is like in our services," a thin middle-aged man of some sort of Spanish descent declared. "Having to work side-by-side with, with," McCoy wondered if the man was working himself to a stroke; "Having to work with these alien monsters! They don't even have human values!"

"That is right sir," McCoy answered while thinking: No they have their own values which right now are far and away better than anyone else's principles in this room. "I can't begin to imagine how it is affecting our people out there."

"It is what Thorpe has led us too," a short broad woman who had seen the good side of her forties come and go interjected.

"Dragged is more like it Kathy," Todd Allen Glenn added. The president glanced at his chronometer then back to McCoy. "It was good meeting you sergeant. I know that we will be seeing each other again." Glenn made polite departing remarks to the rest of the group as well then headed away to what McCoy realized was a private meeting room. McCoy had seen Mark Hawkins among others enter that room as well. He supposed that it was a private room for the real heads of the organization.

"He really likes you Frank," Eileen said with a broad smile on her face. She moved in quickly and smacked her lips to his. "And so do I," she added as she backed away. "He wants to see you again. I am sure that you might be invited into the planning cell--," Eileen stopped abruptly and looked around. "There is time for that later." They both looked to the back of the large hall at someone's shout. A large vidcaster dominated the back wall. The man who had alerted them was informing them that it was time for Thorpe's acceptance speech.

"I was dreading this," Eileen said with a pouting look on her face. McCoy felt her tighten her grip on his arm.

"We have to see what our enemy has to say," McCoy said unemotionally. Actually he was dreading the speech as well. McCoy would have to feign annoyance and disapproval when he wanted to shout with glee.

"Always the intelligence operative eh?" Eileen asked with a smile. She moved in and kissed him again. This time it was longer. When McCoy caught his breath he was aware of the voice of Christophur Thorpe in the background. McCoy turned away reluctantly from the woman's warm mouth to the vidcaster presentation. Christophur Thorpe's face filled the holographic tank.

"--not to be thought of as a victory like one has won a prize. I accept the responsibility thrust upon me. I will do everything I can to end this war of that you can be sure. It is my duty to repay the trust that you, the people of earth have given to me."

Thorpe's face became harder. Frank knew that the winners were usually smiling and congratulating their staff in these speeches, but not this day. Thorpe continued. "A leader greater than I once said the following words:

"We have come from the ice," Thorpe recited from memory. "We have proven our strength as one people. But a strong nation is as much a danger to its people as a weak one is. We are strong because of each individual Andorian, not because of a mindless group that we assign the name of nation to. When we sacrifice the individual for the good of the group then that group will not long survive."

"The Shahar of Andoria wrote those wise words," Thorpe supplied. "He gave his life; his crewmen gave their lives for all of us. But not just for us, but for his own people as well. He made the decision as an individual.

I want to ask each and every one of you listening to my words to ask yourself: Are you really afraid of our alien brothers and sisters? Despite our differences are we really so different from them? Don't allow others to persuade you. Some of you have met Andorians and Tellarites. Was that meeting something to fear?

Some of you insist that we are all so different that we can never work together. We could never form a lasting alliance. But yet we hear words from Andoria condemning their government's support of the alliance. Can we humans and aliens really be so different when even the most narrow-minded among aliens and humans agree in principle?"

There were angry murmurs throughout the room. That last statement was a solid jab at the Sons' of Terra and even people slower in the uptake were figuring that out. Thorpe was continuing:

"There are other words that I recall: We must ensure that the best among us lead. We must preserve our humanity at all costs. The human race is meant for great conquests in a bright future. But to make those strides we must remain pure. Only then can we ascend to our rightful place in the universe." It looked like Thorpe was looking at each one of them. But McCoy knew it was the holographic effect. "Those words were said by Colonel Green on the eve of the cleansing of Chicago and London." Frank had thought that the chilling words had sounded familiar.

"So it is," Thorpe continued, "that we find ourselves as individuals on the cusp of great times. We have two paths before us. One path, that the loudest among us are beckoning us to, leads to the past. The other, the more difficult uncertain way is the path to the future." Thorpe smiled for the first time since his speech had begun. "Now none of us can know the future just as a group cannot dictate the mind of the individual. But I ask you; would you dare leave your home if you thought the future was a dark and dim one? But yet each and every one of us gets up and does that very thing every day. We go forth sometimes with doubt and a little fear but yet we go out. And so have the Tellarites and the Andorians and yes even our Vulcan friends." The holographic image of Thorpe held out his hand. It seemed to be extending out of the tank. Thorpe seemed to be finishing his speech:

"Come with me my friends to the future. This war will be over one day. When that day comes let us not abandon our progress. To the men and women of earth and to our alien allies I say join me in this great federation of planets. Take the path where the light is shining. Let us together start a journey into the future. Thank you all."

There was applause throughout the council chamber that emanated out of the vidcaster's speakers. The moderator left the device on for several minutes longer. There was nothing but stunned silence throughout the group in the mountain retreat. Frank looked down to see a look of disgust on Eileen Thomas' pretty face. McCoy wanted to shout 'hell yeah' to the rafters but he restrained himself.

"Well, er," McCoy started haltingly. "I mean it was sort of expected that he wouldn't lay down for us Eileen. This will just take longer than we thought." The navy man put his arm around her bare shoulders. She moved in closer to him.

Finally she looked into his eyes. "You're right of course Frank." She smiled. "I suppose Thorpe has been so quiet that he would never think to say such things."

"The next move is up to us Eileen," Frank replied. "We'll show him." McCoy added half-heartedly.

"I know that we will Frank. You make me believe that." Eileen smiled again. She looked at her chronometer. "We should be getting home. Do you have to go to work tomorrow?"

"Things have been quiet, so no," McCoy replied. That was a lie. It pained McCoy to think of the workload that the admiral and Vanwinkle were dealing with. Soames section was due for more people. But so was every ship in the navy. But the admiral had made this project as Soames had christened it, McCoy's number one priority.

"I know the shuttle flight back to Norfolk isn't long but why don't you spend the night in Baltimore?" Eileen asked.

"I suppose that would work," McCoy said with a yawn. It was late. "I am tired and even a couch sounds good right now."

"I'm disappointed that you are tired Frank," she smiled up at him. "Maybe I can do something about that and I wasn't thinking of the couch for you."

Utopia Planitia, Mars, Jun 2157

Gordon Albright looked guiltily at the captain's stripes that adorned his navy jersey. The Canadian officer was scheduled to assume command of the new Tannhauser class Waterloo when it was finished. So it was that he spent much of his time studying the specification of the new warship. He also spent a lot of time ruminating on the past. It was exactly as Captain Ronald King had said. It was time for Albright to move on to command his own ship. Albright would have preferred to get command through normal channels though. He felt guilty because truthfully he would give up everything to be back on the Xiaguan. But that ship was no more.

Albright remembered it all like it had happened yesterday. The captain had ordered them to penetrate the zone of sensor interference. There they had found the Romulan fleet inbound for earth. The Birdies had in turn detected the snooping Xiaguan. The Romulans had been quick to dispatch Sabinus class cruisers against them. King had managed to evade them for a short time; but not for long. The captain had even managed to finish off two of their pursuers in the ensuing battle. Then a Romulan nuke had finished the Xiaguan.

Both King and his first officer knew their ship was done for. The officers had helped supervise the evacuation. King had mentioned that very few shuttles seemed to escape Romulan attention. That is when the captain had proposed blowing up the Xiaguan in an attempt to cover the escaping shuttles. Both men knew that with the reactor offline the only way to perform a self-destruct was to set off a warhead from the ship's magazine. Albright had argued, fruitlessly now he realized that he was the man to do that. King had pushed the Canadian into a shuttle. The captain had reached across and shook Albright's hand and told him that he would see them all again. Albright remembered how surprisingly firm the captain's grip had been. The shuttle hatch had trundled down. That was the last time Gordon Albright had seen of Captain Ronald King.

The truth was that Gordon Albright wondered if he would ever be half of the commanding officer that King had been. The Canadian sure did not feel that way. He looked past a presentation of ships' systems at the wall beyond. The captain had been doing that on and off for the past few hours. Albright had decided just then to go for a workout when the chime to his quarters sounded. Albright admitted the caller. He sprang to his feet as an older man wearing an extra stripe denoting a commodore entered his quarters.

"Sit down we are all big boys here," the commodore, a tall fiftyish man with thinning silver hair said. "James L. Leonard, displaced taskforce commander at your service." Leonard extended his hand. Albright shook the commodore's hand and introduced himself.

"Damn good thing that you are Albright," Leonard said; "especially since you are in his quarters. But I'm here for more than a social call." At Albright's wondering look Leonard continued. "I'm afraid we are both in the same boat you and I. Come with me please," the commodore said as he exited the captain's living spaces. Albright followed silently. Commodore Leonard talked as the duo crossed the myriad transfer tubes and interconnected walkways comprising the orbital shipyard.

"I lost my taskforce to Admiral Forrest," Leonard explained. "Hard to say no to the navy chief of staff," this last Leonard added with a chuckle. "And I am afraid you may be in for similar treatment." Leonard noted Albright's look of surprise. The commodore continued, "but first a few questions." Gordon nodded.

"You speak Andorian?" Leonard asked in a conversational tone.

Albright thought for a minute. It had been a few years but he had served an exchange tour on the battleship Shonn. Albright had always had an ear for languages. He paused a few more seconds drawing Leonard's puzzled glance in the meantime. Finally Albright replied in Andorian that yes indeed he spoke Andorian.

"I suppose that means yes," Leonard replied with another chuckle. "Hell I have enough problems with English."

"You served on one of their ships didn't you?" Leonard asked pointedly.

"Yes sir," Albright answered. "I had to bring a heated sleeping bag; they keep their crew quarters pretty chilly for human standards."

"I reckon so," the commodore answered. "Makes ya' wonder about some of the earth people that have a," Leonard paused: "Married into the family so to speak."

"Something about their physiology," Albright answered. "They heat up or something for mating—don't ask me sir I'm no doctor."

"Okay I'll take your word for that," Leonard said. The older officer suddenly grew serious. "How would you like to repeat the experience?"

They were headed for an observation node of the station. Albright wondered why on earth anyone wanted an officer exchange at this point when the Stellar Navy was so understaffed. He said as much to the commodore.

"Here is the deal," Leonard replied. "Our numbers are not good but they are stable. You were set to command the Waterloo which launches out with Taskforce 14 in another week. I no longer have a ship."

"I suppose that means that you are assuming command of the 'loo?" Albright asked. In a way that thought sent a wave of relief through the new captain. Leonard nodded. They had reached an open observation port.

"But now you are thinkin' what am I going to do now?" Leonard asked. Albright nodded. "What do you see out there?"

Albright looked out. An old Bison looked like it was going through an upgrade. That ship would be months from launch from the look of her. The skeletal beginnings of a Tannhauser hung from a construction area. That ship too was months from go status. The torn remains of several Archers looked more like they would be headed for recycling versus being ever made spaceworthy again. A Tellarite light cruiser was undergoing repairs but that was it except for an Andorian light cruiser. The more square looking warp nacelles were slung overtop of the Andorian vessel's engineering section. The twin snouts of two high velocity rail guns extended out from beneath the integral command section. Two circular ports denoted the cruiser's lower missile launchers. Albright recognized it as one of the Andorian's older ships.

"I'm going in be in charge of scrapping the Archers?" Albright asked sourly.

"Very funny captain," Leonard said. The commodore pointed out to the yard. "There is your ship." The commodore laughed at Albright's look of complete bafflement; "the Imperial Guard cruiser Kumari."

Taskforce 9, three light years from Cheron, Jun 2157

Frank Buchanan realized that the chewed remains of his cigar had long since gone out. The admiral was sifting through signal intelligence reports. They had been lucky. Buchanan's force of four carriers, four Powhaton escorts a Tellarite destroyer and two Torsk class light cruisers had avoided all sorts of enemy obstacles to get this close to the Birds' empire.

Buchanan relit his cigar as he thought of just how fortunate the taskforce had been. The latest Romulan trick of subspace radar pickets that activated at random had nearly caught them almost ten days ago. They were still on their way thanks to the extracurricular activities of a sensor chief on the carrier Yamato. The man had been tweaking his sensors when he had spotted a piece of refined metal. Buchanan had ordered the taskforce to steer clear of it. No sooner had they passed beyond subspace radar range than the picket had lit up doing a search. They had found a spider web layout of those devices along their way.

The Romulans also must have been getting on to ways to hide from subspace sensors. Two of their warp drones had almost detected the taskforce. The technicians and engineers after much discussion had determined that the Birdies had changed the shape of the drone's warp field to reduce its apparent size. That made Buchanan wonder how close the Romulans were to developing their own version of subspace sensors. His cigar started tasting bad when it occurred to him that perhaps the Birdies had already made some breakthroughs in that area. That would change the direction of this war the admiral knew.

Buchanan threw the intelligence reports aside. He picked up the force readiness reports. Now there was better news Buchanan thought. Frank discarded his cigar for a fresh one. He enjoyed the sweet scent of the Cuban tobacco. It didn't come close to the Denevan leaf but it would be a long time before cigars would ever come from Deneva again Buchanan thought bitterly. His taskforce was as ready as it could be.

The Valley Forge was at its peak. That was where Buchanan had transferred his flag after leaving the Cowpens. Captain Ramanujan hadn't been happy about that but Buchanan had reminded the man that these carrier forces were going to be headed up by a flag officer anyway. The carriers Yamato, Hornet and Ticonderoga were also running ops normal except that one if the Ticonderoga's Minotaurs had failed a maintenance check. Buchanan knew that particular problem was in the process of being addressed. They had anticipated a ten percent failure rate for the attack but Buchanan wanted every gun in the attack that he could get.

The escorting Powhaton's Montaukx, Vandalia, Catskill and Virginia were also at one-hundred percent. That was mechanically Buchanan knew. Tensions were starting to run high on the one-hundred and forty seven meter long crafts. They had been underway for a little under a month now. There were reports of some drunkenness and a few fights. Frank could abide all of that as long as his planes were ready for the big show and the escorts were ready to fight. The admiral wished that there was a way to transfer people between ships in warp. The amenities aboard the carriers were a little better. That could help morale a little he knew. The two Torsks Rickover and Borei had similar reports. The Borei was a bright spot as Captain Dobrynin ran his ship loosely when the times called for that. The Borei reported the fewest numbers of personnel incidents. The Tellarite destroyer Vaz was normal as far as Buchanan could tell. Arguments and down right fist-fights seemed to be the order of the day for those aliens.

Buchanan's desk top computer terminal buzzed offensively. The admiral cursed the device then remembered that it was his own reminder for the afternoon briefing. The admiral lit his cigar rose and left his inner office for the large adjoining conference room. Frank had to admit that the engineers were getting a lot better when it came to creature space. The Valley Forge's conference room was a real conference area and not one in name only as had been common in the older Stellar Navy ships. But Buchanan knew that the name "conference closet" probably wouldn't have done for the older ships. But it wasn't far from the truth.

The people around the table did not rise. Buchanan was happy about that. The admiral felt that the protocol gymnastics were better saved for more sedate times. As long as they knew who was in charge and had the guts to tell that person to go to hell Buchanan was fine with his subordinates.

Buchanan noted the presence of Captain Srinivasa Ramanujan, Lieutenant William Walters, and Andorian Commander Shorn. The Andorian had filled in the intelligence officer role quite nicely Buchanan thought. It was strange Frank thought that despite participating in joint training exercises and exchange programs Buchanan had always looked at their alien partners a little differently. Now the admiral hardly noticed the distinction anymore. The conference was being tight-beamed to other ships in the fleet. The tri-screen viewer in the center of the conference table depicted a computer generated image of the taskforce's present position and their intended target. Buchanan strode up to the main viewer in the room after the rest of the participants were finished checking in.

"You've all had time to review the defenses," Buchanan started. "You all know that this will not be a cakewalk." Buchanan changed the image to one of a depiction of what the closest and only sensor drone had scanned when it had done a suicidal flyby of the Cheron system. "We know that the whole system is guarded by a network of radar pickets. We have picked up other metal objects that must be a form of defense platform."

"Lieutenant Chandra from the Hornet admiral," a disembodied voice announced from the wall speaker grill. "How are we ever supposed to get past that?"

"We are not here to do that," the admiral announced. "Cheron seems to be one of the Birdies main operating bases. Even with twice the number of ships we have here today we couldn't hope to blast our way into there."

"This seems like a long way to go to harass the enemy," Captain Ramanujan said.

"You are trying to draw them out," Lieutenant Walters said quietly.

"Exactly Sluggo," the admiral snapped back. The taskforce commander switched to another computer generated graphic. This image was animated the lines and curves representing ships moved as Buchanan talked. "The Rickover, Borei and Vandalia will come out of warp here," Buchanan pointed to an area just outside of the Cheron system. Those ships will start hammering away at the Birdie pickets and missile platforms there. In the meantime the rest of us will go z-minus to a point here," again Buchanan pointed to a dark area outside of the system. "Intell thinks that this area is clear of surveillance."

"That was three months ago admiral," Shorn said. "But that defensive layout suggests that they planned it all on ships with subspace radar. Besides; space is big. It is just as possible that they ran out of money or the drive to continue."

"I suppose the Minnies launch from there?" a disembodied female voice inquired out of the speaker grill. "Sorry sir Guido here." Lt. Sharon Patelli added.

"You got it Guido," Buchanan answered. "But we only launch the squadrons from the Yamato and the Hornet."

"The Birdies will start to smell a big attack in the works," Walters said.

"Yes and about that same time the Rickover and her company will warp away on a heading for the rest of the taskforce." Buchanan explained. "In the meantime the Minnies from Squadrons 11 and 41 will be heading toward Cheron. They should be able to do a lot of damage to their outer defenses. We hope that the Birdies will think that is where the Rickover and her friends are coming in at as well." Buchanan turned to those assembled. "A lot of ifs here folks. If I told you any difference you would smell it for the load of horse manure that it is."

"You want them to come out after our Minotaurs?" Shorn asked pointedly.

Buchanan nodded. "Your folks in intell think that offering the Birdies two carriers is too much of an enticement for them. Once the Minnies call in being pursued we will pull back the Forge and the Ticonderoga somewhat. We'll launch our Minotaurs then. The hope is that the pursuing force gets trapped between four fighter squadrons and our destroyers and cruisers."

"Then we leave?" a somewhat incredulous Lt. Walters asked.

"No," Buchanan said. "The carriers will warp away to the final rendezvous point. The fighters and the cruisers should be able to take care of the Birdies. The combined force of four squadrons then heads back to the gap in the defenses' of Cheron opened by the first Minnies."

"The refuel and repair station," Shorn said abruptly. At the admiral's nod he continued. "Our imaging suggested that the Romulans have a station near the edge of the system near an outer gas giant."

"We want that," Buchanan answered simply. "Star Fleet Command thinks that either we can bag a lot of Birdie ships in this battle or one of their deployed repair bases. They are hoping for both as well as the psychological impact of us reaching out and touching the bastards so close to home."

There were looks of both expectation and worry around the table. Frank knew that was probably being mirrored in every other ship in the taskforce. The crews discussed possible failures and alternate scenarios for the next two hours. Buchanan's fallback was to return to the region of their initial incursion if the zone of darkness as someone had christened the sensor free zone turned out to be covered by the Birdies. They also talked about being confronted by an overwhelming number of ships. It choked the admiral to say it but he knew he would order a retreat if that happened. Buchanan did not want to have to come all this way just to run though. Finally things came to a resolution.

"If this works more than likely it will also start the process of isolating their holdings in our sectors," Captain Pulaski's voice declared from the speaker grill. There were nods of agreement all around at the commander of the Ticonderoga's assessment.

"Command is hoping for that as well Josef," the admiral replied. "But we just don't know what their strength is. And god only knows what they have waiting at Romulus."

"One day soon we will find out," Captain Trang's distinctive Tellarite accent came across the conference room speaker.

A few more words were exchanged before the briefing ended. Finally when things were degenerating into wardroom small talk Buchanan called it quits. The admiral knew that they were still ten days out. There was time for suggestions and amendments to any plans they made. Buchanan cut the speakers off as his live company got up to leave.

"Sluggo I'd like you to stay behind," the admiral said quietly. When the rest of the officers had filtered out of the room Buchanan started: "Bill what in the hell is wrong with you?"

"Sir?" was all that Walters replied.

"You were offered shore leave after Tellar," Buchanan sat down and started puffing vigorously on his cigar. The admiral beckoned Walters to sit opposite him at the conference table. "Damnit Bill in fact you haven't had leave of any kind except medical leave after your retrieval."

"You need everyone you can get--," Walters started to say.

"Goddamnit lieutenant don't tell me what I need!" Frank exclaimed. "I'll tell you what I need: I need sharp pilots who will go out there and kill Birdies and come back. I don't need someone with a death wish leading my squadron." Buchanan noted Walters' look of surprise at the admiral's last statement. "The war effort is not going to collapse because Bill Walters goes home to Kansas for two weeks."

"I want my people to be at their best sir," Walters replied sharply.

"And I need you at your best Bill," Buchanan softened his tone somewhat. "Look Bill your whole platoon was killed in a few minutes. Then your copilot dies in your last fight. I ain't no goddamned psych officer but that can't be good for somebody." Buchanan changed the subject abruptly. "Your parents have been writing Star Fleet. You apparently haven't returned any of their messages."

"I don't know what going home would do sir," Walters replied. Buchanan thought then that Walters looked like a man who was empty inside.

"I'm not going to lie here Bill," Frank said sternly. "You are my best pilot and squadron honcho. The only reason you ain't an LC," Buchanan started meaning a lieutenant commander. "Is because fleet has put a limit on how far we can push ex-enlisted people. But at the rate we are dying out here I expect that limit won't be in place much longer. Don't you die out here Bill. There ain't no glory in it. Most of the people who write about glorious battles were those on the losing side."

"What are you going to do sir?" Walters asked detecting that the admiral had come to a final decision.

"I need you for this mission Bill," Frank said. "I have my doubts about you now but I don't have a replacement Bill Walters in ship's store. So fly this mission—come back! That is a goddamned order. Then when we get back to Wolf I'm putting you off. You go back to earth. Go back to Kansas Bill. That is an order but Guido is also up for leave. I'm gonna detail her to make sure you get on the transport." Buchanan rose slowly as he puffed a stream of aromatic smoke out of his mouth. "Now get the hell out of here Bill."

Walters jumped up. "Aye-aye sir," he said as he headed out into the cramped corridors of the carrier.

Lieutenant William Steven Walters headed down the length of the two-hundred and thirty-five meter long carrier. He knew that he could take a turbotube but he wanted to vent. Walters was angry. The admiral was trying to act like some doctor and Walters did not like it. Of course he hadn't been home the lieutenant thought. There was a war on. But that wasn't it Walters knew.

Walters barely noticed people he passed in the narrow corridors' of the carrier. He didn't want to go home because somehow that was no longer his home. When Walters thought of Wichita it was as if he was viewing an old faded photograph such as those that families kept. Some were handed down all the way from the twentieth century and were so faded as to be almost unrecognizable. That is how Walters viewed his home and family now. Some part of him felt guilt at not acknowledging his parents' letters. Another part was relieved. That part was the one that didn't want to go on leave. That part didn't want anyone to hear Walters waking up screaming from another dream where he was on Deneva.

Finally the lieutenant entered Squadron 12's wardroom. Most of his squadron mates were sitting around watching a holovid recreation of some twentieth century movie. This one was about a creature that infested people finally bursting out of them in a bloody display. The resulting monster grew as it killed off crewmembers on the space freighter. The men and women of Squadron 12 would sit around and laugh at the movie's representation of space travel. Ensign Ernie 'Molten' Smith suddenly started a series of mock convulsions as he reached under his t-shirt creating the image of something coming out from under his shirt. The rest of the assembled group roared with laughter.

"Why don't you make a beer pop out of you Molten?" Warrant Officer Sheila Montoya asked with a laugh.

"Speaking of that whose turn is it for a beer run?" Lt. Vic Mancini asked. He looked toward two of the squadron's newest people. "It is either you Lars or Smalls' turn," the lieutenant said. The somewhat drunken pilot turned when he saw Walters. "Hey boss you gonna have one?" Mancini asked.

"Nah I have paperwork to do," Walters said. Actually he didn't but he did not feel like sitting around and drinking just then. Still it was somewhat amusing to watch the frustration of Lars or his real name, Ensign Ben Porter and his Andorian friend Smalls or Thahn. The two new pilots didn't know it but many of the squadrons' personnel had taken to assigning new people temporary monikers based on their helmet size. Lars had taken a large flight helmet whereas Smalls had of course a smaller head.

"Why don't you forget that stuff Bill," Montoya said with a suggestive tilt of her head. She had untied her long straight black hair.

"I can't," Walters said walking over to Smith. Bill poked the somewhat portly Ensign Smith in his belly. "I really am starting to believe that you have an alien living in you Molten; one that eats everything in sight."

"Hey I resent that!" Smith declared. Walters thought that he did a good job of feigning hurt. The ensign suddenly turned serious. "Did the bastard fill you in on what is coming up?" Lars handed the ensign a beer. Walters changed his mind and accepted one as well.

"That he did," Walters told his people. He knew that not everyone was here. He supposed there was something to wanting to do paperwork. He would have to draw up a briefing for his squadron. Walters went on to explain the plan and the objective.

Sheila let out a low whistle. "Cheron huh?" the warrant officer asked. "That is like Birdie central or pretty close to it."

That was true Walters thought as he took a pull of the cold frothy beer. It was Tellarite beer, potent and sort of heavy. Walters had been aware all through Buchanan's briefing of how dangerous it was becoming to pilot a Minotaur. The ship was still superior to an Eightball but the Romulans had been learning. They had been learning how to kill Minotaurs and they were getting better.

"I'll give you all the full brief tomorrow," Walters said in a loud voice. "We'll start simulations tomorrow night."

There were many moans and groans over that statement. It was too bad Bill thought that they couldn't fly real training missions. But Walters would give his people a good workout. He wanted them all to come home as Buchanan had ordered Walters to do. Maybe that was it Bill thought. Maybe he didn't want to go back to Kansas because this ship was his home now. He looked again at the faces around the room. Walters wondered how many of them would be alive in ten days. He took his beer and headed for his office.

Discoveries

Taskforce 33, UES Trafalgar, out of Tellar, Jul 2157

The matter/anti-matter mix was just right. Lieutenant Commander Charles 'Trip' Tucker had been working for weeks at fine tuning the Tannhauser class ship's reactor. The engineer was betting that he could squeeze the reactor for enough power for a sustained warp 3.2. Tucker wished that he was back at Hangar 51. He had also been working on applying force fields to help shore up a ship's structure. Tucker knew that such a thing was probably a solid decade away but he knew that once they were in place starships would be easily able to exceed warp five maybe even warp six. Power was not the issue as much now with matter/anti-matter as building and reinforcing the shell that would preserve the ship being propelled.

Tucker stepped into his office and sat down. He was also happy that they were scheduled for rotation. Taskforce 33 would pass through Wolf 359 on its way back to earth. He wondered how Jo-jo was. The two had been writing back and forth since their departures after Mars. Trip had felt a growing coldness from her as time went by. Tucker was not sure if it was grief over what had happened or hardness developed from command.

Everyone had heard of the battle of Hell's Gate now. Not one Romulan ship had made it back. Tucker remembered Stiles' chilling statement about how she would 'see to the Birdies now'. The engineer believed that. He hoped that she did not die in the process of doing that. Tucker had finally had time to think. Trip realized that sometime during the couple's brief time on Mars he had fallen in love with Jocelyn Stiles. Now he was beginning to wonder if there was any room in her heart for that. Or was it just filled with a desire to kill Romulans he wondered?

Trip pushed those thoughts out of his head. The Trafalgar had a mission. They were going to put an expeditionary force on Tarod. The Romulans were there. Flybys had shown what intelligence was identifying as the typical Romulan base configuration. Tucker wondered at that since they had only seen the Romulan installations on Deneva and Topaz. But they had their orders. Star Fleet Command wanted to put troops ashore in an attempt to capture live Romulans versus an orbital bombardment.

The engineer thought that they had enough troops and firepower to do it. The Trafalgar was accompanied its sister Tannhauser, Gettysburg. The Torsk class ships Holland and Dolphin were backed up by the Tellarite light cruisers Shizma and Actav. The carrier Bismarck along with its Andorian counterpart the Al' Kumariz would provide fighter coverage. It still amazed Tucker, even though he had helped develop earth's first operational matter/anti-matter reactors just how far they extended the range of the Stellar Navy vessels. The old reminder of that fact accompanied the taskforce in the form of the converted tankers Reid and Robinson.

Trip was glad that he was not on either freighter. A full mixed division of Star Fleet Marines and their allied counterparts were crammed in the makeshift spaces of the Reid and Robinson. Eleven thousand troops were bunked in pretty tight quarters from what Tucker had heard. That made the engineer glad that he had pursued the navy path and not a Marine officer commission.

Trip returned to his examination of engine performance figures. Along with pursuing a long-distance relationship with Jo-jo he was also corresponding with Mavik Dis concerning future starship designs. Dis had told Tucker that his friend Archer was stubbornly working on his next project. The Andorian engineer had communicated enough with Trip so that Tucker knew that he meant the next Daedelus class ship. Trip missed his friend. He hoped that Archer would one day get his Enterprise. The man had earned that Trip thought.

"Are you writing your mate to be again?" the Trafalgar's first officer said as he unceremoniously entered Trip's office. The Tellarite wiggled his snout. "Just tell her that you lust after her big hips! It works every time for my people. Females like to hear that sort of thing. Don't you humans know anything?"

Tucker laughed, "I hadn't thought to try that approach," he said then continued: "No; I was looking at our engine output. I can give the Cap'n 0.2 warp over the specs; seems like Brack and his team left a little room for navy engineers to squeeze these engines for a little more."

"That is good then we will be at our destination soon," Commander Valz said. "The captain is going to have a final briefing tomorrow night. It seems that we will soon be reversing these pirates." The Tellarite sat down opposite Tucker. The first officer looked at Trip for a few seconds prompting Tucker to ask if anything was wrong.

"Many on our world have been talking about what your president said," Valz said carefully. "I thought when we stuffed these pirates into the M'urta that would be all. Everything would be as it was before; us Tellarites superior to you puny humans of course."

"Of course!" Trip replied with a grin. It was apparent to Tucker that the alien wanted to get something off of his chest. He waited until a contemplative Valz continued.

"But now I wonder," the Tellarite started. "I have been among your people for several months now. It was an insulting experience but it was worth it."

Insulting, Trip knew was a good thing for a Tellarite. Tucker waited for his first officer to come to the point again. There didn't seem to be anything that Trip could say until he knew which direction the Tellarite was going in. He didn't have long for his answer.

"The news from our world is that many of us feel that we would be stronger with you humans than without," Valz explained. "I have come to believe that as well since my association with your people. I always thought that if that happened we would stop being Tellarites."

"I 'spose there is something to that," Tucker replied thoughtfully. "Hell there are people on earth makin' a ruckus over the war, aliens and anything else they can attach themselves too. I've been around aliens—you guys most of my adult life. Still human as far as I can tell!"

Valz made an exaggerated sniffing noise. "Yes you certainly smell that way to me!" The commander laughed heartily. "I think there are always people who sit at the bottom of a hill before an avalanche. Small pebbles rain down on them and they think nothing of it. Then they are caught in the worst of it. Or the best of it as it may turn out."

"You mean where all of this is leadin'?" Tucker asked pointedly. At the Tellarite's all too human nod Trip sighed. "You are askin' the wrong person here. Ask me about the magnetic flow between the induction field and I can tell you a thing or two." Tucker was thoughtful for a few seconds then added: "But ya' know I'm an American. I suppose that doesn't mean anything to you."

"It is a race that your people used to divide yourself up into." Valz declared.

"To read some of my family's history you'd think that," Tucker said. "A couple of centuries ago me and Jo-jo's relationship woulda been forbidden. But somewhere along the line we gave up being white, black, Jews, Muslims, Americans, Chinese and every other goddamned thing. We decided we were all human. I think it was for the best. I mean I'm an American but now I'm a human first."

"I fear us losing who we are but I think we are more alike than not," Valz said adding a wiggle of his snout. At Tucker's wondering glance the Tellarite explained. "I know that you lost your sibling. That would be a tragic thing for one of us as well. Family is very important to us Tellarites; as it seems to be to you humans." The alien lowered his voice. "When I was a suckling my parents would tell me and my brothers and sisters that you humans didn't have mothers or fathers. That you bred by yourselves."

"That couldn't have been long after we ran into your people," Tucker said with a laugh.

"Before anything was formalized," Valz replied. "But now they write me and tell me how we must help you poor pathetic humans along! It is a change."

Trip was about to ask if it was a good change when Captain Xavier Valdez joined the two in the small engineering office. Valz and Tucker both started to spring to their feet when the commander of the Trafalgar told them to remain seated.

"Anything I could do for ya' Cap'n?" Tucker asked politely. The short, wiry, dark haired captain took a seat beside his first officer.

"Just walking about my ship gentlemen," Valdez replied. "I happened to look in here. It looked like you too were off solving the problems of the world."

"Something like that sir," Tucker laughed. "I think me and Commander Valz were talking about how we have more similarities than differences."

"I suppose that is true," Valdez replied. "We will see in a few days. We have coordinated our ships together but this will be the first attempt at coordinating ground troops."

"General Sav will lead you other poor aliens despite your shortcomings," Valz proclaimed loudly.

Trip knew that Forrest had picked a Tellarite general to lead the fight on the ground. There was something to what Commander Valz had said. Tellarites had fought a great many ground wars in the final formation of their one nation state world.

"We'll know soon enough," Valdez interjected. "But I have to think of all contingencies. If things go sour down there can the new air scrubbers handle more people?" This last the captain asked Tucker.

"Yes sir," Tucker replied. "They included all the bells and whistles with these new ships. We could take on two-thousand extra no problem. Rations might get a little short but at least people will be able to breath."

The three officers spent the next hour discussing the upcoming attack. They all knew that even given new ships and allies that they were about to assail a planet near to the stronghold of their enemy. Even if they were succeeded in the invasion Star Fleet would have to hold onto their prize. How much of a fight Tucker wondered, would the Birdies give in trying to get Tarod back? They would soon all know the answer to that.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Earth, Jul 2157

Micah Brack hadn't played this particular role in many centuries. But Ricardo had always been one of his top idea people, albeit an eccentric one. So it was that as strange as the request had been Brack could not refuse the scientist. Ricardo had contributed heavily to the development of navigational deflectors, artificial gravity and lately the new subspace sensors. Besides Micah thought, a visit to the old man was nothing. The scientist seemed to want for little. Brack remembered hiring some people who felt they deserved bonuses just for getting up in the morning and showing up. Micah laughed as he thought that those particular prima donnas hadn't lasted long in his employ.

The old house lay in a relatively clear area on what had been the old Grandview Avenue on Mount Washington. That area had been spared most of the ravages of the last war. The old Duquesne Incline still hauled travelers up the side of the mountain where they were treated to a grand view of the confluence of three rivers. The old city was a historical gem that had survived war and the later sackings made by Colonel Green and his Progressives.

Brack marveled at the old cable car. He had helped finance the thing from its beginning. That caused him to laugh. A young mother attending to two vigorous little boys no more than five or six years of age cast a wary eye toward Brack when she heard him laugh at apparently nothing. Micah merely smiled back at her.

"Your day with the children I see," Brack said to the pretty young woman.

The young lady seemed to have made up her mind that Brack was not some kind of threat. "That is everyday these days," she replied with some sadness. At Brack's questioning look she explained: "My husband is a gunnery officer on the Agincourt." She looked with distress at the little boys. "He has been gone for the past four months. He was supposed to be scheduled in for rotation next month but," she looked around as if the ancient cable car had ears when besides herself and Brack they were alone. "He wrote and said that they would be out an extra two months."

"I know that it won't be any consolation miss," Brack said. "But that is the nature of war. You have fine looking boys. I hope that your family helps?"

She nodded, "they do." She looked sad again. "I just wish they would stop with the Sons' of Terra stuff." She shot a quick look to her children. "My mother especially is always beating the drum about alien influences. I don't like Brett and Sam to have to hear that sort of stuff." The woman choked for a second then continued. "Just in case, you know he doesn't—,"

"I understand," Brack interjected. Just in case her husband didn't come back Micah finished her thought. Brack thought for a moment before continuing. "Some places offer day care these days. Sort of like the old twenty-first century."

"I have a degree in computer engineering," the woman said. "Rich had been out of the navy for a year when we got married. I never saw the reason to go to work after the boys. Then the war came along. And you know after the bombing of Florida Rich was one of those that volunteered to go back in." The woman continued. "My mom was only too happy to get us to move back in after he shipped out. Now I wish…"

Brack nodded. He prided himself on carrying ancient style business cards. "Boeing-Teledyne has a design bureau in the city. I've instituted day care there because there are a lot of single parents these days." Brack handed her his card. "If you need a job to get out of your present circumstances just hand the receptionist that card."

She accepted it then after looking at it she looked at Brack. "I, I've read about you," she started. "You really are him?" she asked. At his nod she added: "I thought that you were older."

The ancient car stopped its climb after arriving at its destination. "Vitamins don't you know," Brack said with a smile. "Miss?" he asked.

"Ellen Daystrom sir," the young lady replied. "Thank you, uh Mr. Brack."

They exited the car. Brack bid the family a good day and headed along his way. The woman and her children made for one of the newer homes along the hillside. Brack walked along to the ancient house. He knew that it had been built in the late nineteenth century. He had attended a party at a mansion nearby around that time. Brack smiled at the memory of that. They had been celebrating America's entry into to the Spanish-American War; another pointless endeavor Micah thought bitterly.

No breeze blew today on Mount Washington. It was a typical warm, humid July day. It always frustrated Brack that despite his unique physical condition he was still subject to the rigors and impositions of the weather. The industrialist soon worked up a sweat. He wished that he had picked lighter clothing but he had not anticipated this trip.

The industrialist climbed the steps of the ancient mansion. The door was unlocked. Despite the peace and prosperity that had ascended on earth after First Contact it still pained Brack that his associate did not take simple precautions. He stepped in the home. It also distressed Brack that Ricardo had never been much for air conditioning.

"Fred!" Brack called out. "I have come as you have asked." There was silence for several uncomfortable minutes. Brack called out again. The industrialist hadn't lived this long by being stupid—or unarmed. Brack reached into his suit and drew out the small pistol he had concealed there.

"Put that thing away!" a voice called out. An elderly man stood at the top of the stairs. The man laughed. That laugh always made Brack wonder: It was as if it was issued by one who had never known laughter before and now treasured it, Brack thought. "I actually waited you out old friend," the elderly scientist said as he hobbled slowly down the steps. "You looked like Elliot Ness when you pulled your gun there."

"I always wonder why you waste your time on old television programs," Brack retorted replacing the sidearm. He grimaced as one does when they see an elderly person struggling. Micah moved to help the old man.

"Puhlease," Ricardo said in an exaggerated voice adding a chuckle. He shrugged Brack's attempts at help off. "I'll still make it down these steps a few more times old friend." He motioned Brack to follow him. "Let's talk in my study Micah. I need your help and it may be that you need my help as well."

"Very well Fred," Brack answered. The industrialist had gone as far as having Frederick Ricardo checked out by his security people. The name alone was questionable as far as Brack was concerned. But he had come up against a wall. Brack supposed that he was not the only other person with a secret. "I haven't heard from you lately friend."

"Do not feign concern for me Micah," Ricardo said without emotion. "I know that you are a busy man. You probably haven't thought of me in years Johan.

Brack started at that name. He decided to let it pass but that was not to be. ." Brack took a seat opposite his associate.

"Oh I know who you are," Ricardo said. "And more importantly I know who you have been." The old scientist poured drinks into two glasses. "Schnapps, I hate it myself. I'd rather have a cold Sam Adams but since you are here my friend; we shall drink something more suitable to your palate."

"Fred your humor never ceases to amaze me," Brack started when Ricardo slowly walked over and handed Micah his drink. "I'm sure it amuses you to--,"

Ricardo reached out with a speed that belied not only his age but his humanity as well. The elderly man seized the front of Brack's shirt. The business executive reached up to fend the old man off while trying to spring up at the same time. Something was wrong Micah knew. Once upon a time he had led a platoon across the mud of the Somme. The German machine guns had relentlessly cut his boys to ribbons. Micah seeing that General Haig's offensive was a lost cause had finally thrown himself into a shell hole. He had lain in the stinking mud besides the rotting corpse of another luckless British soldier. Brack was glad that it was still winter. Micah had smelled death in the air during the hot summer months too many times during his long life. Night had fallen. At the first flash of German flares Brack had sprang up assuming a crouching run back towards the British trenches. Wait for the flash he thought; that is when the machine gunners would be blinded momentarily. The hateful staccato rhythm of the machine guns opened up as Micah dived for an abandoned trench. Mortars had followed. Brack made for a bunker only to have the mud and sandbags collapse onto him. He was pinned. That was what he felt now; an unrelenting mechanical pressure.

Fred Ricardo's firm hold was unlike no person's Brack thought. It was rather as unmovable as those sandbags had been. Brack stopped resisting. Fred's arm was like a stout piece of lumber and Brack knew he was not going to move it. Micah was having trouble breathing when Ricardo released his hold just as quickly as he had initiated it. The elderly man seemed hardly fazed.

"I'm sorry to have had to do that to you old friend," Ricardo said as he turned his back to Brack and slowly made his way to his large overstuffed wing backed easy chair. "It was necessary to let you know that," the scientist paused and grinned. A mischievous gleam was in his eyes: "That I am not from the neighborhood so to speak." Ricardo added hastily: "And I am not referring to Pittsburgh."

"Oh come now you always knew that there was something more to me Micah," Ricardo said. "But as long as I helped you and your design teams solve seemingly insurmountable problems you just didn't bother asking." Ricardo said sharply.

"Who are you?" Brack asked.

"Fred Ricardo," the elderly man replied wit a grin. "Let us leave it at that my friend."

"Why are you telling me this now?" Brack retorted.

"I'm old Micah," Ricardo sad sadly. "Not as old as you my friend but let me say that I met you once before." At Brack's wondering look Ricardo continued. "You wouldn't remember me of course. Remember how you were trying to solve the problem of finding a material that could stand the heat of reentry? I'm talking about America's shuttle program; the first time around."

"Okay I'll go along," Brack replied.

"Some equations showed up written on papers folded into an autographed copy of _Methuselah's Children,"_ the old man laughed when Brack's mouth dropped open in surprise. "And voila; you have tiles for a heat shield."

"Who, what species are you?" Brack asked finally.

"Let's table that for the moment," Ricardo replied. "Let me just say that I've been alone here for a long time. It is almost my time. I want to go home and I need help there." Brack asked what sort of help he could render. "I need passage off world to a neutral planet—Denobula would work. That is all I ask of you—unless I die before then. Then I want you to cremate my body so that no one," Ricardo paused before continuing: "So that no one pries."

"Let's say for the moment that I believe you," Brack answered. Micah was upset to see the distress his friend exhibited when he had mentioned dying before he got a chance to get home. Brack supposed that would be natural; if Ricardo was indeed some sort of alien. Brack continued: "You said you wanted my help. Okay I get you on a neutral freighter, what then? You said that I might need your help."

Ricardo breathed deeply and closed his eyes. Minutes ticked away until Micah wondered if the old man had not dozed off finally he spoke again though. Ricardo's tone held a note of sadness:

"There are others here. Some of us have long suspected something about our past. I do not know that it is true but many believe it. If it is true then your people are in extraordinary danger.

It would be sad if all of you funny, stupid humans were to be made extinct. Who would remember Lucille Ball and Joltin' Joe and Britney Spears, Billy Idol and Sonny Clemens?"

"I can't imagine that happening," Brack replied. Micah was worried about Ricardo's perceived threat but he still believed in man. "We will turn the tide soon."

"What do you think of these Sons' of Terra?" Ricardo asked suddenly. The old man did not wait for an explanation. "Surely an old campaigner like you has to wonder how they got enough funds to get all of those council seats?"

"I know some of their funding came from old money," Brack answered. "The same old trouble makers. You know that some of them date their family history back to the late nineteenth century. You hand somebody a lot of money that they never had to work to earn and all of a sudden you have a Bin Laden or Green."

"That doesn't account for all of it," Ricardo answered. He added in an accusing tone, "and you know it."

"Okay so you are saying these Romulans are acting here on earth?" Brack said. At Ricardo's nod he continued: "So what; these Sons' of Terra was their invention?"

"No," the old man answered. "Man was stupid enough there to start that. But it identified the idiots for the Romulans—the useful idiots."

Brack was uncomfortably familiar with that term. Micah had indeed wondered how the Sons had swept so many local elections. Advertising money cost big credits and the Sons seemed to have had a lot of it. Brack had started a subtle line of inquiry over that very matter but ship design had taken up most of his time instead.

"Why not just turn your data into the authorities?" Micah asked Ricardo. "Or if you were afraid of exposing yourself you could have passed it along to me or another third party that you trusted."

"No!" the old man roared. Brack became concerned at his pallor after his outburst. It took almost a minute before Ricardo collected himself enough to reply in a calmer tone: "No Micah; if the human authorities—if your people find out the nature of these Romulans." Ricardo stopped and then continued abruptly on another topic. "Do you believe in Thorpe's alliance; this union of planets?" At Brack's nod he continued. "It may never happen if the regular authorities discover who these Romulans are—look I am not even sure that I'm right. But if there is just a small chance that I am…" Ricardo fell into silence.

"If these Romulans are indeed here," Brack started, "then why not just finish us?" Micah knew that man had come close to doing that himself many times. There were any number of viral plagues and chemical agents capable of doing the deed.

"That is why it is important that you get involved now," Ricardo replied. "If the Romulans are who I think they may be then that will be a possible next step for them." At Brack's inquisitive look Ricardo explained: "If they are who I think they are then they have not come here for humanity. Oh your turn would come up soon enough. But no, they came to this sector to position themselves to conquer another of the races."

"Which one?" Micah asked pointedly.

Ricardo held up a hand. "I will not say," the scientist answered then added: "They wanted you to quit after they took your colonies. They misjudged you. That is the wonderful thing about your people Johan—Micah; everyone misjudges your strengths." Ricardo's face assumed a hardness that sent a chill down Brack's spine as he continued: "I think a very small team was sent here; probably for observation and to make a little mischief. But I believe were you to turn the tide as you said that they would resort to more extreme measures. For right now they would rather have man quit of his own volition. That would dissolve any hope of an alliance and you would isolate yourself to be prey for later."

"Then what do you think that I can accomplish alone?" Brack asked.

"I don't know this my friend," Ricardo said. The old man's grin returned. "I believe that this Thorpe is a later day Chamberlain—not the first one, the second one. I doubt he would have or desire an all inclusive internal security agency. But I wouldn't be surprised if someone, somewhere in the government or the military is acting against these Sons' of Terra on their own. That must be one of your starting points. I believe you will find others to help you. I'll furnish you with locations where I've pinpointed some transmissions as well."

"One last thing Micah," Ricardo said. "Be very careful. I know that you have been a soldier. I know about your unique physical abilities. But should you encounter one of these Romulans," he stopped took a breath then continued: "They are savage beyond anything you have ever known before. Take care my friend."

Brack was curious about Ricardo's assertion but the old man indicated that he had said enough. The two finished their drinks and discussed the details of Ricardo's departure. Finally the old scientist produced a data wafer that he gave to Brack. Micah realized that it was time for him to go. The philanthropist rose after agreeing to meet with Ricardo in a month to help conduct him to a spaceport. Ricardo walked Brack to the door.

"Remember as always," Ricardo said grinning; "this tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good day Micah."


	10. Chapter 10

UES Beagle just outside of the Deneva system, July, 2157

"Here they come again sir," Ensign Nandalal Bose said as he peered into the hood of his sensors.

Stiles looked intently at the viewscreen. They had gone a roundabout route that had allowed them to shadow several Romulan vessels. The commodore would have bet her next pay that those Birdies were reinforcements from Romulus or Cheron. Fifteen ships that Bose had identified as eleven Veronus class cruisers and four Sabinus class ships had made their way from the region of SN1572 to Deneva. Jocelyn sat back in the command chair wondering what to do about the situation. Her small number of ships, a mini taskforce could have waylaid the Romulan ships at any time. It was just that Stiles felt that this convoy presented an opportunity. What kind of an opportunity was unsure of yet. The numbers crawled across the viewscreen then abruptly their speed changed.

"They have dropped out of warp sir," Bose said. "The point is where subspace radar from the sixth planet would pick them up. They are proceeding along at impulse."

"Any communications?" Stiles asked.

"Not reading anything," Bose replied. The uncertainty in his voice was apparent. "They could be using laser communications. It would reach that space station in orbit of Galileo in less than five minutes." Bose was referring to the sixth planet by the name that early explorers had assigned to it.

"Five minutes," Stiles said softly to herself. Not soft enough though to receive a questioning glance from Captain Ed Minford. Stiles explained: "Five minutes at warp would let us go a lot of places Ed."

"We would be in their subspace radar range," Minford countered.

"Status of the Birdie taskforce coming from the other direction?" Stiles asked pointedly.

The image on the viewscreen shifted perspective to yet another group of Romulan ships inbound from the direction of Tellar. These ships had only just entered subspace sensor range.

"They should be here in twenty-seven minutes," Bose said. Stiles was about to speak to Minford and Anjin when Bose stiffened for a second. "The group entering the Deneva system just emitted some kind of subspace radar pulse." There was silence on the bridge of the Beagle until seconds later she added: "It has been answered by another pulse from that station."

"Pipe that down to signal intelligence," Stiles ordered brusquely. "Get me an analysis double quick!" Stiles punched buttons on the arm of her command chair. "Engineering this is the bridge," Stiles could still not steel herself to say commodore. "Get with signal intelligence and see if you can duplicate the signal that they are working on."

"Aye-aye sir," Lt. Cmdr. Kerry Hale's Bronx, New York accented voice came out of the bridge speaker grill.

"Even if we can do that sir," her Andorian operations officer interjected. "More than likely it is a signal coded to each ship or group of ships."

"I know it Anjin," Stiles replied. "But these Birdies; they are arrogant bastards. I don't say that just as a casual insult. It is like one of their characteristics. I feel that." Stiles rose out of her chair and began checking over each of the bridge stations. "Imagine a really arrogant pissed-off Birdie. Maybe he wants to get back to base to do whatever they do for fun; torture small animals or such. They can make mistakes; we are pretty sure of that. So this Birdie's comm officer or whatever they call it sends the wrong code. Does he stop to say; gee I'm sorry we have been on a killing spree and just confused. Or does he keep sending the same code thinking that the fool receiving it is at fault?"

"Another gamble sir," Ed Minford said with a grin. "But after Hell's Gate I think I'm riding along with you on your bets. You ever get to Vegas?"

"After the war Ed," Stiles said with a laugh. "But the last time I went there I lost big." She laughed. "We don't even know what comm and engineering can come up with. But," Stiles paused and let out a breath noisily before continuing. "The planetary alignment is over. There is an open gap between the Galileo and Deneva. We push our way in sending a repeating nonsense signal; whatever the intell folks come up with. Maybe they think it is their patrol that is on its way now," Stiles said meaning the inbound Romulan craft that had entered their sensor range. She continued with her plan: "Meanwhile the Choctaw ingresses from the other side of the system."

"That will maybe draw off some of them from around Deneva," Minford said in a dour voice.

Bose had counted over one-hundred ships in orbit of Deneva. Intelligence had confirmed that Cabbages could land on the surface of a world meaning that more ships could be on the surface. They had no idea rather that was true of the Chowder. There were fifty seven ships in orbit of Galileo in addition to the station which, Jocelyn had no doubt was armed.

"Exactly Ed," Stiles turned and surveyed her bridge crew. "This ain't gonna be no grand victory here. It is hit and run only but I want to hit the bastards hard." She turned back to Minford. "Ed call the Truman--,"

"Bridge engineering," Lieutenant Commander Kerry Hale's voice came over the bridge speaker. Stiles acknowledged the engineer. "Intelligence has broken the pulse down into a mathematical progression. I can duplicate the one they sent out by modulating our own subspace radar signal. I can send an original one but they tell me it would read as gibberish to the Birdies."

Stiles folded her arms over her chest. She looked at the bridge crew again then said: "Battle stations; have the Truman to launch Minnies." She flipped a switch on her chair's comm panel "Kerry get ready to send a duplicate signal. I'm gonna bet that stumps them long enough for us to get close." She turned to Minford. "Order the Choctaw to make an approach. But tell them to get the hell away when the pursuit gets close!"

Stiles assumed her seat again. "Chief Vong," She said to Mary Vong who was manning the navigation station. "Set a course for that station—warp 2.1." That was the speed that they had observed the other Birdies come in at. "Drop out of half an AU further than the last group did." Stiles called engineering again. "Keep an open line up here Kerry and start squawking on my mark. Engage Mary," she said the Chief Vong.

Stiles watched the viewscreen as the distance to the curve representing the edge of Romulan sensor range and her ships decreased. Stiles' raiders crossed the line. Ensign Bose caused a second curve to be illuminated where Stiles had said she wanted to drop out of warp. They were approaching that point.

"Indications of power buildup in the reactors of some of those ships sir," Ensign Bose said. "The station's power output curve has also increased."

They were across the second arc when Stiles said: "Drop out of warp and emit the pulse."

Chief Vong and Lt. Cmdr. Hale both acknowledged Stiles. Jocelyn wanted to get up out of the command chair and pace the bridge but she knew that they were going into battle. Stiles strapped herself into the seat and nodded to Minford who had seated himself at an auxiliary station. The older officer was putting an earpiece on in anticipation of passing along orders to the rest of the raiders.

"They are emitting a pulse at us," Bose said, "different than the one we sent them." The ensign bent over the hood of his scanner. "No ship movements," he paused, "yet. Reactor status remains unchanged."

"One more pulse Mister Hale," Stiles said over the ship's intercom.

Time seemed to drag on for minutes although the bridge chronometer showed less than a minute. Jocelyn looked at the indicators marking the position of her ships. They were well past the second arc now.

"Thrust output!" Ensign Bose exclaimed.

"Tsk tsk," Stiles said. "I guess that we are not welcome in the nest."

The Star Fleet ships Beagle, Hazmq and five Minotaurs stretched forth into normal space. Ahead of them around a nondescript dull gray gas giant a Romulan space station orbited. Neither of the opponents could see another without the use of strong telescopic equipment. The little group of Star Fleet ships proceeded toward their intended prey at full impulse. The gas giant did not appear to grow very much as the small group of raiders got closer. The human and Tellarite ships flashed into warp.

Around the gas giant Romulan Sabinus class ships orbited along with some Veronus class vessels. They followed what was probably a normal orbital pattern for them. Suddenly several of the green ships started accelerating. The Romulans were close to the gas giant; close enough to make their maneuvers slower than normal. Spherical Romulan fighters emerged from the bays of three Cabbages as well as the primary bay of the three-hundred meter long cylindrical station. Defense laser turrets pivoted about.

Seconds later the Star Fleet ships were less than three thousand meters from the station. Space filled with Narwhal anti-ship missiles. The Star Fleet ships followed that up with Spider area defense missiles. The plasma cannon fire of three Sabinus class ships was intercepted by the Spiders. The Romulans, caught at unawares were not able to lay out an effective spread of antimissile neutronium pellets. Repeated salvos of Narwhal missiles destroyed Romulan ship after ship. Four Romulan Sabinus class ships and six Veronus class cruisers were destroyed in the opening allied salvo. The small Minotaurs made a devastating strafing run against the orbiting ships. Three Chowders and two Cabbages were reduced to burning wrecks that slowly fell back into Galileo's gravity well. The Hazmq made an aggressive pass over three Romulan Cabbages. The cruiser's hail of Merculite rockets chewed the Romulan cruisers into glowing hot pieces of slag.

Four Narwhals made their way toward the Romulan station. Two of those were hit by laser fire turning them into useless fragments of high speed metal debris. Another Narwhal ran into a barrage of neutronium pellets. That missiles was also reduced to scrap. But the last of the four flew straight and true until it impacted the station toward its middle near a launch bay that was expelling spherical Romulan fighters. An expanding bubble of energy grew out of the center of the doomed refueling station. The explosion consumed the station along with Romulan spheroid fighters and several ships that had been moored to it for refueling.

Romulan cruisers rose out their orbits to answer the attackers challenge. Some of the Romulan ships were already aligning themselves to fire plasma cannons when the Minotaurs made another devastating attack run. Five Chowders and two Cabbages were turned into wrecks by the passing Star Fleet fighters. The Tellarite light cruiser followed the fighters path leaving a Sabinus class cruiser destroyed and a Veronus damaged beyond repair. Romulan plasma cannons lanced out once more. One of the deadly weapons caught the Hazmq a glancing blow. Electrostatic discharges erupted where the cannon fire had hit as the wounded Tellarite was knocked sideways. The allied light cruiser drifted like that for several seconds before it righted itself.

"Report!" Stiles exclaimed as the sensor display showed the Romulan ships clawing their way up to more maneuverable positions.

"The Tellarites are reporting that their impulse drive is down," Captain Ed Minford said as he listened to the information coming in over his earpiece. "Warp drive is functional—their rockets are expended."

"Tell them to go to warp captain," Stiles ordered; "rendezvous at the assigned coordinates." The commodore turned to Ensign Bose. "Report on the Birdies around Deneva."

"It looks like twenty-four ships started on their way for the Choctaw," Bose said. The man's eyes did not leave the hood of his scanner readout. "They have reversed course; new course to our position here—ETA fourteen minutes. It looks the rest of them are on the move out this way. I'm counting thirty-three ships in the leading edge of their force—ETA on those is ten minutes."

"Ed," Stiles turned to Minford. "Order the Marathon and Choctaw to pour it on! Have the Minnies make one more run then get their tails out of here. Have Captain Harrison move up as the Minotaurs leave." Satisfied that things were going about as well as could be expected Stiles turned to Mary Vong at the helm. "Chief calculate where they would come out of warp normally." Jocelyn knew the typical Romulan attack pattern: Emerge into normal space out of range of allied missiles. Stiles planned to change that dynamic today. "Also I want an intercept course on the inbounds from Deneva. Once you have that lay that in and prepare to go to warp. I want to drop out at a point where it will force them to either warp past us or drop out right in range of our Narwhals. Get with Ensign Bose for any help you need."

Vong was already furiously punching commands into the navigation computer before she acknowledged the command. Stiles saw Ed Minford's nervous look. Yes she thought; this was another gamble. Stiles was hoping that the Birdies would assume that her Star Fleet ships were going to shoot at them while in warp. Jocelyn knew that there would be no time to calculate a firing solution for that. She hoped the Birdies didn't know that and would choose to drop out of warp instead. Now for the last part of the plan she thought.

"Lieutenant Rice," Stiles said to her gunnery officer. "Get ready to launch two spreads of Narwhals based on the positioning the chief comes up with. I want the Birdies to have a little surprise waiting on them as soon as they come out of warp."

"That is cutting it close sir," Rice responded. The officer was clearly concerned and a little confused.

Jocelyn unstrapped from the command chair. She got up and walked over to Rice at the gunnery position. What he had meant was that there were a lot of ifs. And the lieutenant was correct.

"If we time this right," Stiles said so that her voice carried to all, "the Birdies will be dropping out of warp when they detect our launch. If their engines are anything like ours they won't be able to suddenly go back into warp." Stiles looked around the bridge. There seemed to some concern on the faces of many but they were all about their tasks.

"Damnit!" Minford exclaimed as he listened to reports from the Marathon and Choctaw and looked at the Beagle's own sensor display. At Jocelyn's inquisitive glance he explained: "This gamble paid off sir. Final run is complete—all Romulan craft in orbit over Galileo including their refueling station reported destroyed." He paused and cocked his head as something came over his earpiece. "I can't believe this—the Marathon reports a crippled Cabbage. It is launching shuttles! They are close enough for video."

"Network their video over to the viewer," Stiles ordered sharply.

The viewscreen changed from the sensor images of the battle to a slightly out of focus view of a Romulan Sabinus class cruiser. Both nacelles were now burnt stubs and at least a third of what was thought of as the command hull was missing. Shuttles were clearly evident leaving a bay at a section of the ship that was undamaged.

"Do we have time to close haul and grapple?" Stiles asked. But she was already doing the mental arithmetic. Her meager forces had time to play out Stiles' last gambit but that was it. The inbound Birdies were less than ten minutes away. She looked up to see Minford's confirming shake of his head.

"Damnit!" the captain cursed. "We've never seen them do this. It has to be because they are so close to a main operating base. We are bypassing their position now."

Stiles looked over Damon Rice's shoulder. The gunnery officer had worked a firing solution for the crippled Romulan ship.

"Prepare to fire!" Stiles snapped.

"Sir!" Both Minford and Rice exclaimed at the same time. Minford continued: "Sir they could be launching escape shuttles. That would be a war crime."

"They could also be fighters Ed!" Stiles shot back fiercely. She reached over Rice's shoulder and hit the fire control switch for the Narwhals. "Firing and away," she said quietly. The Jocelyn added in a harsh voice: "So is bombing civilians."

Small triangular shuttles made their way out of the bay of the doomed Cabbage. The damaged craft turned slowly throwing off pieces of wreckage as it had been reduced from being a spacecraft into a floating hulk. The Stellar Navy missile hit the spinning wreck. An expanding ball of fiery destruction obliterated the Sabinus. The fireball expanded to claim most of the escaping Romulan shuttles.

The Marathon formed up on the Beagle and both ships leapt away into subspace. Two minutes later the emerged. The shining disk of Deneva was still far away but could have been made out as a planetary body by the naked eye now. The Star Fleet ships discharged a flight of Narwhals each. Thirty seconds later their tubes freshly reloaded they fired again. The two allied ships turned about slowly. The first green streaks of Romulan ships emerged into normal space. Three of those were immediately incinerated. The Beagle and Marathon warped away. Two more Romulan craft were destroyed as the Star Fleet ships vanished from sight.

The Forge, Vulcan, July 2157

Lieutenant Tarang Gupta and his Vulcan companion T'Pol had spend almost a week at the underground spring near the Valley of K'Henga. Gupta had enormous respect for his superior Captain Erica Soames but he was also cursing her. Gupta was no kind of spy he thought bitterly. They had almost been caught snooping about that first night because of Tarang's ill thought out plans. Gupta was sure that Mr. Ian Fleming's spy would know what to do but that was not Tarang. So it was that they had spent time observing the daily movements of the High Command's security force. In addition T'Pol spent time examining the archeologist Celada's journal. Gupta's spoken Vulcan was coming along. At least T'Pol had gone from saying that it was adequate to now saying it was passable. But Tarang was still having problems with the intricate Vulcan written language.

Their rations were starting to run low as well. The two would have to leave tonight in order to make it back with full rations. Gupta thought that would work. The two amateur clandestine operators had discovered that the High Command rotated their detachment out to replace it with a fresh one every two days. If things went as he hoped Tarang thought that would be tonight. Gupta had observed the detachment drop the web like network of laser motion detectors for a little over an hour at each rotation. Tarang supposed it was a maintenance check. They also transferred a great deal of equipment out of the relief shuttle. He also suspected from his observations that the security forces were becoming lax; even for Vulcans. But Gupta thought: Who in their right minds would come this far on foot never mind the illogic of it.

Gupta made his way back to the relative coolness of the cavern. T'Pol was seated crossed-legged her back upright and straight as she compared something out of the dead archeologist's journal to something on the chart. Gupta also wondered about what else had happened six days ago. T'Pol had told the Indian that she did not realize how close he was when he had turned his head. Somehow though he was young Tarang knew the difference between an accidental brush of the lips and a kiss. But he had not brooked the subject since then.

"There are hidden tunnels off of the main site," T'Pol said. She was facing away from him and yet had obviously heard him enter the cave.

"Why didn't the rest of the team discover this other chamber?" Gupta asked.

"Celada had long suspected its existence according to her journal entries," T'Pol explained. "She discovered a crawlspace that was probably looked like an offshoot of ancient plumbing."

"Yet she publicly said that looking in that direction was a waste," Gupta said as he stroked his growth of beard. It had been sometime since Gupta had known the convenience of hot water.

"Yes," T'Pol replied simply, "it is an inconsistency. I have not indicated otherwise." She put the journal down and looked at Gupta. "Do you mean to try to gain entry tonight?"

He nodded. "It is now or never," Tarang replied. "It is sundown. We should make ready to leave."

T'Pol nodded and rose. The two each looked at their chronometers. They each knelt and filled their canteens by the cave's meager pool. They had planned to make this journey with little equipment. They would enter the ruins, penetrate the chamber that Celada had discovered see what was there and be gone. It disturbed the intelligence officer to no end that he was not an archeologist. It was likely; Gupta thought that presented the choices between answers to the mysteries of the universe presented from a Vulcan viewpoint or directions to the men's room Gupta would probably choose the directions in his ignorance. Oh well, Tarang thought, he always had the import export business to fall back on.

Gupta fell in behind T'Pol as they exited the hidden entrance to the surface. They trudged stealthily through the sand finally clambering down the way they had come before. At least climbing about was easier as they were somewhat experienced with the terrain now Gupta thought. They made the descent in relative silence. This time the two arrived on the valley floor in a little under two hours. They dodged and weaved between volcanic boulders as they drew as close to the encampment as they dared. Finally they stopped and waited.

Gupta looked at his chronometer the numbers of which threw off a dim light showing the passing time. The relief shuttle should be here by now he thought anxiously. Had he been wrong Gupta wondered? Tarang was going to suggest that very thing to his companion when he noticed her cocking her head up as if she heard something. Seconds later Gupta too heard the roar of braking thrusters firing. The shuttle roared overhead and started down to the valley floor. Gupta snuck a glance out from their place of concealment. The lieutenant could feel T'Pol press against him as she too looked out over his shoulder. A whirling, blinding sandstorm briefly enveloped the dig site as the shuttle's landing thrusters kicked up the sand.

"The laser net is down," T'Pol whispered into Gupta's ear. She was looking intently at the handheld detector that she carried.

The two scurried in a crouching run toward the archeological dig. Tarang had studied the layout of the land long enough to know that they were past the first tendrils of the detection grid. There were no external alarms but no motion was evident from the security force's living quarters. They were exposed briefly as they crossed a short distance to the entrance of the ancient temple. They went from what Gupta had considered darkness to the complete inky blackness of no light whatsoever. Tarang felt T'Pol's hand on his arm slowing him down. She was right he thought: These were ancient ruins. There was a turn ahead and if he missed it the next thing was a nasty fall into an ancient vault.

They lit their torches as Gupta felt the turn along the wall. Despite a little light the two still proceed carefully. Tarang looked at his watch: Ten minutes had passed. T'Pol moved ahead of him. The Vulcan had been studying the layout far more so than had the naval officer. She led him at a slow but steady pace through the labyrinth of dusty underground tunnels. They soon came to one in particular in which T'Pol stopped. The overpowering smell of the hot sand permeated the air. The Vulcan felt along one of the walls.

Gupta shined his torch around the tunnel. Ancient writings covered much of the walls. Some of it was remarkably clear; other writing had faded over the years. Tarang supposed that an archeologist or geologist could explain it but he did not know why. It was so quiet that Gupta could hear his own breathing. So it was when he heard the deep grinding sound of ancient rock moving he visibly started. He spun around to see an opening form; like a shutter on the lens of a camera. A circular opening with more than enough room to crawl through formed.

Gupta had long debated with T'Pol about one of them going in while the other stayed. But they had finally figured that according to Celada's note the opening could be made from the other side. So it was that Gupta in what he knew T'Pol would recognize as a foolish display of human male bravado took the lead, Colt 2011 in hand. Tarang deeply regretted that he did not take a drink before crawling through the dry musty crawlspace. He coughed dryly as he pulled himself along. He wanted a bath badly. After what seemed an eternity but Gupta noted on his chronometer was no more than three minutes he emerged into another chamber. They had another forty minutes according to his chronometer. So far so good Gupta thought as he helped T'Pol out of the crawlway.

This area was truly old. Gupta absently rubbed at the wall finally noticing the faded tracing of Vulcan inscriptions there. Even Gupta's untrained eye could tell that this place had battled time and was losing. T'Pol looked around briefly then motioned for him to follow her. Whereas the area they had left had been laid out at right angles similar to much human design this area was a confusing miasma of curved passages. But T'Pol led on confidently. It was a hackle on Gupta when he thought that even if she was lost; being a Vulcan she would likely not admit to it. Finally she stopped. T'Pol stepped into a large dome-like chamber at least twenty meters in diameter. They shined their torched around.

"Celada mentioned the center of diversity," T'Pol said. She shined her torch over to an area on the floor. "There," she said, indicating a section of tiles arranged in a particular pattern. "It is the symbol of the Vulcan IDIC."

"Are you sure?" Gupta asked. "I mean isn't this all sort of obvious?"

"Look at the floor around you Tarang," T'Pol answered. He shined his torch around the floor and returned a puzzled glance to the Vulcan. "The sand has been swept away from that area. The rest of the chamber has a uniform layer of it."

"Ah, very well," the naval officer replied with a rueful grin. He made his way to the center of the chamber. "Now what?" he asked simply.

"She wrote," T'Pol recited: "From the center of diversity will the reflections of the Vulcan heart be recognized."

Tarang shot a skeptical look to his partner in crime. The two had discussed this passage many nights now. Gupta wondered why such a logical people would lay things out in such a puzzling manner. T'Pol had responded by saying that in their ancient days not all Vulcans had accepted logic. Those that did she had gone on to explain were only then at the beginning of logic. The lieutenant shined his torch around. Gupta was hot, tired, needed a shave and knew that he stank. He wondered what great Vishnu could have in store for him to have led the officer here. His torch caught a reflection that cast an odd light.

"T'Pol," the lieutenant said quietly as he shined his light at that point again. "Did you see that?" he asked. At her answering nod he continued shining the torch and looking at where the reflections of light went. They had stirred up dust that had lain dormant for thousands of years. Both of them soon noticed how the reflections from Tarang's torch bounced off of various points along the chamber wall forming an interlacing network of light. The intelligence officer turned up the intensity of his beam. A pattern formed but part of it looked to be missing. Gupta was about to ask T'Pol if she could calculate where the missing point of reflection was when he noticed her standing stiff in concentration. She scanned the chamber turning with machine-like precision.

"There," T'Pol said. A human never having been among Vulcans would have heard a casual statement. Gupta heard it as an exclamation. She walked carefully over to a point. She fished in her travel cloak until she came up with a small signaling mirror. She carefully moved it around until the light that Gupta held hit it in a certain way.

Tarang was beginning to think of how foolish this was when he felt the floor rumble beneath him. His first thought was that it was a quake and the two of them would be sealed in here if not crushed immediately. There was another deep, grinding sound of rock moving over rock. This sound was deeper such that it held a menacing quality to it. He watched as a triangular piece of the chamber floor rose up. He moved the light breaking the web of reflected light but the stone still continued rising. Encased in the stone vault that had risen out of the floor was a small pyramidal shaped object. They both moved to it.

"What is it?" Gupta asked the Vulcan woman. It was a full minute before she replied

"I do not know."

"Could this be the Ka'Al' Zin?" Gupta asked referencing the name of the ancient Vulcan text of Surak's early life. Gupta wondered at that; was this small twenty-five centimeter tall triangular slab of metal the diary of a man's life? Tarang noted the fine ornate Vulcan writing on the metal. At least Gupta assumed it was ancient Vulcan. He had studied as much ancient Vulcan history as he could digest in an attempt to, as T'Pol had asked, learn archeology. But in the end Tarang had to admit to himself that as far as he knew the writing on the metal could be ancient Vulcan; or it could just as well be Denobulan pornography. Tarang knelt down and shined his light along the surface upon which the possible ancient relic set.

"What are you doing?" T'Pol asked.

"Look," Gupta said pointing out a fine tracing in the extremely light coating of dust that had built up on the surface of the object's container. "

"It has been moved recently," T'Pol said.

Gupta nodded. The intelligence officer reached out hesitantly to grasp the object. Then he withdrew his hand. Gupta wondered what the oils in his skin would do to the metal. He cut a piece away from his traveling cloak and covered his bare hand with the scrap of cloth. He hesitated again for a few seconds. Tarang was aware of T'Pol's puzzlement.

"Well?" she asked. Anyone else would hear an unemotional question. Gupta however heard the undercurrent of impatience.

Gupta was thinking of an old twentieth century movie that had been recreated as a holovid, or maybe it had been made in the twenty-first, Tarang thought. The ancient film about an archeologist was a favorite of his uncle; not surprisingly the same uncle who was a fan of Ian Fleming. Tarang recalled watching the presentation as a child. The hero had removed an object from a pedestal only to have unintended consequences. Gupta swept the chamber once more with his torch.

"What are you looking for?" T'Pol asked sharply.

Gupta hadn't noted the presence of any large round man crushing boulders. Rather than reply to the Vulcan he seized the metal tablet. T'Pol pressed up close to Gupta as she examined the writing on the object. Gupta waited for several seconds until satisfied that the chamber was not going to cave or that deadly vipers would not come pouring out of the wall, he gathered the object up wrapping it in the cloth.

"Let's go," T'Pol said quietly.

"Wait," Gupta said. The officer produced a small video recorder. He warned the Vulcan to close her eyes. Gupta did as well. The lighting device on the small recorder emitted as series of blinding flashes as Gupta turned about in an attempt to capture footage of the entire chamber. Satisfied that he had done as well as he could he replaced the device into his pack. The man and Vulcan left the ancient chamber. Tarang once again trusted T'Pol to lead them through the twisting tunnels. She led him without hesitation back to the opening through which they had crawled through. T'Pol squirmed into the aperture. Gupta followed more slowly as he was trying to be careful with the object that they had recovered.

"There are twenty-eight minutes left," T'Pol said as Gupta emerged from the crawlspace and stood up. She continued: "More than enough time for us to safely exit this place."

Once again they traveled on in silence. Gupta trusted the Vulcan's innate sense of direction to get them back to where they had entered. He walked into her when she came to a halt. They were at the entrance to the ruins finally. Tarang only noted it as an area less dark than the one that they had come from. But after a minute he noted the bright pinpoints of the stars lighting the otherwise black Vulcan night sky. Tarang inhaled deeply of the dry night air. The Indian had not liked the ancient, dry tunnels. The passages had briefly invoked images from his childhood of the hiding places of wicked looking spiders and scorpions.

The two went forward with more confidence. Perhaps too much so as crossing the exposed area they both paused to look in the direction of the High Command's security force's living area. There was much activity of people moving themselves and their equipment but no indication that the two amateur spies were being observed. The moved on slowly. T'Pol recovered her scanning instrument from her pack as they past a rough pillar of rock that jutted out of the land like an ancient gnarled finger.

"The grid is active," she said putting a restraining hand on Gupta's chest.

An odd repeating sound like the blast of a low trumpet note sounded from the camp. They had been caught Gupta thought! But how was that possible Tarang wondered wildly? They were no where near the first beams of the grid. Gupta looked in confusion at T'Pol. Voices rang out from the encampment. Neither Gupta nor T'Pol could see what Tarang was sure was a hubbub of activity behind the pillar in the direction of the camp. They looked at each other again an unspoken thought formed between the two. Gupta was prepared to make a dash toward the relative cover of the hillside when a commanding voice called to them.

"You two!" the voice said in the characteristically unemotional, but commanding tone of a Vulcan.

Tarang froze and started to turn around. A light was cast upon the two trespassers. He felt rather than saw a massive form run past him. Tarang heard the heavy breathing and the terrifying wailing call of the animal. Gupta turned in time to see the soldier's hand torch go flying. The human's eyes were adjusted enough to see the Sehlat take the unfortunate Vulcan in its jaws. The soldier's emotional detachment must have broken with the sudden surprise and shock of the attack because the Vulcan screamed. Gupta felt T'Pol's hand on his shoulder pulling him along. The Indian broke into a run as he heard a horrible wet crunching sound like water soaked branches being broken.

They ran headlong without regard to who might be following. Gupta had a dreadful thought that the Sehlat would be busy until some of the soldier's companions came to their comrade's aid. T'Pol soon started out distancing Gupta as the thin air, despite his time on the alien world began to catch up with the human. Tarang threw himself down behind the first outcropping of rock. His chest was heaving. He barely noticed T'Pol speaking to him.

"It does not appear that we were pursued," T'Pol stated calmly. Despite the run she was barely winded. "I believe that it was the animal that broke the security barrier. In that regard the attack was very fortuitous for us."

"Not so," Gupta panted finally catching his breath. "Not so lucky for that guard."

"No," T'Pol replied. Once again Tarang could pick up the underlying sadness where another human inexperienced around Vulcans could not. "Sehlats usually stay in the deep desert. It was most unusual that one would come this far; especially to an area that was populated. Like animals from your world they are only aggressive when cornered or hungry. Perhaps it has been a lean hunting season for them."

"We shall have to be on our guard more," Gupta said after swallowing a drink from his canteen. He was trying with all of his will not to drink the entire contents: That was it for water until they made their way back up to the cave. Tarang was finally breathing at a normal rate again.

"I believe that we should gather the rest of our gear and depart tonight," T'Pol said. "The guard did see us. I hope that he lives, but in any case he will tell what he seen when he recovers."

"How is the satellite coverage?" Tarang asked.

"We should be able make the next cavern system before we would be observed," T'Pol said. "It will be several hours walk."

The two were scrambling up the hillside which had now become familiar to them even in the dark. Gupta lamented the impending daylight journey. It would be back to large amounts of sunscreen for him he thought. They climbed slowly and steadily in silence. The two carefully looked behind them and ahead of them. Gupta thought that at least Sehlats would not be scrambling among the rock of the hillside given their physiology. They topped the rise a little over two hours later and scurried to the cave.

"Why do you think Celada discovered the object then returned it?" Gupta asked T'Pol. The Indian had been thinking that given the woman's journal entries and the fact that he and T'Pol, both non-archeologists, had made their find so easy then it must follow that Celada had already discovered the object herself.

"I do not know," T'Pol answered. She too must have arrived at the same line of reasoning Gupta thought.

They entered the concealment quickly. Gupta was curious about their find. The intelligence officer was anxious to examine it closer. But then he wondered; what would he see? He had as much knowledge of origami as he did ancient Vulcan which was to say none. Tarang supposed that he expected that the object would somehow yield answers about its contents of its own accord. Gupta realized that notion was fantastical at best. What he had discovered in his brief foray into archeology and ancient languages was that scholars spent months and sometimes years studying ancient artifacts.

"I would love to get a better look at this before we leave," Gupta said meaning the artifact that he carried. His curiosity still had the better of him.

"Perhaps you should not be looking at that which you do not understand off-worlder," a strange male voice proclaimed.

Gupta and T'Pol both started at the sound. Gupta fumbled in his cloak for his sidearm at the sight of the tall Vulcan man who had a full mane of straight shoulder length sand riddled black hair. Tarang would have guessed that the Vulcan was one hundred eighty-five centimeters at least.

"You won't need that," the Vulcan said indicating the human's pistol.

"Who are you?" T'Pol asked pointedly.

"Is it not customary to identify oneself before demanding the identity of another?" the man asked then continued: "I am called Arev."

"That is the desert wind," both Gupta and T'Pol exclaimed as one.

"Let me do you both the courtesy of saying that I know who you both are," Arev said. The Vulcan looked at Gupta. "You, Mister Gupta have peculiar hobbies for one who is in the business of importing fruits and vegetables." He then turned to T'Pol. "And Minister Soval has you doing strange assignments."

"You seem to have much knowledge of us," Gupta said then added; "which may be incorrect. But we know nothing of you."

"Perhaps in time I will tell you more about me," Arev said. "But in the mean time I believe that your plan to leave now is very prudent. Gather your things that we may go."

"You imply that you are traveling with us," T'Pol said. "We need no such companions."

"You will need someone to interpret the markings on the object that you retrieved," Arev answered. The Vulcan looked sharply at Gupta. "And do not try to deny it. I have been watching you two since your arrival here." He looked at T'Pol. "An accidental kiss?" he asked. "That is not our way to lie T'Pol." Arev lowered his gaze. "We have strayed from the ways that Surak sat out for us. So is it no wonder that the young stray," Arev said more to himself than to T'Pol or Gupta.

Gupta looked at T'Pol. The intelligence officer was at a loss. Tarang did not claim to have the super rational thinking abilities credited to Vulcans but he quickly surmised that Arev was not from the High Command. Were that true the two of them would already likely be in custody and not having this discussion. Gupta desperately wanted to be alone with T'Pol to find out what other faction this Arev could—

"You are a Syrranite," Gupta said to Arev without ceremony.

"Very perceptive of you," Arev replied. Although the Vulcan male showed no outward sign of change Gupta became aware that Arev had come to a resolve. "The object you have is important to our movement. With it we hope to find the Kir'Shara."

"The Kir'Shara is a myth," T'Pol said.

"No it exists," Arev replied. "It contains the ancient writings of Surak. It is needed now more than ever. Our people are departing the path of logic. The confirmed existence of the Kir'Shara will provide the impetus to restore our peoples' way."

"So if we allow you to accompany us you will interpret the scroll for us?" Gupta asked.

"I will do that," Arev answered. "I would ask your help then in my recovery of the Kir'Shara."

"Why should we do that?" T'Pol asked in reply.

"I believe that your mission T'Pol and the mission of Mister Gupta who is obviously an intelligence operative sent by his people is intertwined with the finding of the Kir'Shara." Arev answered. The Vulcan man looked at Gupta and T'Pol. "Come now, you are wasting time. Decide now."

Gupta nodded slowly. He did not like adding this stranger to the team but the alternatives did not look good. Tarang was not 'licensed to kill' and would not shoot the Vulcan in cold blood in this cave. Were they to forbid Arev to accompany them then it was obvious that he would follow them. Given the skills at stealth that he must have that might be worse as Gupta reasoned that he could just take what he wanted. Finally Gupta remembered the old adage: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The lieutenant did not know if Arev was an enemy but he decided that it was best if the Vulcan stayed close to them. Gupta looked at T'Pol she nodded back at him.

"Let us go then," Arev said.

Taskforce 9, near the Cheron system, July 2157

Captain Karl Dobrynin thought that things were looking up. His Torsk class Borei and her sister Torsk Rickover had made it to their first checkpoint without Birdie interference. The Powhaton Vandalia was with the two Torsks as well. The sandy-haired forty-five year old Russian had graduated from the Frunze military academy with Arkady Luchenko. The two men had formed one of those lasting friendships that transcended the demands of the Stellar Navy. Both men had vacationed together with their wives and children. So it had come as a blow to Karl to have learned of his friend's death in the destruction of Salem One. A teaching assignment had prevented Dobrynin from getting into the fight at war's start. But today he would correct that he thought.

Dobrynin was as relaxed as he could be. His first officer Commander Yuri Gagarin was as wound up as always. Karl knew a lot of that had to do with the repeated teasing that his first officer had received over the years over his name. Gagarin was absolutely no relationship to his famous namesake. Dobrynin had always supposed that the Gagarin's must have had a cruel sense of humor in the naming of their child. But then again Dobrynin had met a few John Kelly's and one Neil Armstrong during his time with the Stellar Navy. So Karl supposed that Yuri's parents were not alone in their name game.

"We are coming into Romulan radar range now," Gagarin reported as he finished conferring with their Andorian sensor chief.

Dobrynin had been use to the idea of the 'Andies' as westerners referred to them being able to read and speak English but the captain had become rather surprised when Gav had responded to a joke that Karl and Yuri had shared in the motherland's tongue.

"Go to red alert Yuri," the captain said. "Chief Gav please project your sensor readings over the tactical display." Dobrynin told the Andorian in the alien's own language. Not one to be bested at anything, Dobrynin had devoted much of his free time to the study of Andorian. When Karl saw the sensor returns projected on to the screen he let fly with one of the curses that the Andorian had taught him. Gagarin joined Karl beside his command chair.

Dobrynin had seen the intelligence of course. But seeing the missile platforms and radar pickets, all no doubt interconnected by some kind of command and control network, caused an unpleasant light feeling in Karl's belly; but only for a few seconds. The captain of the Borei was already assessing potential targets and thinking of ways to break that network. They would see what havoc their small force could cause. This was a hit and run operation too, Dobrynin reminded himself. Undefined sensor blips appeared at the upper edge of the viewscreen.

"What do you think chief?" Gagarin asked the Andorian.

"Power readings suggest Romulan Cabbages," the Andorian replied using the human slang denoting that particular class of Romulan cruiser.

"That will be their carriers bringing up the fighters," Dobrynin said. Gagarin answered with a nod. "Time to the missile defense line?" the captain asked Lieutenant Bonnie Neilson.

"Three minutes thirteen seconds," Neilson replied as she ran her hand through a curly mop of black hair.

"The mam reactors are paying off Yuri," Dobrynin said to his number one. The new reactors had allowed the Star Fleet vessels to hold faster warp speeds without an accompanying fuel penalty. Some of the older fusion powered ships could do warp 3.6 but to come this distance, start a fight, then return to allied space would have required half as many tankers as ships of the taskforce.

Gagarin nodded again. "And in surprise too," Dobrynin's first officer replied. "They look to have arrayed their defenses based on ships approaching at lower warp speeds." The Russian grinned.

"They have known about our new ships for some time though," Dobrynin said in a thoughtful tone. The captain felt for a minute like he was back in Star Fleet Academy teaching tactics to expectant looking cadets. "I believe it is as intelligence has surmised: There Birds are arrogant. They do not think that we would come this far to strike at them."

"First targeting solutions complete sir," Ensign David Amoruso said from his position at the gunnery station.

"Spasebo ensign," Dobrynin answered. He looked at Gagarin. "Time to strap yourself in my friend; the ride will only get rougher now."

Dobrynin watched as the distance to the line decreased on the screen. The Borei would leave warp just on the inside of what was thought of as a missile platform. If all went according to plan the Borei would make short order of that platform and then move on the first radar picket. It was hoped that a hole could be made in their network from which the Star Fleet ships could ravage at will from. That was until the inevitable Chowders and Cabbages started showing up to ruin the fun.

The outer fringes of the Cheron system, July 2157

The single Torsk class starship flashed into normal space; instantly two Narwhal anti-ship missiles left the belly of the one hundred and forty-eight meter long light cruiser. The nearest Romulan platform, a boxy affair with four large black circular holes on two ends started firing large anti-ship missiles. Automated laser defense turrets started moving in anticipation of firing their deadly beams at incoming weapons. Small high speed metallic globules were ejected from the station. These globules exploded kilometers from the station. A shimmering field of particles was left behind.

The first Narwhal was split down its middle length wise as it made its way to the Romulan station. The second, fused for proximity detonated some distance away; not enough to damage the automated battle station but enough to clear the way. Another Narwhals from the Borei flew toward the station. This one was also set to explode short of its target; but at a closer range. The station was consumed by the nuclear fireball of the exploding Narwhal.

The Borei turned slowly through space as the light cruiser left a stream of radar fouling particles in its wake. Two Spider area defense missiles were fired by the craft. Two of the Romulan missiles meant for the Borei flew unguided as their targeting systems were ruined. Another Romulan missile had its existence ended at by a Spider. The remaining anti-ship missile was cut into sections by invisible but powerful defense lasers. The Borei fired two more Narwhals as the Rickover and Vandalia warped into the fight as well. Seconds later two Romulan radar pickets were destroyed by the Narwhals

The new arrivals were tens of thousands of kilometers from their sister ship but their presence became evident seconds later when the explosions showing where two Romulan defense stations had been showed that the new Star Fleet arrivals were there. The Borei moved on to the next missile platform while the Rickover and Vandalia went about seeking platforms and automated radar guardians.

The Powhaton Vandalia with its larger bulbous rear drive section looked like some representation of an early seagoing carnivore. The newer Star Fleet ship was demonstrating its extreme agility as it rotated about its vertical axis as it zigzagged between two distant Romulan defense platforms and a radar picket. Inbound Romulan missiles defeated by the Powhaton's countermeasures flew on to no target. The Star Fleet ship's lasers and spiders took care of three more of the Romulan weapons.

The Rickover was fairing as well as its companions. The Torsk had narrowly avoided a Romulan missile that had flown past the light cruiser at less than thirty meters. The Rickover was currently rampaging against a defense station. The missiles seemed to be fewer and less precise than when the three allied attackers had arrived. The Rickover used metallic particles and area defense missiles but that was not enough to stop a Romulan missile that exploded fifteen kilometers from the Torsk. Caught in the blast wave the ship's hull plating crackled with electrostatic discharges. Still the embattled Rickover fought on turning the defense platform that had fired the offending missile into slag.

Taskforce 9, the other side of the Cheron system, July 2157

Buchanan was seeing the beginnings of a disaster. But the admiral knew that the day was not lost. The new Star Fleet had defended Tellar against great odds and he had no doubt that they could prevail despite a setback to his plans: The area that the allies had counted on to not be monitored was indeed under surveillance. What intelligence had nicknamed zombies; Romulan radar pickets disguised as space debris that operated on a random basis had been detected. It was time for a fallback and the admiral had not completed his plans without one of those.

"Raise the Rickover and its mates," Buchanan ordered the Tellarite communications officer. Buchanan turned to Captain Srinivasa Ramanujan. The short native of Kashmir was listening with a look of concern to the information that was coming to him via his earpiece.

"Vasa," Buchanan said using the bastardized version of the captain's first name. "Get the Hornet and Yamato underway. We'll follow in ten minutes—belay that goddamnit!" the admiral exclaimed as he wiped at the perspiration that was building up on his forehead. "Dispatch the Hornet, Yamato and the Ticonderoga to the secondary coordinates." Buchanan turned to Ensign Sonya Phillips at the helm. "Phillips take us in toward that picket—warp 1.2."

The beginnings of an idea occurred to Buchanan. His taskforce could still do a lot of destruction in trapping the oncoming Birdie ships. But Frank wanted that deuterium refueling facility as well. Buchanan looked up at the viewscreen. The admiral liked the bridge of these new carriers. He actually could not see the helm readouts from his chair so far away had the designers moved the helm position. Buchanan also liked the touch of attaching the operations position next to the helm. Were the helmsmen to be killed or wounded the ops officer or NCO could take over instantly. The viewscreen was actually large and dominated the forward section of the bridge.

"Shorn," Buchanan called the Andorian intelligence officer who was serving double duty today in the operations position. "Do you have any idea when that thing will make another pulse?"

"We've observed it for several hours since our arrival sir," the Andorian replied thoughtfully. "There is no way to say. If it is a repeating pattern we have not been here near enough time to examine its cycle."

"I'm going to launch twelve out here," Buchanan said. "I want to get just out of Birdie radar range and launch our boys. They warp in at high speed and take that thing out before it can emit another scan. They'll have to wait five minutes for a build up before they can go to warp again and there are all the ifs again: What if the pulse is overdue? What if we can't hold off the Birds that will be coming out to meet us?" The admiral knew that no amount of planning could guarantee no loss of life. Especially when the Birdies were doing their damndest to kill them Frank thought bitterly.

"The carriers are five minutes from their launch point sir," Captain Ramanujan reported crisply. "The Rickover is calling with a report of fifty-two bogeys heading to their position."

"Goddamned Birds smell a trap," Buchanan said. He took out a slim brown cigar and lit it up. "Good, goddamn that is what we want," the admiral said as he exhaled a steam of bluish smoke. "Okay Vasa send the Montaukx, Catskill, Virginia and Vaz along on their ways." Buchanan said as he took another puff of the venomous smelling stogie.

"Sir may I remind the admiral--," Ramanujan started.

"Remind me what Vasa?" Buchanan said with raised eyebrows. "Remind me that the Montaukx is our escort?" the admiral said completing the Valley Forge's captain's intended statement. "I know that," Buchanan said. "Those people out there are going to need all the help that they can get. Call the Rickover and have them start a slow withdrawal when the Birdies get within half an AU."

"Sir we are approaching Romulan radar range," Ensign Phillips said. "Estimate one minute until contact."

"All stop," Buchanan said. The admiral turned to Captain Ramanujan. "I trust your people have been listening in Vasa?"

"I have passed the details of the change in plan to Lt. Walters sir," the Indian replied.

"Splendid!" Buchanan exclaimed then said abruptly; "launch fighters."

Star Fleet fighter Squadron 12, just outside of the Cheron system, Jul 2157

"You watch your rate of fire Lars," Lieutenant William Walters said to his new copilot. "When the shooting starts you will want to fire your lasers and shoot Amazons off like its Fourth of July." At the young ensign's puzzled glance Walters remembered that the young man; he wasn't much older than Walters but that didn't stop Bill from thinking of him as young; that the ensign had grown up on Wolf 359. "Fourth of July it is a big holiday for the old United States." At Ensign Ben Porter's answering nod Walters continued. "Remember the lasers need recycle time and we don't got--have an infinite supply of Amazons."

Walters was trying as hard as possible to sound like an officer. He didn't want these kids thinking that some hayseed was going to lead them in. Walters had learned enough now to know that these people counted on him. The lieutenant hated that but he was not going to go sour because of it. Walters was also aware that attitude would show as well. Bill watched as his squadron emerged out of the launch bay, one after the other. So far none of his Minotaurs were reporting any problems.

"Go ahead and form us up Lars," Walters told the nervous ensign. Bill intended to take the stick for the fight but he wanted to give his copilot as much experience as he could. At the same time he wanted to examine the change of plans the Bastard had issued. Walters kept one eye on Porter's flying as he reviewed the plan. When he was satisfied that Porter had established them safely in formation Walters said: "You have the lead Lars; take us to warp three."

Walters knew it all hinged on them taking out the zombie. Then they would wait until their buildup coils were energized. Walters intended to go all out at warp four. If he brought his Minotaurs in under a column formation he hoped that would minimize their subspace radar signature to the Birdies. They would hit the refueling station two minutes after they entered Romulan radar range. That was an eternity in combat Walters knew. If, if he thought bitterly they managed all of that the next problem was to slug it out with the Birds while avoiding defense platforms. Walters had to manage that trick for five minutes then break and run. Walters only hoped that the massive forces on the other side of the Birdie system would draw off most of their fighter and cruiser forces. The lieutenant knew that was Buchanan's wish as well.

Walters returned to his examination of the sensor readings. So far the Romulan radar buoy had not sent out an inquisitive search pulse. His squadron would be in range in five more minutes. Bill briefly considered ordering some of unit to move on ahead but they had trained together. If the Minotaur squadron arrived on station a ship short they would already be out of sync during the battle. Walters stuck with the plan as is. He glanced over at Ben Porter.

The medium built colonial had his head of blonde hair cut short in the style that a lot of the Star Fleet Academy graduates were sporting these days. Bill found it amusing to think that in all likelihood Porter would be his superior officer after the war ended. Walters felt sure that he was destined to return to the enlisted ranks when things were over.

The attack squadron drew closer as the minutes wore away. This was the time that Walters hated the most: The idle time before the action began. Bill had been studying the matter for some time now. He knew that at this moment he and his people were keyed up on adrenaline in anticipation of the coming fight while at the same time there was nothing to do except to perform redundant checks. Planning and automation were running the show now.

"No search from the Zombie sir," Porter said excitedly.

"Bring the targeting computer up Lars," Walters said. He checked the range to target. It was time to drop out of warp. "Go to sublight and target the picket," Bill said smartly.

Walters watched the display on his small viewer as the streaks representing the stars changed from rainbow colored lines to distant, steady, pinpoints of light. His heads-up-display showed the outline of the Birdie radar picket. The image was broken into two pieces as Walters noted the results of Molten and Smalls' laser fire. Porter had already thumbed the release button sending an Amazon in on the automated station. Seconds later the sensor returns from the buoy increased briefly then decreased to near zero as the Amazon from Walters' ship destroyed the radar picket. Now was the next wait.

"Take a subspace sensor shot Lars," Bill ordered tersely. He continued in the same tone, "do a quick radar search too. These bastards have been getting way too smart lately."

"Nothing sir," Porter concluded as he finished carrying out Walters' instructions. "Some of the ships orbiting the refueling station have withdrawn to engage the rest of our taskforce." Porter said. The ensign tallied up the numbers: "Looks like eleven Cabbages five of which are moored to the station."

"And some of those Sabinus' are probably doubling as carriers," Walters said bitterly.

"Uh you know sir," Porter started slowly. At Walters' beckoning nod the ensign continued: "You know I've been looking at tweaking the sensors. I've noticed that some of the Cabbages are massing a lot more than normal as well as readings that might show a lot of heavy metals in small casements."

"You mean extra D," Walters replied using the navy shorthand for deuterium. "And those heavy metal readings sound an awful lot like missiles." Walters thought for a moment. If they knew which of those ships were carriers Walters could array his squadron in such a way as to attack them first. He knew that they would be launching once the Birdies picked up Walters' Minotaurs but they would only have time to scramble their alert fighters.

Intelligence had been watching combat footage of launching Romulan Aeon fighters. Walters had studied and agreed with their conclusions: The Romulans would initially launch seven to ten fighters. The remainder would follow two to three minutes later suggesting that the Birdies had some ships ready to go just as Star Fleet carriers did. Bill's Minotaurs were more than a match for the first wave of Eightballs. If there were no second wave it would almost ensure this mission's success. Walters looked over Porters sensor analysis while the small fighters' buildup coils reenergized.

"Good work Lars," Walters said. "Tight beam the two Cabbages you've ID'd to the rest of the flight. We'll go after those first."

Porter sent the data to the other Minotaurs as well as Walters' enhanced instructions. Bill also took the time to zip the ensign's work back to the Valley Forge. That way when—or if Billy corrected himself harshly Porter was killed in combat his work would not be lost. Walters would have to ensure that the ensign got a commendation for his work as well. It was time to go.

"Ping the squadron Lars," Walters said quietly; "maximum warp to our target."

Lieutenant Walters watched as Lars formed up the squadron once again. Walters Minotaur jumped to warp. Bill watched as the other ships in his flight did likewise. In less than fifteen seconds the all of the Star Fleet fighters were on their way. They had three minutes until they would come under Romulan observation. Two minutes after that they would exit subspace into the combat zone.

Taskforce 9, the other side of the Cheron system, Jul 2157

Karl Dobrynin was relieved to see the three fighter squadrons come out of subspace. The small taskforce was engaged in earnest against a superior foe. Over fifty Romulan ships had dropped out of subspace to form half of an enveloping sphere. Dobrynin realized that the Birdies were learning. The Star Fleet ships had managed to destroy five of the Romulan vessels in the beginning by pinpointing Narwhals against estimated subspace exit coordinates. But the Birdies had been smart and had dropped back to normal space at irregular intervals.

"The Vaz is in a defensive mode only now sir," Commander Yuri Gagarin reported crisply. Dobrynin's first officer listened over his earpiece as well as reviewing data on his terminal before completing the rest of his report. "We have depleted over two thirds of our offensive armam—," the first officer stopped as he listened to data. "The Montaukx has been destroyed." Gagarin reported in a voice laced with frustration.

"They are trying to get us to exhaust our Spiders against their plasma beams," Dobrynin declared thoughtfully. The Russian thought for a few seconds before issuing his next orders. "Yuri, notify the flagship; suggest that the Minotaurs concentrate on their capital ships. Our tracking systems have proved more than a match against their Aeons. In the meantime we should fallback more."

"Aye-aye," the commander replied crisply as he sent the coded message to Buchanan aboard the Valley Forge.

Minutes later as Dobrynin counted up three destroyed Minotaurs and the news that the Rickover had taken a devastating hit that would force that ship to withdraw Buchanan's reply came consenting to Dobrynin's suggestion.

Sparks erupted out of several panels as a small proximity-fused tactical nuclear device fired by a passing Aeon erupted near the Borei. Karl gripped the arms of his command chair as the Torsk class light cruiser's artificial gravity briefly wavered then came back on. Gagarin ran through a litany of damages. It was not bad: The Borei would be able to stay in the fight. It looked as if Dobrynin had given good advice.

Reports relayed to the captain by Gagarin told of eleven Romulan Sabinus class ships and four of the Veronus class vessels destroyed by the marauding Minotaurs. Meanwhile the flight of Eightballs was now turning away from the allied capital ships as their larger cousins came under attack by the Star Fleet Minotaur squadrons. Gagarin relayed an order from Buchanan that would move them back in range of the Romulan ships.

Dobrynin had been expecting such an order. With the Aeons between them and their carriers and the Minotaurs mixing it up in the Romulan line the Birdies would be too distracted to bring all their plasma cannons to bear. It gave the Star Fleet ships a fighting chance once again.

Two Minotaurs launched a flight of Amazon missiles at a Veronus and a Sabinus that were in close proximity to one another. Two of the agile missiles were destroyed by neutronium pellets while the third and forth slammed home sending both Romulan ships reeling. The Veronus' warp nacelle sheared off from the stresses imposed by the missile's sudden impact leaving a trail of glittering metallic debris. One of the attacking Minotaurs turned on its vertical axis as it raked invisible but deadly laser fire over the wounded Chowder. The Romulan craft spun slowly as mounting internal explosions finally destroyed the ship. The Minotaur's wingman turned about one-hundred and eighty degrees and dispatched a single Amazon against the surviving Sabinus. That Romulan ship suffered the same fate as that of the Chowder's.

Star Fleet capital ships stretched into normal space and filled the volume between the Romulan ships and themselves with Narwhal anti-ship missiles. Less than a minute later several Romulan cruisers turned about and fired their plasma cannons at the attacking allied ships. Most of the beams were intercepted by Spider area defense missiles. One beam hit the Montaukx a glancing blow in its bulbous rear engineering hull. The ship spun out of control through two revolutions before stabilizing. Electrostatic discharges flashed around the area that had been hit. A blackened spot appeared there briefly before pieces of hull were blown outward by the Montaukx's internal atmospheric pressure. The crippled Powhaton fired two more Narwhals before another Romulan plasm cannon hit the ship squarely between its command hull and drive section. The one hundred and forty-seven meter long ship exploded in a blinding conflagration.

Three Veronus class ships and two Sabinus cruisers suffered similar fates as Narwhals made it past Romulan neutronium pellets and anti-missile lasers to hit home. The space black edge of the Cheron system had several new brief suns as the battle raged. The Minotaurs engaged in another attack run as returning Aeons started to engage the Star Fleet fighters.

Amazons filled the void of space joining incoming Narwhals. The Minotaurs turned about on their axis raking the incoming Eightballs with laser fire at the risk of being destroyed by Romulan laser fire. One of the Minotaurs did suffer that fate when its trailing end was neatly severed by Romulan lasers. A Romulan point-defense missile finished the work of the lasers obliterating the hapless fighter. Six incoming Aeons fell prey to carefully aimed laser fire from the Star Fleet fighter crews.

Star Fleet Attack Squadron 12, on the outer edge of the Cheron system

"Watch that fire rate Lars!" Walters exclaimed as he maneuvered his ship wildly. Porter had destroyed two Eightballs but had jumped the gun and tried to go for a third. "Let the lasers recycle or you'll cook them dumbass!" Walters snapped out. Walters would apologize later he thought; right now he wanted to stay alive. He had warned Lars about his rate of fire before.

Porter dispatched a flight of two Amazons against one of the Sabinus class ships the ensign had identified. The first one was cut into sections by Romulan lasers while the second spiraled in hitting near a launch bay. A launching Aeon jarred by the explosion collided with the top of the bay and exploded. The entire bay belched out a tongue of superheated gases before the entire cruiser exploded into molten hot shrapnel.

Walters neared the refueling station. The large structure looked like two huge spheres pressed against one another. Bill read the numbers off of his HUD that told him the entire structure was a little over four hundred meters long with each sphere being two hundred meters in diameter. Several Cabbages were docked against a rail system that encircled each globe. Two of those were in the process of undocking as Porter pickled off tow more Amazons. Molten's Minotaur joined the effort sending two more missiles toward the huge enemy refueling station.

Lieutenant Walters swung the nose of his fighter around as two Aeons entered his ship's range. Walters glanced to the right as he felt the stomach wrenching forces briefly overcome the Minotaur's artificial gravity. Bill felt a wave of nausea that he suppressed. He noted that Porter was not as lucky as a sickening mixture splashed from his mouth against his face plate. To his credit Walters noted the ensign swallowing and shaking his head to allow some of the vile liquid to seep down below his neck seal. Porter fired destroying both Eightballs one after the other. This time Walters noted that his fore control was far more disciplined.

All four Amazons bypassed Romulan defenses hitting the huge space station. Three of them hit in the main body of the interconnected spheres while the fourth hit one of the docking rails. Explosions near where the Minotaur's missiles had hit were growing in frequency. The destroyed docking rail splintered sending a huge piece of metal into an escaping Veronus. The impaled Chowder turned over causing the cruiser's warp nacelles to rake against the skin of the doomed station. Two of the nacelles were torn off and exploded less than a second afterwards. That explosion consumed the Chowder and grew in intensity until the rest of the station became a huge fireball casting a majestic but brief blue white light on the grayish gas giant.

The Minotaurs were already on an escape vector. They fired another round of Amazons as their pilots turned the ships about to fire at oncoming Romulan Eightballs. The missiles lanced out at two surviving Romulan cruisers while laser fire destroyed three of the agile but poorly armored Aeons. A Romulan Chowder fell prey to three of the Amazons while the last missile spiraled off into space.

One of the Minotaurs was not as lucky as a piece of the nose of the craft was cut away by a Romulan laser. Two of the lasers that had been in the snout of the little Star fleet fighters were blown away out into space. A Romulan Aeon spun madly through space in pursuit of the damaged Minotaur. The Eightball fired a missile catching the fighter amidships. The pieces of Minotaur expanded outward in the ruinous blast.

"Damnit that was Molten!" Walters exclaimed angrily.

"One minute till buildup is complete," Ensign Ben Porter announced. "Twenty-seven cruisers inbound," Porter read off his data and punched numbers into his small keyboard. "They'll be here with thirty seconds to spare."

"Okay Vince," Walters said to Porter. The officer turned a confused glance toward his superior. "Calculate an arc to take us around and fire a round of Amazons. Then we go into warp." Walters looked hard at Porter. "You sure you got that Vince?" He asked Porter wildly. Then Bill added hastily after a confused Porter replied in the affirmative: "Make sure you tell Gunny Gibbs to get his people out of there—they are all going to die if they stay there!"

"Uh yes sir," Porter replied slowly as he noted Walters making the proper course changes. Walter led his Minotaurs at sublight speeds describing a great arc as he steered for the point closest to the path of the arriving Romulan ships. Bill watched the images of the Romulan ships draw closer on his heads-up-display.

Bill was doing this by the seat of his pants again. Walters knew that precise calculations were needed to fuse a missile to explode at the proper point to be effective against a ship in subspace. Walters knew that he didn't have time for that. He was hot. Bill could feel the perspiration running down his face. Walters noted that his suit temperature was as low as it could go. It must be fouled up he thought. He would have to have one of the techs look at it when him and Vince got back. But it wasn't Vince, Bill thought. He was becoming confused.

"Let 'em have it Aimless!" Walters ordered as the surviving Minotaurs reached the bottom of the arc.

Porter depressed his firing control pickling off two Amazons. The images of the Romulans appeared to be stationary as the Minotaurs strained to escape as the Romulans closed the distance. "Firing and away sir," the ensign said then added: "Twenty seconds until buildup is complete!"

Walters watched his heads-up-display as the pips indicating Birdie ships showed the characteristic change of a ship moving from subspace to normal space. The information under three of the blips showed a sudden dramatic increase in energy which dropped off just as quickly. I got three of you bastards Bill thought with a satisfied feeling in the pit of his stomach. Walters wondered why Vince wasn't his usual celebrating self. But it wasn't Vince. Bill shook his head in his helmet. Have to clear my head he thought. Bill did the final calculations for warp entry then quickly ran a search of communications frequencies.

Why Walters did that he did not at first know. Then he realized that he was coming apart inside. He needed to do something. He looked over at Vince but a young blonde man in a stained space helmet was there instead. Walters looked at the video display briefly then turned away as his squadron formed up on him and went to warp. Walters looked down briefly to see a sudden, fuzzy image on his viewscreen of a Pointie in a funny uniform. Bill shook his head again. The image was gone. Walters was last out as he initiated the final sequence sending his ship to warp.

"They aren't pursuing yet," Porter said as he studied his scanner readouts.

Bill looked at the environmental systems. The little fighter hadn't been hulled he noted happily. He swung his visor up and mopped at his forehead. Walters lowered his face into his gloved hands for a few seconds until he realized that Porter was talking to him—yelling in fact.

"Sir, sir," the ensign bellowed out. He too had swung open his face plate. "Are you alright sir?" Porter asked.

"Did you see that on your viewer?" Walters asked his copilot. It was Ensign Ben Porter, Walters knew. Whatever had happened to Bill was passing.

"See what sir?" Porter asked.

Walters shook his head again. He lowered his mouth to his drinking nipple and took a few mouthfuls of water before replying. "Nothing Ben; I thought I saw one of them go to warp." Bill added hastily.

"No sir," Porter answered. "It looks like they are entering warp now but we should hit the rendezvous point with time to spare before they overtake us." The ensign looked with concern at his superior.

Walters saw the look; "Sorry about back there Ben. Things got kind of confused. Sorry too about calling you a dumbass." Walters had wigged out and he knew it. Bill had to smooth this over he realized. "You did a great job back there. And the scanner info saved our asses for sure." Bill took a deep breath. He was finally cooling down and was starting to shiver in his suit a bit. "I'll see that you receive a commendation for that. You ought to get what you deserve."

Bill noted Porter's look change from one of confusion and consternation to one of a beaming young cadet. Walters turned his suit temperature up. This was going to be okay he thought. Hopefully the ensign wouldn't report this little episode to Buchanan.

Taskforce 9 outbound from the Cheron system, Jul 2157

Karl Dobrynin knew that the raid had been an effective one. The news that the refueling station had been destroyed came over the battle net. The final tally was looking like forty-two Romulan capital ships, one space station and an as yet unnumbered amount of Aeon fighters destroyed. But the price had been high: The equivalent of one full Minotaur squadron was no more. The Montaukx and Virginia had been destroyed. Gagarin had just finished delivering another piece of bad news: The Rickover had ceased communications. Sensor scans of their last known position showed trace energy endemic of an uncontrolled antimatter release.

"Success sir," Gagarin proclaimed in a sad voice. The commander realized that this victory had been purchased at a high price.

"It is Yuri," Dobrynin raised his voice so that the rest of the Borei's bridge crew heard him as well. "It is obvious that the Romulans did not expect this. If all goes well they will recall some of their deployed ships to defend their home worlds. That will allow us to continue with the buildup."

"Traffic from the Valley Forge sir:" The first officer said as he listened to the message coming in. "Admiral Buchanan sends his congratulations to all involved. The carriers have recovered their fighters and our outbound for the tertiary rendezvous coordinates." Gagarin cocked his head as he listened to the information coming into his ear. The Russian smiled before adding: "The admiral says that we should get our asses ready for the next battle."

Dobrynin laughed. The captain of the Borei wondered if Buchanan had some Russian ancestors somewhere in his tree. Buchanan was right of course, Karl knew. Star Fleet had shown the Birdies that they could be hurt close to home but sensor returns had shown over two hundred enemy vessels around Cheron. It opened up disturbing questions for Dobrynin: Why hadn't the Birdies come at them with more from the very beginning? Karl was starting to believe that someone in their empire had miscalculated.

That was not far fetched Karl knew: His own people had once underestimated the Japanese. Those same Japanese had misjudged the Americans. Those Americans hadn't taken the Islamic empires seriously. Those Middle Easterners had in turn underestimated the genetically enhanced augments. The irony of the whole thing Dobrynin realized was that all of those groups had been human. What kind of a people were these Romulans Dobrynin wondered, as to assume that they could guess the minds of humans when those same humans had such an abysmal record of predicting their own actions? Dobrynin hoped that at the very least they would have those answers from the Romulans when all of this was over.

Star Fleet Carrier Valley Forge, outbound from Cheron, Jul 2157

Walters had tossed and turned in his bunk. The lieutenant had been a heavy sleeper at one time; that was before the war. Bill knew on an intellectual level that he should have been exhausted. Instead he chased sleep like a hunter whose prey always remained one step ahead of the seeker. Finally he had sat up. Walters had then gotten out of his bunk, showered and through on his gold jersey and black slacks. The leader of Attack Squadron 12 was curious about something.

He took a lift to the massive launch bay of the Forge. Walters knew that it was more of a machine in itself than a bay. This part of the Valley Forge rotated much like the revolving section of an old chemical style pistol. Only this particular revolver spit out things far more deadly than pieces of lead and steel. Bill stepped off the lift to see his Minotaur swarmed by a busy hive of technicians in coveralls.

It didn't take Walters long to identify the chief of the deck gang. A grizzled red haired man was busily berating the rest of the technicians. Bill walked up to the man. Walters envied the techs: This chief; O'Brien, Walters suddenly remembered the man's name, was wearing the sky blue coveralls of the Earth Space Probe Agency. Bill wished that he could go back to his old Marine flight suit. He had never been a fan of the new jersey style uniform.

"Jaesus Christ Corbin!" the chief exclaimed in what Walters thought was a Scottish or Irish accent. The chief continued his rant: "Goddamnit Corbin you want to check the antimatter flow is off line before you go sticking your ham-fisted hands in there again!"

The hapless enlisted woman looked back at O'Brien sheepishly. The chief stooped over and gave the young woman what Bill guessed was a detailed technical explanation of how to do her job. Walters recalled Gunny Gibbs doing the same: Calling Walters every name in the book then stopping to carefully demonstrate the right way to do the task at hand. When O'Brien was done his discussion with his technician he rose and greeted Walters. The two exchanged pleasantries. It was plain to Bill that the chief wanted to get back to work so Walters got to the point immediately.

"I was wondering if I could get inside chief?" the fighter pilot asked.

"It's kind of cramped in there sir," O'Brien replied. The chief looked pained then explained further: "One of the intell officers went in back," Walters knew the shorthand for the electronics bay of the little fighter as well as O'Brien did. "This lieutenant," it was apparent that O'Brien would have used more colorful language had he not felt restrained by the stripes on Bill's sleeve. He continued: "This officer went to pull the protected memory before clearing it with my people."

Walters had a sudden sinking feeling. He was beginning to realize that this trip to the hangar might have been wasted. Bill was still curious. He had seen something. Then again he had been sure that Vince Mason was sitting next to him too. He nodded at the chief to continue.

"The ship had a piece of shrapnel in it," O'Brien explained. "Probably from an exploding ship or the navigation deflectors woulda taken care of it. But when that officer tried to pull the core he raked one of the power cables over that chunk of metal." O'Brien shook his head in frustration. "Damn good thing he didn't electrocute himself. Then again mebbe that would have been a blessing."

Walters guffawed with laughter. Bill knew what the chief was driving at: Sometimes one friendly casualty could do more to help the war effort than one hundred dead Birdies. Walters asked pointedly: "So I suppose he fried the protected memory?" Bill moaned internally as O'Brien nodded in reply.

"I'm sorry sir," O'Brien said. "I suppose that you wanted something out of the memory?" the chief asked.

"It's probably nothing," Walters replied. "Thanks anyway chief." Bill was wide awake. He looked around the bay until he spotted a loan technician surrounded by space suits. "I hear that we are behind in suit maintenance?" Walters asked the chief

"Its nothing my people can't make up sir," O'Brien answered. The enlisted man gave Walters an appraising look then asked: "I suppose you aren't offering to get your own hands dirty sir?" O'Brien added a particular emphasis on the honorific.

"I used to do suit maintenance in the corps chief," Walters replied the added with a grin: "And no I don't mind getting my hands dirty chief."

"Then grab a set a set of overalls out of the locker room sir!" O'Brien exclaimed. Walters nodded, thanked O'Brien and headed to the locker room as the chief launched into another tirade:

"Damnit Ito, that is not your own private hammock up there! Fix the stabilizer than get your ass back down here!"

UES Daedelus, in uncharted space, Jul 2157

Captain Michael Cromwell looked around the table. The commanding officer of the Daedelus had a satisfied feeling such as one he had not known before. Schultheiss had suggested; more like mandated, that Cromwell hold these dinners to help alleviate the morale situation. They had been underway for four months now. Cromwell had reviewed his orders carefully: He was authorized to continue past the three month point if he felt that further investigation was warranted. But besides the stopover at 61 Virginis system the crew of Cromwell's Daedelus had not had an opportunity to have a shore leave.

The doctor had suggested among other things a captain's dinner table to discuss events of the day for the command staff and some of the scientists. Trudy had also suggested that a vacuum still be built. Cromwell had cast a dubious eye at his chief medical officer but he did note that in the past month since the mess hall had started serving alcohol safety incidents and personnel squabbles were markedly down. Michael could live with his off duty crew being a little drunk if it meant no fights or industrial accidents. He had resisted the dinners but he had begun to enjoy them.

Normally shy and reserved as Michael had come into his own in this command he had felt a sense of fellowship develop between himself and this crew. He was even enjoying being the center of attention at these meals. Cromwell had been in the shadow of Frank Buchanan aboard the now destroyed Sovereign. Michael supposed that he was casting his own shadow now. Tonight's dinner was a little different though: Mariel Picard was there.

Michael sat at the head of the table of the combination conference room, wardroom. To his left was Commander Lisa Somers. Lisa looked uncomfortable and it was not until recently that Cromwell was coming to see his own self mirrored when he had been with Commodore Buchanan during social functions. Well, Olly thought, her time would come. Somers was a fine officer Cromwell thought. Trudy Schultheiss sat to Cromwell's right. The physician had a sometimes strange sense of humor as well as a knack for asking rather direct questions. Beside Somers sat Mariel Picard. The mathematician was uncharacteristically by herself tonight. Usually she was in the company of Lt. Crosby but not this night. The pretty young lady also seemed happier than Michael had observed of her of late. Omar Bashir sat across from the professor. His smoking and sometimes obnoxious manner were becoming accepted. Lt. Taln, Cromwell's chief engineer sat opposite Bashir and next to Miss Picard. The Andorian at first had seemed withdrawn and sort of droll. Michael imagined that many of his crew had thought that of him at first as well. But Taln had turned out to have as quirky a personality as Bashir's. The Andorian had even taken to smoking; borrowing some of Bashir's cigars. Lt Marcel Dieulafoy sat opposite the Andorian.

"So you smoke those things to make yourself more Freud-like Herr Doctor?" Schultheiss asked Bashir.

Bashir blew out a puff of blue smoke before replying. "I smoke these things, as you call them madam because I happen to enjoy them." The psychologist sat back before continuing. "No; I think it is my way of being different. Our society is becoming so sanitized that it is becoming frightening. It reminds one of a holovid-fiction about the bad old days of Europe or America: A bunch of self-appointed commissars telling others how to live their lives. Always for the good of those being coerced—I mean governed; never because of any motive of the governing."

"You do not see us like that?" Mariel Picard interjected. Crowell noted that the young woman seemed more vocal when she was by herself. "We have freedom like never before and the Constitution ensures that it will stay like that."

"I believe that it is the natural tendency of individuals to be free," Bashir replied after some thought then continued: "But it is the natural tendency of mobs to resort to the rule of the fist. At some point all governments become mob organizers." The man suddenly sat up and after another puff of his cigar said: "But we have space travel now. Individuals can get away from the mobs."

"That is horrible outlook!" Schultheiss exclaimed. "Perhaps exploration of space has replaced those tendencies."

"Not every man or woman is an Okuda or Deladier," Bashir replied meaning two of earth's recent explorer heroes.

"You know that I actually met Admiral Deladier," Michael spoke up from his position at the head of the table. The humans and especially Mariel Picard turned expectantly toward the captain.

"You mean that he actually spoke to you?" Picard asked excitedly. "What did he say?"

"Yes he did," Cromwell replied. The first man to set foot on a planet in the Topaz system had been old when Cromwell, then a young ensign had met him. Michael lowered his head somewhat and looked at those assembled around the table. "Ensign," Cromwell said in his best old man voice that came out sounding much like an uncle of his. "Ensign; all you have to do is carry my bags to a stateroom without dropping them. I'm sure even you can that."

Schultheiss laughed first. The other humans joined her soon afterwards; only after some thought did the Andorian laugh as well. Cromwell knew that they had been expecting words of great wisdom. But the admiral had been touring the old Discovery. Cromwell had been detailed to carry the admiral's luggage from his shuttle to his cabin. On reflection Michael was surprised that the old man had said that much to him. The captain noted the look of disappointment on Picard's face. She had not joined in the laughter.

"To tell the truth I wanted to ask him more," Cromwell said. "But what do you say to a living legend?" Michael thought for a few seconds before continuing. "We are out here now; even if it is to gather intelligence for a war. We have gone farther, faster than any man--," Cromwell looked at Taln and added: "Or any of our friends have ever been before." He looked at all of them but most especially at Picard. "We each make our own destinies. François Deladier was a great man. But we each have a chance to do the things such as he did now." Cromwell looked to Bashir; "despite Doctor Bashir's pessimistic outlook for mankind."

"I'm not a pessimist sir," Bashir said with a broad grin; "rather I am a man who always has a packed suitcase and ticket for a star liner near at hand!" Bashir seemed to be in full lecture mode. "Look at our mentors the great Vulcans. It seems that even they have internal squabbles despite their claim to superiority through logic. How then can we expect man not to fall again at some point in the future?"

"I'm not surprised that a Pointie would blow up his own ship," Taln said after taking a proffered cigar from Bashir. Everyone knew that their chief engineer was referring to Picard's conclusion that yes indeed, the Vulcan captain had ordered a self-destruct. "Probably thought that it was the logical thing to do all the way until the scuttling charge went off," Taln added with a slight humorless chuckle.

"I know that it is something to do with these Debrune," Lt. Dieulafoy added to the conversation. The group turned to the archeologist. "I mean that their troubles seemed to start after landing there. We have even traced it back to when they started to decipher the language. And Dr. Schultheiss has said that the attacks were carried out with a Vulcan weapons."

"Yah," Trudy said after taking a sip of her drink. "Their particle weapons are far in advance of anything that we have. But they leave unmistakable traces."

"Why do you think that the Vulcans were interested in some nomads?" Cromwell asked the archeologist. Dieulafoy had worked with Picard on the Vulcan's recordings of the Debrune ruins Cromwell knew. Between that and Dieulafoy's scholarly guesses they had concluded that the Debrune had only stayed on the planet for two to three hundred years before leaving. They had come from somewhere else prior to that.

"We had that shred of data from one of their researchers," Picard said. "She felt that the Debrune civilization was an offshoot of another civilization." Picard looked around shyly before continuing: "I know that is common knowledge now. But I have been thinking: The parent civilization must have been one known to the Vulcans. Perhaps they were looking for evidence of these Progenitors."

"A parent civilization for all of us," Cromwell asked rhetorically. Michael knew the stories of course. The number of bipedal humanoids they had encountered seemed to suggest more than chance evolution. That and similarities between language forms. Many Andorian pictographs were similar to Vulcan language forms. Some of those were in turn similar to Kanji from earth's Japanese culture. Many Tellarite spoken words seemed to share root sounds with Terran Romance languages. But the universe was a big place Michael knew. Random chance had a way of going by the wayside when the choices were practically limitless.

"That could be," Dieulafoy replied. The archeologist got a faraway look in his eyes. "Imagine finding something like that."

"I hope that we find something out about the Romulans doctor," Cromwell said to the archeologist. That was why Cromwell had decided to take up the Vulcan's mission: The commander of the Daedelus reasoned that it was just as likely that the Vulcan's had been exploring the roots of Romulan civilization. And the truth was that so far the Star Fleet crew had dreadfully little else to go on.

"So you think that this Nelvana will yield something?" Bashir asked Cromwell.

"It is on the upper edge of what we guess is the Birdies' territory," Cromwell replied. The captain chased the rubber like Swiss steak that he had ordered around on his plate. "The Vulcans were headed there next. So I intend to take up their mission."

"An archeological dig?" the psychologist was clearly dubious.

"Perhaps," Cromwell answered slowly. "But there is also a chance that we may catch one of their ships alone." Michael had been somewhat obtuse about disclosing the totality of his orders. The Daedelus was carrying three Narwhals modified with a variety of the old electro magnetic pulse weapons of the late twentieth and early twenty first centuries. The difference was that these warheads would generate a charge that it was hoped would overcome the protective shielding around even a modern ship's electronics. Even the state of the art Daedelus had to stand off a considerable difference from the blast of the modified warheads.

"I sure as hell hope that we find something out soon," Commander Lisa Somers said. "I'd rather it be through capturing one of their ships than hunting around on the surface of some planet though."

"Yes seize one of their ships in combat," Taln declared emphatically. "These Romulans are after all nothing more than pirates."

"I would have taken you for a starry-eyed explorer my dear," Bashir said to Somers.

"I am doctor," Somers replied then added: "Minus the starry-eyed bit. But it is not that I don't want to explore I'm just getting tired of these new dehydarates." Somers impaled what was supposed to be a ham slice on her fork and held it up as evidence before continuing. "Look at this; it is supposed to be ham. I don't think it ever was part of a pig. And whoever came up with the idea for these vegetables…"

Cromwell was in full agreement there. He eyed with disdain the bite size green and orange cubes that were supposed to be peas and carrots. The captain took another sip of his beer. At least with Trudy's help as a part time brewer the beer was turning out to be the exceptional item on the menu. Michael was about to the doctor that when the PA chimed.

"Captain Cromwell," Lieutenant Commander Houk called from the bridge. The Tellarite had assumed the bridge watch that night. Houk continued after Cromwell acknowledged the call. "Sir we have a ship just at the edge of scanner range."

"Is it a Birdie?" Cromwell asked. The new subspace sensors were starting to pay off finally Michael thought: The Daedelus' sensors could read and interpret power signatures; something that was impossible just a year ago.

"Negative sir," the Tellarite's disembodied voice replied. "The ship's emanations are of a variety unknown to us. It is moving at warp 1.5 and," the Tellarite hesitated and when he resumed there was a little worry in his tone. "We think that they are using subspace sensors as well."

Cromwell looked at Somers. That was not good news. This unknown was not Romulan as far as they knew. But was it an ally of the Birdies Michael wondered? Then again it could be a ship from a civilization that was completely uninvolved in the war. Cromwell wanted to know.

"Alter course," Cromwell said at last. "Change heading to put us on a diverging intercept with the bogey; warp two."

"Done sir," Houk replied after a few minutes. The Tellarite added: "Estimated time to intercept is two plus eleven at present speed."

"You want to see what they will do as we get closer?" Somers asked.

Cromwell nodded. The captain finished as much of his steak as he could tolerate. Michael put his beer aside with a slight sinking feeling: It would be awhile now before he could have anymore of that. The others finished their meals, made small pleasantries and left. The exception was Doctor Schultheiss.

"These gatherings were an excellent idea Trudy," Cromwell said. The chief medical officer nodded in turn. Michael had an uncomfortable feeling that was not what she had stayed behind to discuss with him. Cromwell was not to be disappointed in his guess.

"I have been speaking to Herr Crosby and Miss Picard," Schultheiss started. She continued. "Neither of them will acknowledge any problem. I sense that Picard is lying about that--."

"But you do not have any hard evidence?" Cromwell asked pointedly. Michael much preferred the hard and fast decisions that were the technical portion of a starship captain's duty compared to these 'soft items' as he christened them. He looked at Schultheiss and said: "I would much prefer some hard evidence but I'll defer to your opinions in this matter doctor."

"We are being very formal sir," Schultheiss replied with a grin. Her face became serious as she spoke again. "Crosby has an undercurrent of anger to him. That much is documented on his West Point psych evaluation. He barely made it in because of that."

Cromwell sighed. "I suppose that a report showed up from a friendly source saying that Crosby's problems were temporary?"

Trudy nodded. "Perhaps you should be the counselor Olly."

Cromwell laughed then said: "You know what I know. It is all of these people from different military academies from around the world; fine institutions mind you but the opportunity to speak the right words into some local politician's ear, is there."

"I know what are saying," Schultheiss said as she lowered her head in thought. "How many times have we seen people in the Stellar Navy who never should have worn a uniform? Perhaps that is one redeeming thing about this Star Fleet Academy: It will take away the influence of local politicians."

Cromwell nodded in agreement then said in a voice stepped full of frustration: "Damnit Trudy I need Crosby; even if he is a borderline psycho he is the expert on these Romulans." Cromwell put a strong vocal emphasis on the word expert. "Did you know that the majority of the tactical guesses about the Birdies were originated by Crosby?" the captain asked Schultheiss. The doctor nodded in agreement.

"I cannot put my finger on it Olly but I do not trust Herr Crosby," Schultheiss said as she made a steeple with her hands under her chin. "I have read his jacket and I know what you say is true. I feel that the worst is yet to come from him." Schultheiss shook her head and reached out touching Cromwell's right hand.

"And how have you been?" she asked the captain.

Cromwell started to pull the artificial limb away then thought better of it. He finally replied after taking a deep breath. "I am better," Michael lied. He used to think that not a minute passed that someone saw his mechanical arm. Now that only happened during quieter moments when his mind would wander.

"And your infatuation with Miss Picard?" the doctor asked sharply.

Cromwell could feel his face redden. There had been that; but at the end of everything he knew that someone such as he wouldn't have a chance with Picard. Thankfully his command duties had put those thoughts out of Cromwell's head. Now that he was revisiting them he chuckled out loud. He saw Trudy's look of curiosity.

"That was silly and stupid of me," Cromwell explained. "I just realized that. Perhaps there was something to what you told me a few weeks ago; about spending time in the service and no attachments." Cromwell laughed again. "Even without this," he moved the fingers of the prosthesis, "even without this, what would an old fool like myself accomplish except to be humiliated?"

"I would hardly call you old Olly," Schultheiss answered. "Do not give up on yourself captain."

Cromwell could feel her squeeze the artificial limb gently then release it. Michael looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Could it be that he was that blind? For once Cromwell would have liked to continue the conversation. But he had a ship to command and he wanted to update the status on their latest find.

"Thank you doctor," Cromwell replied at last. He gently shook off her hand and rose. "I should be on my way." He hesitated shyly before adding: "We'll see how things go tonight with the bogey but if nothing changes how about breakfast tomorrow?"

"I suppose that we could invite the evening bridge watch crew," Schultheiss said thoughtfully.

Cromwell could feel the heat in his face again. "I was thinking about just you and me—ship's business and all eh?"

The doctor rose as well. Funny how he had not noticed how lovely she was when she smiled Cromwell thought.

"Yah we should discuss those things sir," Trudy replied with a slight smile on her face.

"I'll see you at 0800 then doctor," Cromwell said. They bid one another a good evening and headed to their respective duties.

San Francisco, California, Earth, Jul 2157

Christophur Thorpe stared out at San Francisco bay. This view had turned out to be one of the perks of being president as far as Thorpe was concerned. This office was also an excellent venue for meetings Thorpe had discovered. Their alien allies all seemed to find the Southern California climate agreeable. Even Shran's mate Ketra who had assumed Shran's post as ambassador. Thorpe marveled at the differences in their cultures: On earth such an appointment would have smacked of nepotism. The Andorians from what Thorpe knew of them had no such word equivalent for that in their language. As far as an Andorian was concerned why not place ones relative in a position? They had known qualities compared to those of a strangers. Thorpe turned from the window to the Andorian ambassador.

"One more person yet," Thorpe said with a smile on his face. The Andorian was seated at the round conference table that dominated the corner of the president's office. Beside Ketra sat the Tellarite ambassador Halaav. A tall human male in a gray business suit sat next to the Tellarite. The man was easily in his sixties but his broad, strong physique was such that he easily dominated the group. The man fidgeted around in his chair. The door to Thorpe's office opened admitting the last attendee.

"Commander Archer," Thorpe said in warm tones of greeting. "I'm happy to have you here." Thorpe gestured for the uniformed commander to be seated at the table.

"My shuttle was running behind sir," Archer said. He was about to add more when Thorpe gestured at the commander indicating that the matter was dismissed.

"Everything is behind lately Jon," Thorpe said. "I know the war is taking up more of our efforts." Thorpe stood behind one of the chairs but did not set down. He continued addressing the whole group now:

"It is not of this war that I wish to speak about today. It is rather about the aftermath."

"Is that not somewhat premature sir?" the Andorian ambassador asked. Her antennae were pointed straight up in the Andorian gesture that indicated extreme surprise and curiosity.

"It is," Thorpe conceded. "But I am hopeful," he added then continued: "And I am afraid that if we do not plan now for the end of this thing then we run a terrible risk." Thorpe surveyed his guests; he had their attention. Thorpe turned to the large elderly human at the table. "This is Gerhardt Josef." Thorpe looked around. Archer started at the mention of Josef's name whereas his other world guests did not. But apparently one of those aliens was not unacquainted with Josef.

"Head of your Earth Space Probe Agency," Halaav said adding a snort. "If you have brought me here for a Terra civics lesson then you are wasting your time."

"Look for a Tellarite to come right to the point," Ambassador Ketra declared.

"Of course," Halaav replied. "If it were not for us Tellarites discussions would be without end. So why have you brought us all here Thorpe?"

"When this conflict ends," Thorpe started. The United Earth president was still standing as he continued: "There will be a great movement to maintain a strong navy—a militaristic rather than exploration centered service."

"I believe that is as it should be," Ketra interjected. The Tellarite also asserted his agreement. The Andorian added: "That is unless you want to face another war with another enemy later on; these Klingons for instance."

"I believe that we can do both," Thorpe said. The president explained further. "I believe that we can build a fleet that does both." Thorpe nodded to Josef who passed folders to each of the meeting attendees.

"Together we can build a fleet of advanced starships that have unparalleled lab facilities as well as state of the art weapons." Josef said. The administrator continued. "Of course the crews will have to be a new breed of spacefarer; trained in sciences, diplomacy, and of course military matters."

"What does all of this have to do with me?" Jonathan Archer said speaking up for the first time since the meeting had started.

"The United Earth Space Probe Agency is a civilian agency commander," Thorpe explained. "The military was supposed to work for them but over the years that relationship has become diluted. I believe that we need to integrate the agency with the military so that exploration becomes one of the primary goals of the navy."

"A navy officer to be in charge in fact," Josef added.

"I suppose that would be me?" the commander asked.

"It would indeed Jonathan," Thorpe replied.

"You know that more than likely sir whoever runs this agency could be a puppet of the military arm of Star Fleet?" Archer asked.

"That is why a civilian will share the top billet," Thorpe answered. "Right now I have Admiral Forrest's consent for this. He too has thought about the future. What would really crystallize this thing though is--,"

"Alien support," Halaav said interrupting Thorpe. The Tellarite put an emphasis on the word alien. The Tellarite continued: "This is just not about building ships is it Thorpe?" At Thorpe's nod Halaav rolled on. "This new breed of explorers would go through training and be under the command of one organization—not their respective planetary nations. You mean to continue this Star Fleet after the war."

"Very astute of you ambassador," Thorpe answered. "That is exactly what I mean." Thorpe smiled and added: "Even a dimwit like you can see that is what is necessary."

Halaav roared with laughter then replied: "We are with your people Thorpe. Your navy helped defend our world. Surprising, that incompetent humans could defend anything. I'm sure the Romulans were concerned more about ship losses occurring from accidentally being rammed by your blind navigators." Halaav paused and looked around the room. "We Tellarites do not forget our friends. At least most of us do not. I believe that some of us have been influenced by your politicians. They would sell their pouchlings to the first vendor were they permitted to do so."

Ketra snapped her folder shut and laughed in a light lilting tone. "You should review our ally's proposal you headstrong As'Shom!" the ambassador said to the Tellarite. Ketra looked at Thorpe. She cocked her head to one side in very human gesture of someone involving themselves in a conspiracy. She laughed again before saying:

"Shran will likely be the next Shahar. My mate is very much like you Thorpe. What do you pink-skins say; your head in the fog?"

"I think it is clouds," Archers said laughing. "Unless someone is lost then they might be in a fog."

"Thank you commander," Ketra said nodding at Archer. She turned back to the president. "You are an idealist Thorpe but I do believe we are similar in that your mate is very good with numbers?" the Andorian asked.

"Maggie was the CEO of a Ford-Maersk," Thorpe replied then continued, "So yes she has had to manage a lot of credits if that is what you are--,"

"I should have deferred to the Tellarite," Ketra said. "Let me get to the point. The number of ships you propose here will probably win the war and give you an exploratory fleet. But such a massive building program would bankrupt each of our worlds--individually."

"Unless we agreed to a common budget," Thorpe said smiling.

"Which would imply entering into the alliance you proposed before the war," Halaav added. The Tellarite laughed again and ran a hand over his ample stomach. "The congress on my world would set themselves on fire to enter into such an agreement—especially when the alternative is crippling taxes to pay for a war debt."

"Look I'm no politician or accountant," Archer spoke up suddenly. "But how can it bankrupt you by yourselves but not together?"

"All of the training and ship building would be transferred to one system," Thorpe replied.

"A central command and construction authority," Ketra said. "I suppose that your United Earth Space Probe Agency would be in charge of all of this?" Her antennae visibly twitched. "That is the flaw to your plan Thorpe. Unless--," She looked at Thorpe through narrowed eyes; "unless you plan to also allow us major control of that agency."

"That is exactly what I propose," Thorpe said with a smile. "Captain Archer here will head up the exploration aspect of the operation." Christophur noted Archer's surprised glance at the mention of his new rank. "I would like Andorian and Tellarite officers on the board of that agency as well."

"The same goes for a civilian contingent," Josef added. "All exploration minded of course." The civilian said with a twisted smile.

"You humans are not as stupid as you look," Halaav declared. "So the military is satisfied by Archer here and his military cohorts who turn out to be explorers. The politicians will like the civilian control never realizing this whole ruse is guiding things to a different outcome."

"I want this federation of planets to be a reality," Thorpe said. "It is a shame but in a dreadfully perverted way the Romulans have done more to show us what we can do together than anything else has. But I am optimistic that we will defeat the Romulans. But if history is any teacher unless the end is carefully managed we will slink back to our old ways." Thorpe started pacing the room as he spoke.

"It is just not about becoming isolated and being destroyed piecemeal by some enemy. Oh I'll concede there is that. I'd be a fool to believe otherwise. But think about this: Ninety of my years ago none of us would be sitting around casually discussing the future with beings from other worlds. Just look at what we have already accomplished together: The Daedelus is the most advanced starship we have; built by the combined efforts of our three cultures. Some of our scientists predict that we could surpass the Vulcans in twenty-five years.

But it is just not surpassing others or becoming the biggest on the block. Think of the adventure we are entering into. Think of the frontiers our children will see. They'll never know boundaries again. This federation isn't for we here in this room. It must be for those that come after us. As much as we are different one thing we share in common is the desire to want a better life for our children. Well here is the chance for that."

Ketra lowered her head and shook it in a most human fashion. Thorpe had a sinking feeling until the Andorian ambassador looked up at him. She was laughing again.

"You and my mate," she said. "I said that you were similar: No matter how foolish something is Shran can make one believe in it." Ketra stood up. She was somewhat short for an Andorian but still had an imposing yet svelte figure. "If this fails we will all be sacrificed before our respective peoples. Yet I will take that risk."

"As will I!" the Tellarite exclaimed as he stood up suddenly.

"Your biggest opposition will be your own people Christophur," Ketra said. "I believe that your Sons' of Terra are working with some of my people." The Andorian laughed again before continuing. "It is too bad that they did not bother to learn anything about us though. This latest effort may have hurt them more than helped them."

Thorpe didn't like the unpleasant reminder. The news of Jocelyn Stiles' raid on Deneva had been touted as a phenomenal victory against the Romulans. That was until last week when a video surfaced showing the Beagle firing missiles on a distressed Romulan ship. The image had gone over well with many but others were starting to add their voices to some of the ridicules notions being put forward by the Sons: That humans by their demonstrated barbarous behavior had deserved what had happened to them. That all that was needed was to offer the Romulans the hand of friendship and apologize for human expansion. Thorpe knew that it was absurd on the face of it but many had taken up the chant.

Stiles had been saved mainly by the council who had repealed the old Geneva and St. Louis conventions at the outset of the war. Thorpe had agonized over what to do. He had come to love the young woman like the daughter he never had. Christophur knew that she was hurt over the death of her fiancée and then her father. Still he had come close to having her removed. Fortunately for Stiles Admiral French had beat the media circuit proclaiming how Thorpe had made a poor decision in elevating someone like Stiles to a command position. That had reaffirmed Thorpe's belief in Stiles. Christophur had nonetheless sent Jo-jo a letter of warning. He wished that he could speak to her in person.

"The law of equal application," Thorpe said than added in Andorian, "M'Asoka Ne Talutlè." Andorians had embodied the principle of an eye for an eye in their canon of laws.

"We share the same belief their Andorian," Halaav added. "Many of my people can not get over the anger from the humans. The Romulans offer your people no quarter why then should humans offer them the same?" Halaav snorted in anger. "These Sons' of Terra have had their heads in the muck for too long."

"I'll handle the Sons," Thorpe said in a slightly bitter tone. Christophur had never seen a group of people so hell bent on snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory before. Despite his long years in politics it still astounded Thorpe how reasonably intelligent people would accept such obvious tripe. He smiled as he spoke again. "While it is true that these people have a foothold it won't last. These Sons' of Terra will be unmasked before this is all over. Groups like that can't stand long against the truth."

Even as he added this last, Thorpe mentally crossed his fingers. The truth was that groups of fanatics had managed to persuade perfectly sensible, good people to do dreadful things. Thorpe hoped it didn't come to that with these Sons' of Terra.

The group got down to the business of turning generalities into specifics. They worked far into the San Francisco night making proposals to take back to their respective world governments. Archer had not liked his new appointment; Thorpe had to smooth that over with the captain who had been the last to leave. The designer had mentioned being put in the role of George Bailey. Thorpe had heard that name; he just could not remember where. In the end Archer had grudgingly accepted his fate. Thorpe was tired by the time that the last of them had left. He returned to the open window again and looked to the distant stars; so much hope there, and so many dangers. Thorpe remembered the little Ferengi: Was the future a foregone conclusion Christophur wondered? Right now it seemed like nothing was for certain.

Long Beach Island, New Jersey, Earth, Jul 2157

The admiral seemed to enjoy the Italian food. The restaurant sat just off of the ancient boardwalk. The sun was setting and the lights from the garish casinos of Atlantic City were plainly visible to the south. Chief Frank McCoy had chosen the outdoor café. He and Eileen Thomas had discovered it on one of there many recent outings. The manicotti was a particular favorite of McCoy's. McCoy knew that Thomas was off to Oklahoma City on party business.

The chief had yet to be fully invited into the Sons' of Terra's inner circle. But he had met a few of those that were. Most of them struck McCoy as atypical of the type of people that would support such an organization: The idle rich and others who perceived that their lives offered them no challenges. Rather than go off and take up a profession to help their fellow man or pursue the adventure of colonization the members of the political organization chose rather to become impediments to progress to the rest of their fellow man. McCoy had a hard time believing that Eileen was a part of anything like the Sons.

McCoy was having serious doubts about this whole spy adventure now. Those doubts could all be laid at the feet of one Eileen Thomas. There were times when McCoy felt a certain something for the woman that he had never felt before; even with his first wife, Helen. Eileen could be sweet and precocious all at the same time McCoy. But then something would spark a political comment: All of Thomas' innocence was ripped away briefly when she would utter one of those. Some of the philosophy of the Sons' of Terra was not only xenophobic it was down right racist to other human beings McCoy knew.

"You don't seem to hungry sir—Erica," McCoy said. Soames had told him to start to use her first name during these meetings lest someone overhear. Frank thought that his superior looked tired as well.

"I've had a hell of a week Frank," Soames answered. The admiral caught McCoy with an appraising stare. "How is your love life Frank?" she asked directly.

McCoy was glad that the sun was down. He knew that Soames could see his face turn red but it was not as bad as what she would've seen had it been daylight. Finally the intelligence chief answered: "I suppose okay sir—I mean Erica. I mean I know that I'm using—I mean seeing Eileen to get close to the Sons' of--."

"Forget I asked Frank," Soames said with a slight smile on her lips. The smile did not last long however. The admiral continued after looking around her carefully. "I thought that you might be having second thoughts about all of this since the last time we talked. Until last week I was all set to tell you to forget about all of this Frank." She lowered her voice and added; "we are both in so deep now that were we to be discovered it would be a stay at a penal colony for sure. But until last week I was ready to put an end to this."

Frank asked the admiral what had happened in the past week. Rather than tell him she bid him finish his meal so that they could take a walk along the beach. McCoy was puzzled about that to the point that he called for the check. He wanted to know what was gnawing at Admiral Soames. McCoy paid for both of their meals and after some fussing from the waiter who also turned out to be a partner in the business, over an implied slight on the quality of his food the two navy personnel left. McCoy had ensured the waiter that yes, the food was delicious but that he and his friend were in a hurry to leave. The man had assumed that McCoy and his pretty female friend were anxious to be alone.

McCoy and Soames walked along the boardwalk for about ten minutes until they saw steps leading down to the shoreline. The two of them made their way down those steps. The admiral and McCoy both removed their shoes and carried them along as they talked. McCoy caught up on what was happening in Langley. The chief had been able to do some work at the office but this assignment was taking up a significant amount of his time. Frank wished that he could be there more. The intelligence unit seemed to be working round the clock now that the war was being fought around several fronts. It was at that point that the admiral fell silent until they spotted a stony breakwater. Soames led the chief to a large rock and invited him to sit beside her.

"We are pushing out more Frank," Erica said. "But I believe that we may be fighting this war on a new front; one that most do not know about." Before Frank could reply the admiral continued. "I told you that until last week I was going to say let's end this. You would be free to settle with your lady friend in whatever manner you chose."

"I don't know what that would be Erica," McCoy replied. "I'll be honest; I've been thinking the same thing. But what would I do; either end this thing with Eileen or live a lie with her?" the chief said quietly.

"Do you love her Frank?" Soames asked pointedly. At McCoy's choked admission in the affirmative Soames said sharply: "You may not after what I am about to share with you." Erica sighed again then said: "What I need to know is can you maintain your objectivity no matter what?"

"Yes—yes I can," McCoy said at last. He hoped that was true. After Helen, McCoy had pretty much resigned himself to being alone for the remainder of his life. Despite her politics he had to admit to himself that he was in love with Eileen Thomas.

The admiral reached into the slim brief case that she was carrying. She produced a small hand held computer. Soames entered a series of commands via the device's small keypad then promptly handed it to McCoy. Frank was familiar with the image on the computer's small screen; he had seen it being replayed on vidcasters all of this last week.

The hapless Romulan Sabinus went up in a ball of nuclear fire. McCoy was aware that according to man's own rules which the council had conveniently dismissed last year, that the act was a war crime. Nonetheless witnessing Stiles' wanton destruction created a satisfied feeling in Frank: It was nothing the Birdies had not done to distressed Stellar Navy crews and their allies. The Birdies were just getting pay back as far as McCoy was concerned.

"I know you've seen it Frank," Soames said. The lights from the busy commerce of the boardwalk silhouetted Soames as she continued, "of course as soon as I saw it I started working on it. We all assumed that a disgruntled navy person put it out. But something happened on the way to the Bistro so to speak." Frank looked at her expectantly. He could tell that she was gathering her thoughts. Finally she continued:

"I ran it through a processor. Take a look at item two of the menu Frank," Soames instructed. McCoy selected the item.

Frank wondered what he was looking at for a few seconds before he realized that it was an animated simulation of the Beagle and Marathon in battle. Lines shot out from the representations of the ships. Another image labeled 'Cabbage' appeared. None of the lines projected from the Star Fleet ships came close to what Frank guessed was the wrecked Sabinus that had been destroyed. Soames explained:

"I have downloaded all of the logs—human and alien. The Marathon and Beagle were the only ships that could have taken that video. The trouble is—unless one of their engineers reconfigured their video pickups neither of those vessels were capable of shooting that footage."

"Maybe that was it," Frank said. McCoy had a terrible feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Go to item three," Soames said. She explained as McCoy looked at the exploding Sabinus. But part of it was replaced by computer generated grid lines. "I logged some discreet time on the neural nets under Peking and London. Even were every square centimeter of those ships covered with video equipment their distance and angle would not have allowed them to capture the image that was put out over the vidcaster services. They would see what you are seeing now."

Frank looked. From that angle the computer projections seemed to suggest that much more of the top of the Sabinus' command section would show. McCoy was no video expert but he had looked at enough footage in his role as an analyst to see what Soames was driving at. McCoy dreaded the admiral's next words:

"Item four Frank," Erica said.

It was computer generated graphic of the familiar sequence. It repeated itself three times; the same image that had been on all the vidcaster services now. It started again only this time Frank had the illusion of flying through space toward an escaping Birdie shuttle. McCoy was glad that he was not looking at this on a large holographic vidcaster: The sudden motion would probably have played havoc with his inner ear. McCoy intuitively realized that the image's perspective had shifted. It was as if the chief were riding atop the escaping enemy shuttle while looking back at the Sabinus. The image slowed dramatically as another image seemed to overlay it. The word 'match' glowed in flashing red letters.

"Jesus Christ," McCoy said quietly. The admiral asked if he wanted to run through the sequence again. McCoy shook his head absently in reply.

"Not quite my comment upon discovery but close enough," Soames declared.

"What—what about the president?" the chief asked. This could only mean one thing and McCoy knew it.

"I informed him of course," Soames replied. "The council has been trying to pass laws investigating everyone but the people who seem to be the obvious suspects. It is obvious that the Sons' of Terra want to expand police powers but the thrust of their representatives' proposals are to investigate ordinary citizens."

"They want to make an enemies' list," McCoy said flatly while thinking: Bastards.

Soames nodded. "That was the president's assessment as well. The trouble now is that leaves us nowhere. Everyone wants to keep this under wraps. Thorpe of course is steadfastly opposed to any hindrance on the freedoms of ordinary citizens. He said the enemy is out there Erica; not here on earth." The admiral hesitated before saying more. "He has notified the UI but I already know what you think of them."

"I suppose that leaves us?" the chief said. His voce held a hint of melancholy sadness. Soames nodded. Now he knew where she had been going in asking questions of his relationship with Eileen.

"I don't think Eileen knows," McCoy said. "She despises what she says are alien influences."

"I would surmise that most of the Sons are pawns of these Romulan agents," Soames said. "So that does not surprise me. Select the next menu Frank," the admiral said.

McCoy did so to be treated by a series of still images. The images went by slowly and steadily and all of them showed people going back and forth. It took awhile for McCoy to recognize where in the photographs he was seeing was. It was the American White House. Frank looked at the images wondering what the admiral had seen in them. Soames saw McCoy's look of consternation. She explained:

"I used my override authority to tap into the White House security system. These are people who visited the White House in the last week—recognize any of them?"

McCoy shook his head. He wondered that the White House still had a security system at all. No one had tried to assassinate a government official in over forty years now. Frank was about to proclaim this search as being fruitless when he saw something. He tapped a key freezing the image.

"This fellow was at Catoctin," McCoy told Soames. McCoy continued in the piecemeal explanation of someone recalling an event. "Yeah, he was one of the back room guests. Eileen introduced me; let me see, mister, mister—Loch. That was it." Frank thought back to that night to his meeting with the men that he had nicknamed the angry twins. Both of them looked like men with a permanent state of anger plastered on their faces. Frank snapped his fingers. "Eileen was going out there to meet with Loch's associates!" meaning Oklahoma City.

"Keep looking Frank but that is a start," Soames looked around the deserted beach. Two lovers strolled by giggling at a private joke. "I will tell you that Carson Maclaren is on there. And that one hour almost to the minute after he departed that image started running on the vidcasters."

Frank spent the next half an hour looking intently at images projected by Erica's microcomputer. He knew that he could have missed a hundred possibilities. Eileen had not introduced him to everyone at the party. And McCoy knew that some in the back room may not have been present in the main room on that night. He told the admiral as much.

"Okay we'll start with this Loch chap," Soames said. "Who is he?"

McCoy thought back to the night of Thorpe's victory speech. An image of Eileen Thomas' naked breasts flashed unbidden into his head. He supposed that he would not share that with the admiral. Eileen had said that Loch's company was a contributor—that was it!

"Hansu corporation!" the chief exclaimed; "something about importing products and advancing molecular resequencing." McCoy looked downcast: "Sorry Erica that is all that I remember. Well there wasn't much more." Frank narrowed his eyes in thought, "except that Loch didn't have an accent. I put it down to learning English from a teaching machine." McCoy had heard many humans and aliens who had learned to speak a language via the computerized teaching machines. They were extremely effective with one drawback: The machines taught language without any accents or regional inflectives.

Soames recovered her computer from McCoy. "Hansu, Hansu," she mumbled over and over as the light from the streaming data on the screen showed on her face. She stopped and read: "Hansu Corporation was one of the largest contributors to the Sons' cause. I remembered the name because their contribution seemed to me to be very large given their published financial statement."

"Don't ask me about that stuff ad—Erica," McCoy laughed. "My knowledge of finances is pretty lame. I plan on retiring with my navy pension to a little cottage somewhere; maybe Georgia or Tennessee." McCoy smiled sheepishly. Soames looked up at him. McCoy doubted that she had even heard his last comments.

"I believe that a trip to Oklahoma City is in order for you Frank," the admiral said at last. She seemed lost in thought then continued. "There is reconditioning facility opening there at the site of the ancient US airbase—Tinker. The navy wants a security advisor to make an assessment there; purely routine for someone like you but I have to admit that I need official reasons to send you places Frank."

McCoy nodded and was about to ask her what exactly he was to do when he got there when Soames spoke abruptly:

"I have procured weapons for you," the admiral said in a voice devoid of any humor. She looked around then continued in that same tone. "I hereby order you to do whatever it takes to protect the security of this planet Chief McCoy." Soames smiled. "There Frank; I'll put it in writing and put it in my safe. It is some cover for you if we should get caught."

"What about you sir?" the intelligence operative asked. "You know the courts threw that 'just following orders' crap out in the twentieth century. The only thing that will do for me is maybe guarantee me life in prison." McCoy looked sharply at his superior officer before declaring: "They will hang you sir."

"I'm not concerned about that anymore Frank," Soames said. McCoy marveled to see the admiral's eyes moisten with tears. "I think about my parents in Ipswich. Who is going to speak for them if we are all dead? I just wish to god that I could get more directly involved."

The two of them rose. It was McCoy who looked around carefully this time. The shoreline was deserted as far as he could see. McCoy knew that no one could see down here from the boardwalk. McCoy came to attention bare feet and all. He rendered a formal salute.

"I shall follow your orders sir," McCoy proclaimed.

Soames snapped to attention and returned the gesture. "Good luck chief," she replied simply.

Taskforce 33 in orbit of the third planet of the Tarod system, Jul 2157

Lieutenant Commander Juan Morrison would have preferred his old title of major. But they were all one big happy fleet now. The trouble was Morrison thought that this whole mission was proof positive of just how bad Star Fleet needed ground forces. At least they weren't sending his Charlie Company into combat in those horrible red Star Fleet jerseys. The one hundred and eighty-eighty centimeter tall Brazilian native would've liked to have an intense one-on-one with whoever had approved the new uniforms. Morrison ran his hand through his short cut blonde hair. The lieutenant commander was descended from one of the American refugees of the Progressive's persecution.

Morrison looked at each of his platoon leaders in turn. His company consisted of three human platoons and a Tellarite platoon; almost two hundred ground pounders. The Brazilian wished that the navy could do it all: Their ships were superior to anything the Birdies had fielded so far Morrison thought. They had all anxiously watched the Minotaurs and Andorian fighters tear through the Romulans orbital defenses. The Trafalgar, Gettysburg, Shizma and Actav had rampaged through the force of Birdie cruisers then. Morrison had sat silently while his people had cheered the carnage. The navy could tear the Birdies a new one that much Morrison knew: But they could not capture any live Romulans. For that the Marines were needed to go down to the godforsaken planet below and dig the Birdies out.

Juan hated the idea of wearing the full battle gear. But as he watched the bright flashes of Star Fleet's Grand Slam orbit to ground missile barrage he crossed himself and was glad for the protection the gear would offer from what was being poured into the atmosphere now. Morrison checked his chronometer. It was time to go. The lieutenant commander took one last look at the monitor: A flight of converted Sinjan class shuttles were forming up. Their advanced rail guns and lasers would hopefully clear out any air to ground weapons that the Birdies might have left after the work of the Grand Slams was over.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Morrison said with mock politeness. He watched as Lieutenants Marsha Davies, Stefan Zglenicki, Vijay Patodi and the Tellarite Hax rose and took up their helmets. "We will drop according to plan near the southern end of the small peninsula. If all goes well we shall link up with Echo Company and proceed in."

His platoon commanders merely nodded. They had reviewed the plan for weeks. Now it was just a matter of bringing it all to fruition Morrison thought. The First Star Fleet division was a novel experiment. Juan knew that the allied navies had enjoyed great success in working together. He hoped the ground forces would fare as well. Morrison took the lead as they headed to the shuttle bay. The armored infantry landing shuttles were based on the Yeager class shuttles only the Yeager's small impulse engine had been removed in favor of a hull polarization generator. Two rotary laser batteries had been added as well. Their gas plasma charges would spit out three hundred bolts a minute for two minutes. The new lasers had looked good on paper and in field tests. This was going to be the ultimate test though Juan thought. Morrison both felt and heard a hollow metallic sound reverberate through the hangar bay as they arrived there. That would be the shells being launched the lieutenant commander thought.

"I hope that the Romulans take the bait," Zglenicki said. The Warsaw native was referring to the large metallic cylinders that the Reid and Robinson was busy dispersing now. The cylinders would look much like a shuttle when viewed on radar.

Morrison agreed as he entered his shuttle. The rest would take different shuttles. The Tellarite was next in line for command should Morrison not make it to the surface; after that Zglenicki, Davies and finally Patodi. Juan laughed; if it came down to Patodi then things were bad indeed implying that the company commander had been killed along with three of his platoon commanders. Morrison strapped his armored bulk into one of the crew seats of the shuttle. He noted Chief Andy Jeffries making a final review of Morrison's squad mates. Jeffries issued some well aimed curses at Marines who did not have there gear up tight. Finally satisfied, the noncom took a seat next to his commanding officer.

"My mama always told me I'd come to a bad end," the dark-skinned Barbados native proclaimed with a wide grin. Jeffries accent always struck Morrison as that which would belong to someone from Great Britain versus a Caribbean Island.

"Come now chief," Morrison answered. "We have only to land there and the Birdies will swoon before us like a virgin bride."

"You have never met my wife then sir," Jeffries replied showing a large set of pearly white teeth as he grinned. "It is I who swooned on our wedding night. She is a powerful woman indeed!" The NCO looked around then whispered conspiratorially to Morrison: "Do not tell the men sir."

Morrison agreed to keep safe the platoon sergeant's secret. He was thinking of his own wife and new baby at home in Curitiba. Morrison was happy that he had gotten to see Esmeralda's birth. It was indeed a miracle. He recalled how small his daughter's hands and feet were in Morrison's huge hands. It made the officer wonder what sort of beings the Romulans were. Morrison wondered how any being could witness the birth of a child and then go off to war. Was it possible Morrison wondered that the Birdies were some sort of martial society that lived for combat? This invasion would determine that. Juan was ready for a first contact with their enemy; only on human terms and not those of the Romulans.

Morrison was still considering the Romulan psyche when he felt the first nudges of his shuttle exiting the Reid's bay. Juan gulped. He was guessing that the pilot had turned down the artificial gravity somewhat to make the craft a little more sporty. The company commander supposed arriving on the surface of Tarod V a little motion sick was far more preferable than arriving in small pieces. Morrison lowered his eyepiece data unit receiver to his face. He examined the terrain and surface conditions of Tarod V once more.

Human explorers had landed briefly on Tarod V some four years ago. But besides that and the luckless Beagle's solar research no human had been there since the original exploration team. The world was ringed with an equatorial belt of jungle. The remainder of the planet was a cool arid wasteland dominated by small polar icecaps. The Birdie base Morrison had seen from the flyby data was located just outside of a jungle on the plains of the northern desert. Climatologists compared Tarod V to ancient Mars: A world slowly drying up. Juan's company would land on the peninsula beside a small sea near the jungle and proceed upwards to the fortification. It would be a slow crawl Morrison thought bitterly. Command did not know if the Birdies would self-destruct on land as they did in space.

Morrison's stomach was suddenly in his throat as the Yeager's pilot started an abrupt high speed descent. Juan looked through the shuttle's transparent aluminum windows as a hail of reddish laser fire poured out of shuttle. The lieutenant commander didn't see what the pilot was shooting at but he supposed that something had been heading for them. Juan's head swam as the shuttle heeled up and slowed down as suddenly as it had dived. Juan briefly saw the green jungle and somber sea beneath him. He guessed that they were somewhere around six-thousand meters above the surface. An explosion lit the interior of the Yeager as a far distant object exploded in midair. Juan hoped that whatever it was belonged to the Birdies and not their people. The shuttle started another rapid descent.

"Lower your visors guys," Morrison called over the battle network. This was it the Brazilian thought; just a few more minutes. He listened as the members of the platoon checked back in.

Morrison felt himself shoved back into his cushioned seat. The pilot was making the final run to the landing zone. The cruisers had mounted conventional explosive warheads on some of the Grand Slams for use in clearing the landing zones of jungle growth. The navy had actually saturated several areas. Morrison was glad that General Vaz had flattened a lot of different places: The Birdies would not know where to shoot—if they were going to shoot. This would be Star Fleet's first real encounter with the Birdies on the ground since the loss of the colonies. Juan felt the comforting return of gravity as the Yeager settled on the surface of Tarod V.

"Move them out chief," Morrison said to Jeffries. He could already hear the NCO berating the platoon to move quicker more or less suggesting that they should have been outside and dispersed yesterday.

"All clear to the north," a Star Fleet Marine reported crisply. Morrison heard all clears as the advanced scouts reported in after debarking. He sprang onto the flattened jungle surface and did a quick surveillance of the quadrant immediately in front of him.

"Form a skirmish line by the numbers," Morrison instructed.

The marines fanned out line abreast with a separation of fifty meters between each marine. Morrison started out cautiously. This was going to be a long march he knew. The lieutenant commander looked around as he felt more than heard a low rumble: A tank based loosely on the old European Panthera design rolled along with the marines. It had been that long since man had fought a ground war that they had to go back over ninety years in building armored vehicles.

This upgraded Panthera could easily have bested an entire platoon of its old brethren though. The old one hundred and thirty millimeter gun was replaced now with a high speed rail gun capable of spitting out solid slugs at a rate of over one hundred shots per minute. Coupled with a combination laser and radar targeting system the Panthera II seldom missed after acquiring a target. For close in anti-personnel work the Panthera mounted two Browning rotary cannons. Each one of those weapons could fire over one thousand rounds a minute of small needle-like flechettes or alternately the cannon could be fed small explosive rounds. The new tank also had the advantage of a Tellarite poly-ceramic covering making the Panthera impervious to low-power laser fire and artillery rounds. Morrison was no more than twenty meters from the ponderous vehicle as it rolled along at the speed of a walking person.

The lieutenant commander swept his modified Beretta XI around at regular intervals. The newly modified rifle transferred images from its targeting system directly to the sighting recticle over Morrison's right eye. It was heavier than its unmodified cousin: That was the addition of a laser rifle slung below the barrel of the main weapon. The laser was capable of firing twenty shots on the charge that it held. The way ahead looked clear. Morrison supposed that the Birdies were waiting within their fortified defense for the Star Fleet ground troops. He wasn't given much time to think about that however.

Morrison dropped instantly to the ground and swept the horizon once again. "Sarge what happened to Marquez?" he asked. A warning tone had sounded in the lieutenant commander's headsets followed by a life signs display of the marines in the unit. Spacer Marquez's signal had suddenly winked out.

What the hell, Juan was beginning to think to himself. There was no shooting or movement ahead. The marine's life signs had stopped as the platoon had entered the thick jungle foliage. Morrison was about to call Sergeant Jeffries for an update when his platoon sergeant beat him to it.

"Sir you need to see this," Jeffries said in a voice as devoid of emotion as a Vulcan. "And sir—step careful through the undergrowth. It looks like they have set up booby traps for us."

Juan tracked his way over to what his tracking system showed was the position of Sergeant Jeffries after ordering the rest of the company to freeze and remain so. Morrison kept his eyes open for anything out of the ordinary on the ground. Minutes later he arrived to see the armored marine sergeant bent over a pit. Another marine's helmet was visible sticking out of the hole in the ground. Morrison recognized the camouflaged snake symbol of the platoon's medic. Morrison looked over the edge of the hole and almost got sick on his stomach.

Karina Marquez lay impaled on a series of sharp stakes. The stakes looked like polished ivory where they were not stained with human blood. Morrison noted a slight rise on the ground. Jeffries noted the direction of his commanding officer's glance.

"Looks like ground was rigged so that someone would be thrown forward," Jeffries said over the discreet net that the two of them shared. Morrison listened with his other ear as invading Star Fleet troops were reporting similar traps.

"What are those things?" the company commander asked. Juan knew that their armor should protect them against anything but metal objects; and the scanners should have been able to spot any metal.

"Organic sir," the medic stated. Juan could see the marine medic trying to dig at one of the stakes for a sample with limited success. The medic continued: "Very dense; almost like it was packed together rather than occurring naturally. Also there is some kind of substance on the tips of these spikes." The medic looked at the readout from his portable scanning device. Morrison could see his helmet move slightly as the man shook his head. "It makes the poison alarms go off but what it is I have no idea sir."

"Crap sir we are gonna have to move carefully," Jeffries told Morrison over the private circuit.

Juan had been thinking about that very thing: Most of their scanning gear was designed to detect technological weapons. This kind of a thing was a throwback to the dark days of human warfare. Morrison listened to more reports over the company net. The marines were coming upon another booby trap: This one, a seemingly harmless pile of fallen trees when triggered the trees would roll toward the hapless victim crushing him or her under their bulk. Already four marines had been killed through that method. Another two Star Fleet troops were critically hurt. Juan came to a decision.

"Close in on the Panthera," the company commander said. There were no clear areas through which they could march to their objective. "Form a wedge behind it. These kinds of things can kill personnel but they shouldn't affect a tank."

Jeffries acknowledged the command and gave orders reforming the platoon. Morrison passed along his orders to the other platoon commanders. He didn't like it. Juan had a terrible suspicion that this was what the Romulans meant for invaders to do: Form up into a certain formation in anticipation of the next trap. But his marines were not trained in this type of warfare. Morrison would have to think about the next attack.

"We're ten clicks from the edge of the jungle," Morrison told Jeffries and his platoon commanders. "We'll halt at the edge and spread out again. My bet is they are waiting for us after we come out."

Morrison looked at the back of the Panthera for the next hour. The tank had uncovered two more of the lethal booby traps while an alert marine had spotted a third. The lieutenant commander ordered a brief halt to allow his people to rest. The marines had been fed liquid nutrients before leaving. The marines were restricted to liquid refreshments only. The radiation count in this area would not allow them to remove their armor. Morrison only hoped that the new armor would protect them against neutron blasts. It had done so in tests. But those had been tests done on computer simulations. He ordered them on after fifteen minutes had passed.

Once out of jungle they would rendezvous with Echo Company for the remaining ten kilometer hike to the Romulan fortification. That would be the nut to crack Morrison groused. All that allied scanners had shown was a network of dense material. Echo soundings had revealed nothing of the nature of the Birdie base as well. The Birdies could afford to sit back and wait Morrison thought bitterly. Attacking a fortified position was historically a bad idea. Juan knew that a few Grand Slams could take care of the base. Those weapons would also take care of any chance of capturing a live Romulan. Not even that new gizmo that Morrison had read about that they were using to dematerialize minerals out of the Martian soil to reconstruct it somewhere else would work on the aftermath of a Grand Slam strike. There wouldn't be enough Romulan atoms left to construct anything Juan thought.

Morrison looked ahead using the telescopic feature of his armor's scanning equipment. He was starting to see patches of drab reddish pink looking sand through the odd looking extraterrestrial trees. Juan ordered his unit to spread out in a line again as he left the jungle behind. The marines walked on for another kilometer when the ground erupted.

Morrison brought his Beretta up and fired at a laser source as he dived for the sandy ground. A series of explosive ordnance went off. The company commander could hear cries of dismay and a scream over the battle net as the marines came to grips with the new threat.

"They are coming out of the bloody ground!" his platoon sergeant exclaimed.

Morrison sighted a figure through his targeting recticle. Juan did a double take at what he saw. The figure was cloaked all in black cloth but was as far as Morrison could tell unarmored. Juan selected solid rounds then squeezed the trigger of his Beretta. The figure was knocked back as if from a hard blow as indeed the rounds from the Beretta were. Then to Morrison's amazement the figure dissolved from within in glowing red plasma like fire. The sand smoked before the lieutenant commander. Juan realized that a laser had been fired in his direction. He rolled for lower ground searching around with the business end of his rifle. The recticle flashed indicating to Morrison that it was locked onto the source of the laser fire. Juan switched to explosive rounds and fired. Juan saw a red glow beneath the exploding shot of his weapon.

"Chief," Morrison called on his private circuit; "are they dissolving when you hit them?"

Jeffries answered reporting seeing the same thing. It didn't take Morrison long to realize that he was right. The unknowns had buried themselves in the ground and emerged to attack. But thankfully with his formation spread back out again the marines along with the Panthera made short work of the Birdie ambushers.

"Continue closing flanks on them!" the company commander ordered over the battle network. The ambushers themselves were now caught between the pincer-like movements of the Star Fleet troops. Less than five minutes after it had started the firefight was over.

Five minutes after that Morrison summed up the reports. No Birdies had been captured. Whoever had ambushed them had not shown up on their thermal sensors. Morrison ordered a halt as he called to the Robinson for an air assault. Morrison assumed a relaxed but attitude as he lay on his belly searching for dangers near at hand. He waited for about five minutes. The filter on Juan's faceplate darkened protectively as laser fire from the Yeagers raked along the sandy ground.

The Star Fleet shuttles roared overhead. Ahead of them the plain became choked by the dust storm created from the impact of the rail guns' slugs. The vision of hell was complete as reddish laser fire lit the sand storm from within. Information relayed over Morrison's eyepiece told the story of destruction. Several hotspots were revealed to thermal imagers suggesting the dissolution of buried enemy troops. Morrison thought back to the Marine private's report from Deneva; the sole survivor of that massacre. That individual had not reported the enemy dissolving into some sort of fire ball.

The marine hadn't hit anything or else, Morrison gulped; or else these aliens were implanted with something that burned up their bodies rather than risk being found dead or alive. Who on earth—Juan stopped thinking right there. Humans had done crazy things like that as well; from homicide bombers to the drugged troops of Colonel Green. So it was not far fetched that these Birdies could be doing insane things as well. Morrison rose slowly and peered into the maelstrom. It would be even slower going for awhile now: They would be reliant entirely on their electronic eyes to see until the dust cleared. The lieutenant commander ordered the platoon to move on. Juan's friend Lieutenant Commander Witold Staszic greeted Morrison over the command net. The Echo Company commander had made the rendezvous. Like Morrison's Fox Company Echo Company's advance had not come without cost. Four of Staszic's marines were dead while another had been retrieved for emergency medical care.

The two companies proceeded onward. They were less than two hours from the Romulan fortification. The Panthera took the lead once more. Morrison observed several more of the armored vehicles plowing along their path. The Echo Company commander noted the addition of the Franks light armored personnel carrier; another hold over from the days before earth's third world war. The Franks had been upgraded with new human as well as alien technologies. Morrison spotted a few of the Tellarite mobile land cruisers or Shaktaks chugging along with the advancing Star Fleet troops too.

The massive vehicles were more like land going destroyers rather than tanks. Morrison wished that Star Fleet could have put more of those vehicles ashore. But they massed close to three hundred metric tons a piece. Besides storage space on the cruisers and freighters there was the matter of depositing them on a planet. The addition of a small impulse engine and several thrusters had made that possible.

The cruiser's single rail gun could not put out a great rate of fire. But it's almost two metric ton heavy metal slug had the equivalent impact force that could only be rivaled by a small tactical nuclear device. The cruiser was also studded with heavy duty lasers powered by the craft's small fusion reactor. Morrison felt that if anything could open up the Romulan base for him and his marines the Tellarite craft was it. They crested a hill.

Morrison directed his eyepiece to a telescopic mode. Seven kilometers away under what looked like a large hill lay the Birdie base. Morrison caused a computer graphic to overlay what he was seeing. What were apparently random contours in the land was revealed as out flung arms running from a central area. Star Fleet intelligence had reasoned that those arms were defensive points. It was hoped that the Pantheras and Tellarite Shaktaks could take care of them. Juan hoped so too. But the lieutenant commander knew the real work would be in penetrating the buried fortress. And if the marines did that it was still possible that the Birdies might destroy the base as a last option, taking one Lieutenant Commander Juan Morrison and a lot of luckless human and alien troops with them.

UES Daedelus, enroute to the Nelvana system, Jul 2157

Michael sat back in his command chair and puckered his lips as he drank coffee that had not quite made it out of the food processor in good order. Cromwell nonetheless took another drink of the black liquid. He reckoned that he could obtain an antacid from Trudy after all of this was over. The Daedelus was almost five thousand kilometers away from the unknown craft.

So far all attempts at communication had failed. Cromwell wished that there was something better then linguacode. But he had heard the repeated lectures: The combination of mathematical symbols contained in the code should be decipherable by any sufficiently advanced culture. The captain wondered how much anthropomorphizing was loaded in that statement. What if that advanced culture was composed of ocean going creatures Michael wondered; or even inorganic for that matter? Cromwell hoped but doubted that the Picard woman could make sense of the symbols on the side of the saucer ship.

Cromwell did not doubt the woman but he surmised since their rendezvous and a quick flyby using one of the Daedelus' precious warp probes that anybody could make sense of letters on a ship. Were they the ship's name he wondered? They could just as well be numbers Cromwell reasoned. He had to admit to a certain fascination with the design. A saucer craft almost two hundred meters in diameter. Cromwell wondered how the unknowns had integrated their warp drive into such a structure. Michael's thoughts were interrupted by Commander Lisa Somers. His first officer wore a look of incredulousness on her face as she handed Cromwell a piece of paper.

Michael laughed after he finished reading the contents of the paper. "You know that I like a good joke as much as the next fellow number one but now is not the time," Cromwell said.

"Miss Picard is on her way up," Somers said. "I thought the same thing. But we will see I guess."

Cromwell looked again at the paper as the bridge hatch opened admitting Mariel Picard. Michael noted Lt. Alvin Crosby's sharp look at the French mathematician. Cromwell remembered Trudy's words of a few hours ago.

Cromwell spun his seat around. "What is the meaning of this miss?" he asked.

"I started an analysis as soon as the stills were downloaded from the probe," Picard answered. "I fed the symbols into the computer of course. One never knows if a match might be in the database however farfetched that could be." Picard looked around. She was clearly perturbed. "Imagine my surprise when the computer came upon that." She indicated the paper Cromwell was holding.

Michael looked at the paper again. He got out of his seat and walked to the viewscreen. If what he was looking at was true then his world had been turned upside down. Then again if true perhaps there was a way to communicate here.

The ship had no Romulan markings on it. That was no guarantee as far as Cromwell was concerned. On the other hand Star Fleet had never seen a Birdie vessel that was not unadorned with a garish bird of prey. This saucer had no such bird upon it; only markings that were similar to markings made by a woman under hypnosis almost two hundred years ago. Cromwell came to a decision.

"Chief Custis, rig for voice and video transmission," Cromwell said. Michael did not need to look around the bridge to know that he was being stared at. The concept that aliens encountered in deep space at random could understand English was at best an outlandish one. The chief turned to Cromwell with the information that the settings were complete. Cromwell could see the skepticism evident on the man's face.

"Open a channel chief," Cromwell commanded heartily. When Custis indicated that action was complete Cromwell faced toward the viewscreen. The bridge video pickup was in the forward section of the command area. "This is Captain Michael Cromwell of the United Earth Ship Daedelus requesting communications with the unknown vessel off of our bow." Cromwell took a deep breath before continuing. "We come in peace and wish to learn of other civilizations."

Michael paced about. The bridge was silent. Cromwell was thinking that he had just made a complete ass of himself. But that was okay Michael thought. This was his ship and if he wanted to be a fool that was his right. Still Cromwell worried about his image with the bridge crew. He paced back to the command chair. He sat down and was about to order Custis to resume liguacode when the bridge speakers crackled. A melodious voice speaking in clear unaccented English followed the sound:

"Captain Cromwell we greet you in peace. I am a scientist on this vessel the," a mumbled sound was heard. The voice resumed in English again. "We know of your world. My people have visited earth before." The voice paused. What did that bode Cromwell wondered? Then the voice spoke again. "We know that you are at war with the," once again an unintelligible sound came over the bridge speakers. "Our world was invaded by these creatures as well. We are refugees."

"Ship to ship!" the commander of the Daedelus snapped at Custis. The chief reestablished voice and video communications. Cromwell continued while he stared ahead to the viewer. "Perhaps we could help one another?" he implored.

"A data stream coming in now sir," Custis said as he punched commands into the communication's panel. "No viruses detected," the chief said; "it looks like a graphic." At Cromwell's order Custis transferred the alien image to the main viewer. The bridge crew looked at an image of the saucer ship that they had been pursuing. A portion of the craft flashed showing a smaller vessel docking there. The message was explicit: The docking port was located at that point.

"I believe that they would like to have us over for tea," Cromwell said. Custis returned the view to one of the distant alien ship in warp.

"We will disengage our star drive in," the alien voice spoke again its last word or words were unknown but Michael guessed that they were time units of some sort. "Helm, prepare to drop out of warp,' the captain instructed Ensign Sam Ward.

"Going to sublight," Ward replied as the viewer returned a view of the still pinpoints of distant stars. "We overshot but I have the unknown at eight thousand four hundred kilometers," Ward said.

"Maneuver to five thousand kilometers," Cromwell instructed his helmsman. Cromwell turned to the NCO at the gunnery position. "Lieutenant Nakamura, obtain a discreet firing solution and load Narwhals." At the questioning glances Cromwell was receiving from his bridge crew he explained: "I hope that we are meeting friends here. But it doesn't hurt to be prepared."

"You may dock with our ship when you are ready Captain Cromwell," the alien voice said. Michael acknowledged the communication. He got up abruptly.

"Lieutenant Crosby; I will need your expertise here," Cromwell said to the intelligence officer. "Miss Picard given that you are a civilian I must ask you--,"

"Of course I wish to go sir!" Mariel snapped back excitedly. Cromwell nodded in appreciation then turned to Lisa Somers. "Number one, please notify Doctor Schultheiss and I would like an engineer along as well."

"I'll get ready sir," Somers replied.

"No, commander not this time," the captain said slowly. At Somers reproachful look Cromwell explained: "This is a first contact situation. I have been empowered to make treaties with potential allies as well as find out information about the Romulans. I can't bloody well negotiate a treaty sitting on the bridge of Daedelus."

"It could be a trap sir," Somers said. "They seem to know about the Birdies; maybe they are allied with them. Maybe they just want to lure you over there and kill you, set us up for a kill shot."

"I do not believe so," Cromwell replied then added: "I have a hunch about them. It seems that they have been to earth before and if that is true they were relatively harmless then." Michael gave a Somers a hard look before saying: "And it is my decision to go number one."

The commander nodded. She realized that Cromwell was resolved to go.

"Should you prove right commander you are cleared to engage the enemy," Cromwell said. "After that you must continue the mission. You will find my personal orders in my cabin safe." Michael smiled. "You will appreciate the extra stripe on your sleeve Lisa."

The commander looked at Cromwell with a slightly pouting expression, and then broke into a wide grin. "I believe that you just like flying the goddamned shuttle sir!" she exclaimed.

Crosby would have preferred that Mariel stay behind on Daedelus. The intelligence officer agreed that meeting with these aliens might prove beneficial to their mission. But the captain seemed to want to turn the whole thing into some kind of grand alien encounter scenario. Crosby thought that there was a time and place for that but not now. At least Cromwell's eyes did not chase Mariel anymore. It was all that Crosby could do to contain himself when he saw that. The lieutenant would be glad when this mission was over.

Crosby was growing tired of life on the small starship. His sessions with the doctor were annoying at best. He did not have a problem. Sitting in the cramped German surgeon's office was an unpleasant reminder of his mother's examination of Crosby's grades when Alvin was a boy. It had angered Crosby at first: The way he felt naked before Schultheiss' questions. But Crosby had read some psychology texts off of the Daedelus' library computer. That had helped the intelligence officer say what someone with the condition Schultheiss subscribed to him would be expected to say.

His stomach took an unpleasant turn as Cromwell switched off the artificial gravity. Mariel giggled beside him at the sensation until she saw his reproachful look: Good she still knew who was in charge. Crosby stared through the shuttle's transparent aluminum cockpit glass to see the large saucer ship growing. It was obvious to Crosby that the captain was trying to show off his skill. Alvin's stomach knotted painfully forcing him to gulp as Cromwell wheeled the shuttle around on docking thrusters. Seconds later there was the sensation of a gentle bump. The gravity came back up gradually.

"I should obtain an air sample even if we are boarding in suits," Schultheiss said.

The captain looked thoughtful. Crosby hated space suits but the gruff doctor was right he thought: It would be better to board the ship suited rather than risk picking up some unknown alien virus. Alvin moved to the shuttle's storage rack when he heard the voice:

"You will not need your protective gear Captain Cromwell. We have been to your world before. There is no risk to you or your crew of contamination."

Crosby snapped his head around. He was startled and he could tell that everyone else was. Mariel was looking around as was Crosby and Schultheiss. Lieutenant Wallace Brenkert from engineering had obviously heard the strange voice as well. Schultheiss was the first to speak.

"I suppose that the radio was not on?" the chief medical officer asked flatly.

"The Vulcans are telepathic," Cromwell said then continued; "so I suppose telepathic abilities could be had by other races." Cromwell grew thoughtful as he added: "The report from the library computer suggested that these aliens could do that. The Hill's seemed to believe that their abductors were speaking to them in English."

The fear crashed down on Crosby like an avalanche of cold snow. He turned quickly to examine a spacesuit. He saw Mariel out of the corner of his eye, looking at him. Crosby gave her a warning glance in return forcing her to turn away quickly. Alvin took a deep breath. He didn't want any aliens—he didn't want anyone in his head. Crosby reached for a spacesickness bag just in time. He became aware of them looking at him afterwards.

"Sorry," Crosby said while wiping at his mouth, "guess it has been awhile since I've been in low gee." It was a lie Alvin knew but he could never have gotten around what he was feeling to explain it anyway. Crosby took a drink from his water bottle.

"Sir this is a bad idea," Crosby said. "I mean if these guys can do this—read our thoughts aren't we putting ourselves at risk?"

"There is nothing to fear Lieutenant Crosby. Only things buried within yourself can harm you. We will not do so."

They all looked startled again at the non-sound of the disembodied voice. Crosby looked up as if he was trying to find the source of the voice. Alvin stopped that when he realized how silly he must look. He mopped at his forehead. Crosby's sleeve came away wet. He thought for a minute that he would need the bag again. Crosby realized that someone was speaking.

"We are out here to find out intelligence on our enemies," Cromwell was saying. "But it won't always be so. The navy was founded on the principles of exploration—from the stars knowledge. This is a new life here, a new civilization. I want to learn more about them."

"And if you are wrong sir?" this time Crosby noted that it was the nosy doctor who for once had asked an intelligent question.

"Then I'm wrong," Cromwell retorted emphatically. He seemed to gather his thoughts before continuing. "Look I'm not waxing all rosy here. The Romulans proved to be a danger. But it will be the worst act that I can think of if we start turning in to ourselves." Cromwell looked at all of them in turn. "I see. I shall not order any of you forward. I plan to enter their vessel. If you want you may stay in the shuttle until my return."

"I want to go," Mariel strode forward.

Crosby stepped forward and was about to protest when Picard turned on him. The look in her eyes caused Alvin to stop short. For a brief second he was afraid again. They all looked at him. Crosby realized he had to get out of this situation.

"I'll go as well sir," Crosby said.

"I wouldn't mind looking at some alien technology captain," Lt. Brenkert said.

"It is up to you doctor," Cromwell said.

The doctor huffed then said: "I cannot let you men go boldly exploring without a doctor. Very well I shall go."

Schultheiss advised them to cycle through the small airlock regardless of the telepathic aliens' assurances. Crosby felt that was a wise decision. He knew that he would get sprayed with the antiseptic decontamination compound when they returned but that was not a horrible experience he knew. They each gathered their packs and cycled through. Crosby wanted to go through with Mariel but the captain invited him to go along. The two men went through the lock. The pressures equalized causing an unpleasant pressure on Alvin's eardrums that soon abated.

"Slightly lower pressure atmosphere out here," the captain said in a conversational tone as the outer door of the shuttle's air lock slid open.

Crosby nervously followed the captain over the ribbed flexible joint of the shuttle's soft seal. The alien ship had no corresponding hatch. Crosby looked at Cromwell. What the hell was going on Crosby wondered? Then the skin of the saucer formed an iris like opening where nothing had been visible before. The opening increased in size until it could accommodate a man. Cromwell stepped through to the alien ship beckoning Crosby to do the same.

It was a small curving room. Alien symbols were on the walls at various points. The metal or whatever it was, Crosby thought looked more like the shiny polished part of a seashell rather than any metal. Crosby watched as Cromwell cautiously touched the interior wall. The wall seemed to give like a liquid filled cushion. Cromwell took his hand back. Crosby noted the look of amazement on the man's face. Alvin wondered if these aliens would share any of their technology with the earthers. Crosby turned as Schultheiss and Picard entered. Mariel passed by him as if he didn't exist as she moved closer to examine the symbols. Lieutenant Brenkert cycled through last. The man let out a low whistle.

Crosby had no interest in what was probably an equipment storage room. He wondered where their hosts were. Crosby stamped about impatiently. He spun around as he heard Mariel's startled cry of exclamation. An opening formed opposite from where they had entered. It was the intelligence officer's turn to give a cry of alarm when he saw their exit to the shuttle close as mysteriously as it had opened.

"There is no need for alarm Lieutenant Crosby," a short being covered with a black cloak up to his or her neck declared. Crosby started at the sight of the being's solid coal black eyes. "This chamber is as you surmise a type of ready room. It is a normal procedure to close the outer seal."

"I'm not afraid!" the intelligence officer exclaimed. Crosby was embarrassed to hear his voice squeak. The being looked at him and despite the creature's absence of any pupils Crosby could sense a feeling of disdain turned to pity directed at him.

"As you say," the being said. More of the short gray skinned beings entered the chamber. Crosby noted subtle difference between each alien but that was a stretch at best: They all looked the same to him. The first being, who wore some sort of small but elaborate jewel on its' collar motioned for the humans to follow.

Crosby was growing more agitated as the situation seemed to be spiraling out of control. He noted that fool of a captain following the aliens. Mariel went as well, a foolish look upon her face Crosby thought. That was proof if anything was that the woman needed his protection and his control in here life: To save her from her own misguided activities. Alvin joined the group.

The interior passageways seemed to be composed of the same delicate translucent material as that of the walls of the outer chamber. The group curved around several corridors. Crosby listened with an intelligence officer's ears as the captain talked to what Crosby assumed must be the commander of this vessel; the jeweled alien.

"You communicated with us over wireless," Cromwell said. "But you can use telepathy. Why didn't you choose to employ that?"

"Not all races perceive telepaths in a friendly manner," the alien commander responded. Crosby realized that there was no speech being projected by the alien rather it was a telepathic conversation. "We were apprehensive about you. We thought that you might be," there was a pause. Alvin felt a slight intense stab in his head as he seen an image of a bird of prey adorned Romulan vessel. The alien continued. "But we recognized your species when you contacted via electronic means. I am glad that your people survived to attain the stars."

"That was touch and go there for awhile," Cromwell replied verbally. "But we are here." Cromwell seemed troubled as he asked: "Why didn't you help us advance?"

"That is not our way captain," the alien thought. "You will soon find out. But think of your own experiences on your planet. What happens when a technologically advanced civilization contacts one less advanced?"

"That has proven to be a disaster," Cromwell answered. "I suppose that we should think about such a custom ourselves at some point."

Crosby thought that it was stupid. Sure there had been problems when eleventh century barbarians had been introduced to the weapons of the twentieth century. But those problems had solved themselves. Man had survived. Crosby saw nothing wrong with either giving or receiving advanced technology. Alvin noticed a glance from one of his escorts. All of the humans were escorted by two of the gray skinned aliens now. Crosby thought that was wrong. Things just didn't seem right. Cromwell and his escorts seemed to be farther away now.

And where was Mariel, Crosby wondered. He stopped abruptly. Crosby looked around wildly. It was just him and his two escorts. What was going on here? He reached into his jacket and proceeded to unstrap his laser sidearm. The feel of the Ruger ten shot laser pistol's grip felt comforting to Crosby.

"Where in the hell are the--," Crosby shouted but he was alone. His escorts were gone so was Cromwell and the rest of the shore party.

He ran headlong down the curving corridor. He merged through another of the peculiar openings into—into his parents' home. Kevin Crosby stood looking out of the huge bay window that overlooked the Pacific Ocean; his hands were folded behind his back. What the hell Crosby thought? How could this be happening? He was on the UES Daedelus on a covert surveillance mission of the Romulan Empire. He looked up at his father. But he was taller than his father—now; but not then.

"Another failure eh Al?" his father asked. The man turned around. "Stupid! You are never going to amount to anything. What a disappointment you are Al; just like your mother. You know what happens to her when you anger me don't you?"

"No!" the confused lieutenant roared back. This couldn't be his father and yet, "she should have left you; you bastard! I had to go through hell because of her! I did everything so you wouldn't beat on her! It was never enough for you!"

"Don't anger your father Alvin," now it was his mother speaking to him. "He is a good man. He has a lot of stress to deal with. You'll understand when you get older."

"He is not even my father!" Crosby responded fiercely. Alvin had never known his real father. Patricia Millikan had married Kevin Crosby sometime shortly after Alvin's birth.

"Now, now Al," his father said as he moved to his desk and got a thick leather strap out of a drawer. "Maybe it is time for your mother to receive a lesson."

Crosby rushed forward to tackle his stepfather—and found himself in the Paris apartment of Mariel Picard. Crosby reached up and gripped his head in his hands. This can't be happening he thought over and over. He was on a starship. Crosby couldn't remember its name. No he wasn't on a starship. He was in Paris. Mariel was opposed to them going to Oregon to live near Alvin's parents. It was an old argument. She was by the window smiling at him. Mariel was shaking her head. Crosby's bewilderment turned to something else. It turned into rage.

"I'll decide where we stay Mariel!" he fumed angrily. Crosby sensed that was not enough to convince his love. He drew back and slapped her hard in the face. Mariel's head jerked and she fell to one knee.

"I've had enough of this Alvin!" she screamed at him. "You need help. I love you but I cannot go through this anymore!" Blood trickled from the corner of her delicate mouth.

He pulled her up roughly by one arm. She had never resisted like this before. Crosby had not had to teach lessons as severe as the ones his father had administered. He cursed at her and slammed her hard against the wall near the window. She struggled against him as he held her arms.

"Let me go!" she pleaded then added angrily: "Let me go you bastard!"

He snapped. Crosby threw her against the far wall. He bounded after her and as she turned he punched her in the side of her face. Mariel dropped to floor near a coffee table. There were two thumps in quick succession. Crosby leaped on her and turned her over. He started shaking her.

"Goddamned bitch listen to what I tell you!" he roared. Crosby was sick of her unresponsiveness. Then he realized why she wasn't saying anything.

Mariel Picard would never say another word. She would never oppose him again. Crosby looked in horror, rage and sorrow at the pool of blood growing beneath her head. He looked into her lifeless eyes. Crosby closed his eyes and started sobbing.

"Lieutenant, lieutenant are you alright?" the first officer of the Daedelus was shaking him lightly.

"Is he okay?" Cromwell asked. Michael guessed that Crosby must have experienced whatever it was that the captain had himself experienced. Cromwell fumbled with his PA control to call sickbay. "Trudy, Doctor Schultheiss this is the captain."

After a pause in which Michael seriously considered calling the marines she answered. "Yah," the doctor replied as if she had just woken up. She continued then in a firmer more alert voice. "Sir I must report a strange experience. I may have to be relieved--,"

"Did you just take a shuttle over to the alien ship Trudy?" Cromwell asked. He could hear her sharp intake of breath over the bridge speaker.

"I did," Schultheiss responded as if unsure of herself. She continued: "It was me and you and Herr Crosby and Fraulein Picard. The assistant chief engineer—Brenkert, he was there as well."

Crosby asked her to standby. Mariel Picard was sitting listlessly in a chair at an auxiliary science station. She looked around. It was plain that she was baffled. "I was there too sir. Marcel—I mean Lieutenant Dieulafoy was there as well—I think." The Frenchwoman turned red.

What happened number one?" the captain asked Somers.

The first officer of the Daedelus told of how after they had communicated with the aliens and Cromwell had made his determination to lead the shore party the captain rather than going to the shuttle bay had returned to his chair. Somers had at first thought that Cromwell was going to make a log entry. When the captain had languished in his chair for a minute or two Somers had realized that something was wrong.

Cromwell looked at the viewscreen to see the saucer ship holding a stationary position relative to Daedelus. Michael wondered how necessary it was to open a channel to them when the voice intruded in his consciousness:

"_We have no wish to harm your people. When we first came upon your world your people were in the process of arming themselves to kill one another. We are glad that has changed. Although I warn you captain: You bring your own danger with you_."

Cromwell thought back:

"If _you have these powers how did the Romulans invade your world?_"

"_We will not use our mental abilities to harm others. We hid long from our opponents but they have slaves who have enhanced mental abilities. Not as powerful as ours but they were enough. They savaged our world from a distance."_

"_Can you help us?"_

"_My ship was exploring when our world was overrun. Most of my people are scattered now. Some of us are making our way to a new world. We will settle there and stay hidden. We know little of the Romulans; yet I will give you something that may aid you."_

Michael let out a moan as he felt the intrusive presence in his mind. He was vaguely aware of Somers racing to his help. The bridge vanished. He was near a stellar phenomenon of some sort: It was either a nebula or some sort of gas cloud. Static charges raced through the glowing miasma setting off a spectacular display of color. Cromwell gasped as his mind's eye sped to the cloud. A solid shape became visible as he got closer.

The bird of prey adorning the hull was charred in places. The green metal was burned and pitted. Cromwell noted that one of the warp nacelles had been torn away. He saw the cylindrical pod further in the distance. The captain of the Daedelus did not note any plasma discharge. Whatever had happened to the Sabinus had happened some time ago. The image in his mind changed again. He was racing away from the static discharging cloud. Cromwell saw the star field and intuitively realized that the image was burned into his mind. He could easily recreate the image so that it could be charted. The voice filled his mind again.

"_Your people show much promise Cromwell. We will meet again when it is time. Goodbye."_

The image of the saucer jumped to warp as Cromwell's mind returned to the bridge. The captain saw his bridge crew looking at him. He turned slowly in his chair. Everyone was puzzled except for Picard and Crosby. Mariel had a look on her face that could best be described as the look of one caught between wonder and joy. Crosby's expression was one of a man who had seen something horrible. Cromwell wondered what the intelligence officer had been treated to.

"Shall we pursue?" the first officer asked.

"They are making warp five sir," Chief Custis declared in amazement.

"I suppose that answers that commander," Cromwell answered. He sat back for a few seconds then continued. "Very well," Cromwell turned to Custis; "make a detailed scan of the area. We'll hold here number one, providing that we are clear to do so" he said to Somers. "In the meantime I want to see the CMO and you two," Cromwell motioned to Crosby and Picard then added: "Along with Houk, Mister Brenkert and Lieutenant Dieulafoy in conference."

"Aye aye sir," Somers replied.

"Oh yes, and get me our resident astronomer Lisa," Cromwell added. "We'll meet in conference room one in half an hour. You have the bridge number one."

Michael got up and left the bridge. The mental intrusion was unlike anything Cromwell had ever experienced. He paused in the cramped corridor looking in front and then behind him. Michael leaned against a bulkhead and shuddered. He had seen he image of the Sovereign's last minutes. Michael had relived falling to the deck screaming as he realized that his arm was gone. Then he experienced more unpleasant things: Cromwell's feeling of becoming some kind of mechanical monstrosity. But in his dream or illusion, somehow Schultheiss had helped him to overcome his feelings of self loathing.

The shuddering passed. Cromwell looked at his right arm as he stood straight. It really looked no different than his right arm. The captain wondered why it had ever been an issue with him. Cromwell bounded off to the conference room. He was anxious to draw the image of the star field so that the location that the aliens had clearly wanted him to know could be found. Maybe he would complete the refusion treatment on his nerve endings Cromwell thought. He promised himself to ask Trudy about the procedure when there was a little free time.


	11. Chapter 11

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, the old United States, Earth Jul 2157

Brack was good at blending into populations. The man had been doing so for a long time now. He wished that the weather was cooler though. Brack would've appreciated being able to wear a business suit. It was not Micah thought that he liked suits: It was rather that his experience was that a multitude of things could be hidden beneath a fine looking formal jacket; as it was the industrialist had chosen a pair of baggy shorts and a somewhat large shirt. That ensemble allowed him to stay cool and also to conceal an ancient Smith & Wesson 9mm semi-automatic handgun. Micah would've preferred one of the new Colt plasma weapons but like modern hand lasers those weapons tended to be rather difficult to conceal.

Micah was aboard a tube car for the spaceport. The old Will Roger's World Airport had been renamed as a spaceport. Much of earth's interstellar traffic left the relative flatness of the Oklahoma plains outbound for the stars. Brack remembered driving an ancient motorcar through this region many years before: The land had been dominated by oil drilling platforms and the start of modern construction. Now that same land was dotted with trees and serene grassy fields.

Brack was due to meet Ricardo at a hotel outside of the port. Fred had given Brack several leads that he had chased fruitlessly. Brack had been to an abandoned warehouse in Anchorage and a deserted Air Force base in South Dakota all to no avail. The only thing that Brack could say was that someone had indeed been to both places recently. Who they were or what they had been doing there was still a mystery to Brack. This meeting was fortuitous Brack thought in that he would meet with Fred again and check one of the last leads Ricardo had given him. Brack looked out as his tube car sped past the huge glass cylinder of the Myriad Gardens. Perhaps he would go there and tour that after his meeting with Ricardo.

Minutes later the car slowed. Brack rose and waited behind a press of people who were also exiting the tube. He stepped out and quickly got his bearings. Micah had been here before: But that was in a private shuttle that had landed in the confines of the port. Brack spotted what he was looking for: He bounded out into the hot noonday Oklahoma sun. He saw the Hyatt less than a kilometer off in the distance. He slid a pair of reflective sun glasses in place and made for the hotel. Children were busy at make believe at several of the playgrounds he passed. Several of the young ones were playing at a new game: Birdies and Fleeters. Brack passed more than a few Stellar Navy personnel, duffel bags thrown over their shoulders. The scene could have been one from the past Brack thought; it was just that the players wore different uniforms then.

Micah was glad when he got to the air conditioned lobby of the hotel. Ricardo had passed along his room number. Brack smiled at the pretty young lady behind registration counter. Her equally young male assistant was looking at her in a way that any normal male should. Brack wanted to walk over and tell the boy to just ask her for a date. But he had other things to do. Brack took the steps. He hadn't lived this long by being confined in a small box then hauled aloft at the whims of whomever.

Minutes later a huffing and puffing Brack was walking down a garishly decorated hallway to Ricardo's room. This Hyatt had chosen an ancient American West motif. Brack had been there when the style was new, he hadn't liked it then and nothing was different now. Brack passed a small table with a mirrored top. A thoroughly dead and stuffed armadillo adorned the top of the table. Room 331 lay just beyond the questionable decoration. Brack knocked. He was starting to grow concerned when a full minute had passed with no response. Brack knocked again. The door opened.

"It is about time my friend," Fred Ricardo said in a dry reedy voice. The old man launched into a fit of coughing.

Brack was concerned. Ricardo looked bad. The elderly man was stooped over and winced at some internal pain after the cough subsided. Micah thought that he looked positively green. But then the old man gazed at Brack with those piercing eyes. There was life in those Micah thought as Fred beckoned him to come in.

"Close the door Micah," Ricardo said as Brack stepped in the hotel room.

Brack did as he had been instructed and then rushed to help his friend. "You don't look well Fred. I suppose a doctor is out of the question?" Brack asked as Ricardo shrugged off the supportive arm that Brack offered.

"Unless your people have knowledge that I do not know about then I am afraid a doctor would be of no help," Ricardo answered. The man collapsed into a lounge chair. He coughed again this time expelling a greenish substance out of his mouth that he mopped at quickly with a tissue. He fixed his gaze on Brack.

"I'm not going to make the flight Micah," Ricardo said at last. "I have some data wafers in my suitcase. You should review those. In the meantime I have asked for a large trunk to be brought to the room. You can remove my corpse in that."

"Now you don't know that you are going to die," Brack started while thinking how ghoulish the situation was becoming.

"I have a good idea Micah," Ricardo responded in a level tone. "My people's mental discipline is such that we can control many of our bodily functions. I am losing that ability rather more suddenly than I had planned on."

"Perhaps a doctor is in order," Brack said. He was still rich and had connections. One thing Micah had learned in all his long life was this: Everything could be bought for a price.

"No Micah," Ricardo sounded weak. His voice grew strained such that it was barely audible. "It has been a good life. I am glad that I never went back with the others. It has been a marvel, seeing you humans grow; to come into your potential." The old man stopped speaking. When he resumed Brack had to kneel down beside Ricardo's face in order to hear him.

"I have one more favor to ask of you friend," Ricardo said. "I am still going to go home. You must take me there."

Brack gulped. "I will do as you ask--,"

"No," Ricardo whispered. "I do not mean my body Micah. You must climb the steps. I am sorry that I must to lay this burden upon you."

Brack was dumbfounded. What did Fred want he wondered? Ricardo's lips were moving but Brack could not hear him. He moved closer until he felt Ricardo's hot breath on his ear. The old man's arm moved like a striking snake. Ricardo's left hand seized the back of Micah's head in an unrelenting grip. Ricardo's right hand touched the left side of Brack's head. Micah felt a pain like a migraine only worse. He wondered if he would pass out until the pain flared and then subsided.

He felt the other. Brack didn't know what it was or what to do. He had experienced a wide range of things in his life; more of a measure than most men given his great age. But nothing could prepare Brack for what was happening to him now. Brack was losing a sense of who he was. He went into a panic. But the other, it was Fred, no it was Mistral. Who was Mistral, Brack asked himself? The other helped Micah recover his identity. Memories came unbidden to him: He was riding a coach to London. He looked out concerned that one of the horses may have broken a leg. Instead of a green British landscape shrouded in morning fog Brack beheld a dazzling stony plain set against a red sky. Waves of heat shimmered off of the surface.

Micah had to go there: He had to go to Mount Selaya. Where was Mount Selaya he wondered? But somehow he knew but didn't know that he would be told in time. Brack realized that he was collapsed on the floor. Ricardo had fallen forward in his chair. A trickle of green ran out of the corner of his mouth. It was blood Brack now knew. Brack knew that his friend's body had no life left in it. Micah lay back and threw his arm over his eyes. He launched into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He had grown somewhat jaded over his life. Brack felt, in some part of his mind that there was nothing he had not experienced save death. How wrong he had turned out to be he thought.

So much for Sisko's Chief Frank McCoy thought. The Cajun Café on the west side of Oklahoma City had proven to be excellent. He hated dining alone but he was after all here on official business. McCoy felt a twinge of guilt and longing knowing that Eileen Thomas was in the city just a few kilometers from him. He had determined to call her tomorrow. Tonight he had other business to attend to. He could tell Eileen somewhat of the truth too: He had arrived here via shuttle late this very afternoon. He had to report in to his temporary assignment. Actually McCoy had to check out the headquarters of Hansu Corporation.

McCoy was getting his bearings. He remembered an old navy chief who had grown up in this part of America. The grizzled oldster had told Frank that one could never get lost in Oklahoma as long as they knew where north and south lay. The old roads were laid off in squares. McCoy had rented a small three-wheeled groundcar to explore in. The enlisted man felt the uncomfortable weight of the Colt plasma gun tucked in its holster under his left arm. He peered ahead: The permacrete highway stretched away to the north. The lights of his triwheeler lit the road ahead. He was less than two kilometers outside of a town called Choctaw. McCoy slammed on the brakes. He saw the small pull off beside the old bridge. McCoy had fished enough times to recognize these types of spots. He guided the car to the rough drive. McCoy got out and closed the wing like door of the car.

McCoy walked along the highway glancing behind him to see that no one was approaching. The industrial park lay on the outskirts of Choctaw. Frank looked behind him again; nothing. He looked ahead and his heart skipped a beat. He reached for the Colt then stopped and laughed.

"Damn Frank old boy," he said softly to himself. A coyote had scampered across the road giving the chief a start. McCoy continued on with a smile on his face.

McCoy started to crest the rising slope of the relatively flat land. He could make out a brightly lit area. That had to be the park he knew. To McCoy's surprise the industrial area was guarded by an ancient chain link fence. That instantly raised McCoy's suspicions. Between the end of poverty and the recognition that criminal behavior had to be punished, crime had for the most part faded away like many of the ancient ills that had plagued man. So to find a fenced area implied to Frank that something serious was going on inside; something that the owners did not want to make known to the general public. McCoy departed the road for the trees beside it.

It was pitch black beneath the start of the small sparse forest. McCoy put on the glasses that Soames had sent to him. The darkened world became well lit. For a second Frank felt like some nocturnal predator stalking a luckless prey. But that feeling faded to be replaced by one of awe. Of Course he knew that night vision equipment was nothing new. But this was McCoy's first actual experience with it. Frank continued through the trees with a sense of security. At least he wouldn't fall and break a leg or something.

McCoy spied an area darker than the rest. He knelt behind a tangle of thorny bushes. He manipulated a small control on the side of the glasses. He could make out the laser security web. It didn't seem like a difficult one to penetrate Frank mused. He laughed when he thought how he had based that conclusion on his extensive time as a spy. McCoy reasoned that coyotes and probably a few other wild animals would play havoc with a more complex system. Frank switched the mode of his glasses again. The telescopic feature allowed him to make out more of the area. If there was video surveillance it could be anywhere McCoy knew. He would chance that the owners perceived some sense of security and hadn't gone to that length. Besides he thought, McCoy could not think of any other way into the compound within the fence.

The tree line ran a little less than five meters from the fence at one point. McCoy made for that area. That point looked to be about fifty meters from his present position. Frank switched back to night mode on his glasses and slowly made his way to where he planned to enter the facility. After ten minutes he was beginning to realize that security might be lax back here because the undergrowth itself acted as a deterrent. McCoy was cut in several places from thorns by the time he looked out to where he was going to go in. Nothing to it the chief thought.

McCoy dug into his pouch until he came up with the small rotary cutting device. The diamond edged cutting wheel could make short work of most metals and would not spark like a laser would. McCoy also retrieved another small device from the same pouch. He scanned the fence. There seemed to be no electromagnetic energy running through the metal. McCoy stepped out of the bushes crouched down and preceded to the fence at a slow gait. Here goes nothing he thought. The silent cutting took made short work of the chain link fence. He soon had a hole capable of squeezing a man through. He wanted to leave the links somewhat intact: Maybe they would never even know that anyone had been here.

Frank squeezed through the fence then ran crouching to the first of three low block-like buildings. A door was near to him. McCoy could make out the keypad beside the door. He reached into his bag of wonders again until he came up with a small disc. McCoy had no idea exactly how it worked as he attached it to the side of the keypad. It made McCoy shudder to think that such devices were in existence. It struck the chief that they could only be put to nefarious uses. The door chimed and McCoy heard a click from the area of the lock. He pushed gently and the door opened. He retrieved the disc.

A long hallway ran the length of the building. Several doors were evident on either side. McCoy was pleased to find that the first door opened easily enough. He was frustrated though: What was he to look for? McCoy entered to see a neat desk and a computer terminal. The office was unremarkable and looked like many that McCoy himself had worked in. He touched the side of his glasses again. The device would make a video recording that he could review later. When he was sure that he had recorded everything that he could—and probably wasted his time he groused he moved on to the next door. This might be something he thought.

Another keypad lock was on the double doors here. McCoy attached the little disc and let it do its electronic lock picking. Once again he heard a telltale click. He entered the large room. It was apparent that whatever was done here was done in this area; at least in this building McCoy thought. He looked around. McCoy was supposed to be looking at ship movements and weapons' damage. All that he could guess about what he saw now was that it had to do with something chemical. Of course it did McCoy thought angrily. Loch had mentioned something about molecular resequencing. Still McCoy did as he had done in the office: He took extensive video of what he was seeing. This was becoming easy Frank thought. Just a little lost sleep. He should be able to go through all three buildings in two or three hours and then be on his way. His mouth dropped open.

McCoy was no spy he knew, nor was he a chemist. But he was an intelligence analyst. Frank recognized the large cylinders. He moved to one and looked at it until he found a recessed area in it. The cover plate for the maintenance area came open easily enough; magnetically sealed McCoy guessed. That was how Terran built Narwhals were serviced as well, he knew. McCoy saw the blue glow of the missile's small impulse drive as well as the interconnected piping for the chemical push motors. Strange script was visible on parts of the drive unit's insides. McCoy hoped these miracle spy glasses were doing their job. What in the hell were chemists doing with missile engines Frank asked himself? McCoy ducked down as he heard sounds behind him. McCoy turned around to see what the noises were when he felt like he was being smacked over every square centimeter of his body. McCoy knew no more after that.

McCoy heard a strange noise. It was someone speaking. But it was no Terran language McCoy realized. He looked up groggily. He tried to move but could not. A red haired freckled face man noticed his movement. He told his partner; a fierce looking woman with head full of short close cropped black hair, of Frank's awakening. They were both dressed in casual clothes. McCoy looked at them. The red haired man looked uncertainly to his partner she looked back at him. McCoy had seen someone with that look before: The angry twins from Catoctin.

"You have a dangerous interest mister?" the fierce looking woman asked, looking for McCoy to reveal his name.

"I uh," McCoy thought wildly before continuing. "I got lost on the tour ma'am. Now if you want to show me out I'd be obliged to you."

The red haired man laughed until he caught the warning look from the woman whom Frank had nicknamed Hawkface. It was evident that Hawkface was running the show. McCoy had also recovered sufficiently enough of his wits to realize that Hawkface had that same non-accent that the angry twins had sported. He had also recovered well enough to realize that he was tied to the chair he was in. So much for his career as a spy McCoy thought mournfully.

"No doubt that would be funny in some circles," Hawkface said. "But not the circle in which you find yourself." She motioned to the red haired man. "I should kill you now. But I must know why you are here." Now she smiled and Frank shuddered. "I would threaten you with torture—rest assured I have been well trained in how to inflict pain. But I have better, more efficient means at my disposal."

McCoy looked on with a blank expression as the red haired man handed Hawkface an injector. Frank gulped despite trying to keep his demeanor. He guessed that whatever was in that injector would make him talk.

"I suppose that a promise to never say I was here wouldn't fly?" the chief asked his captors.

"You don't know who you are dealing with," red hair said sharply. "I wonder if you are not some snoop from that war monger Thorpe?" He looked at Hawkface and nodded. "We'll find out soon enough."

Hawkface approached McCoy. She neither grinned nor frowned. Her look reminded McCoy of one a biologist about to dissect a frog might have. Frank didn't like being a frog. He realized that his legs were free but then thought quickly: What will that do? He might kick Hawkface but he would still be tied to this chair.

"Look ma'am you don't want to do anything you'll regret," McCoy said. He licked his lips as Hawkface checked something on the injector. "I have friends; people expecting me. You don't want to do that."

"I will find out if that is true or not," Hawkface replied. She smiled at Frank who found the gesture far worse than the one she had worn before. She approached McCoy aiming the small dermal injector toward his neck.

"What the hell?" red hair asked quietly. He had been standing in the shadows of office where the two had hauled McCoy.

"Find out what that is," Hawkface snapped. It was obvious to McCoy that she was someone who was used to being obeyed.

Several things happened at one then: Red hair moved to the door to investigate the noise he had heard. He was about to open it when the door opened abruptly; red hair stumbled backwards, cupping his nose in his hands as a great gout of blood flowed out of his closed hands. Frank lashed out at Hawkface knocking one of the woman's legs out from under her. She fell over her captive as McCoy looked up to see a dark silhouette in the doorway. Red hair retained his footing and was reaching in his shirt when one of the arms of the silhouette struck out hitting red hair in the side of his head. Frank heard a painful thump and red hair dropped to the floor. Hawkface struggled up off of McCoy she produced some sort of a slim pistol out of her blouse. McCoy couldn't get over her speed. He heard the intruder yell for her to freeze. Hawkface leveled her arm and a searing narrow red beam lit the room causing Frank to see spots before his eyes. McCoy tried to tackle her, chair and all but only succeeded in falling to the floor in a heap. He heard two loud sharp reports in rapid succession.

McCoy rolled himself to his side to see Hawkface literarily start burning away from the inside. The woman let out a momentary scream as whatever was in her consumed her in a blinding red glow. McCoy found himself looking with amazement at a burn mark on the office carpet: It was all that remained of one of his former captors. The silhouette took form as a man. He stepped into the dim light of the office.

Frank observed a man of medium height with a full head of iron gray hair. McCoy would have guessed the man to be in his late thirties to early forties. He was holding what McCoy recognized as some sort of antique semi-automatic pistol. Antique or not McCoy thought it had done the job. Or maybe not, how could he be sure after what he had just witnessed? The stranger stared at McCoy. Frank returned the newcomer's gaze. They both looked at red hair who lay prone on the floor.

"What are you doing here?" the stranger asked McCoy.

"I'd ask the same of you," McCoy retorted. He realized that he was in position to ask anything like that but he figured that it would not hurt at this point.

"You are the one who is tied up," the stranger argued. "I would take you for a burglar except that I searched your groundcar when I saw you sneaking up on this place." The man smiled and continued at Frank's look of defeat. "It is against the law for military members to be doing domestic investigations; is it not chief?"

The man looked at McCoy. Frank couldn't think of a response. Was the stranger a UI agent Frank wondered? Or was he a local sheriff or constable? Frank remained silent. The less he said at this point McCoy thought; the better.

"Let me guess then Chief Frank McCoy," the man said at last. "Foolish of you to leave your rental agreement in the car;" Frank wanted to kick himself as the stranger continued. "You really aren't very good at this—are you?" McCoy stared back defiantly. "I would venture to say that you are acting on your own or at least a very small cadre of you?" the man asked. Then he relented somewhat. "I'm not a UI agent if that is what you are afraid of."

The man stooped down and proceeded to untie Frank. McCoy felt an intense stinging in his hands as circulation returned to them. He hadn't even thought of the loss of feeling in his extremities until now.

Frank rose unsteadily and rubbed at his sore hands. The man moved to the form of red hair who seemed to be returning to consciousness. McCoy was shocked at the ringing slap the stranger used to get the fallen man's attention.

"Maybe you'll be more talkative than my friend here," the stranger said to red hair. "What is going on here? Who was your associate? Would you like to explain what you are doing with the ingredients and equipment to manufacture Sarin III?"

"Christ nerve gas!" the chief exclaimed. "That would explain the…" McCoy trailed off. He thought quickly. Whoever this stranger was he certainly didn't act like a law enforcement officer.

"Explain what?" the stranger asked McCoy sharply.

Oh hell McCoy thought, he had better tell the man what he saw in the large room. Whatever else the stranger was he seemed to be against the people from Hansu Corporation. McCoy told the stranger of his discovery of the missile engines.

"I'll never tell you anything you filthy warmongers!" red haired declared angrily. He glared at the stranger and McCoy. His baleful look was blunted somewhat by the blood pouring out of his obviously broken nose.

"I'd venture to say that this was an assembly point," the stranger said more to himself than to McCoy or the stranger.

"Did you look in the other buildings?" McCoy asked. The man nodded.

"Mostly offices," the stranger went on to explain; "although the second building by the gate was full of the equipment needed to manufacture poison gas."

"Sarin III?" the chief asked in a voice full of fear. The stranger nodded. He looked sad. The deadly agent had been developed by the Eastern Coalition during the final months of the war. Victorious western forces had seized and destroyed most of the laboratories before full fledged manufacturing could proceed. McCoy remembered reading chilling accounts of the substance: Just a milliliter could wipe out a small city. The gas was persistent in all except the coldest environments.

"Was the final assembly going to be here?" the stranger looked down at red hair again.

"Go to hell you warmonger!" the bloodied man cursed at the stranger. "I know my rights you bastards. Now you better call the real police. I bet that neither one of you are supposed to be here."

McCoy suddenly doubted his savior's sanity when the stranger said to himself:

"Yes I know. I would rather think my way out of this too." There was a long pause as the stranger appeared to be listening to someone. "I don't have time for that—sorry."

The stranger lowered his pistol to the man's kneecap. There was another sharp report that caused McCoy to jump. Red hair let out a long horrific inhuman scream. All fears that the stranger was a member of a legitimate security agency vanished for McCoy. The stranger slapped red hair's face again and moved the muzzle of the pistol to the wounded man's good knee.

"I want answers—now," the stranger said.

Red hair was far more cooperative now. He was a member of the Sons' of Terra who had been recruited by an inner circle to help in the anti-war effort. The wounded man one Aubrey Tate truly believed that the Romulans were innocents who man had angered with their wayward human expansion. Tate had gotten ownership of this industrial area after the death of his mother. He had rented to a few fledgling businesses but the rents he collected had not been enough to pay for Tate's lifestyle. Then one of his fellow Sons had approached him with a lucrative deal: A corporation was looking for a place to base part of its operation and they were willing to pay big credits for a location. Tate had later met Hawkface who he knew as Chondra. The man explained that he had come to realize that Chondra was not human.

"I didn't want to work with an alien," Tate told them. Even through his pain they could see his disdain for anything alien. "But they just want to be left alone and if we had not infringed on them they wouldn't have come after us."

"What were you planning?" McCoy asked now. Tate shot a defiant glance at the chief then softened as the stranger seized him under his chin.

"We were going to teach the warmongers a lesson," Tate said. The stranger's gun hovered close to Tate's crotch. "We were going to bomb a city to show how futile this war is!" Tate blurted out in panic then added: "I don't know anymore! I was supposed to assist in arranging shipping from here but I hadn't heard the destination. Chondra was going to tell me when they were ready!"

"More than one city I'd bet," McCoy added. The stranger nodded. McCoy explained. "I saw eight missile motors in that workshop. There were spaces for more in the back of the room."

"Perhaps a strike against our major population centers," the armed man said quietly as he stroked his chin. "I would imagine that they are working out of another location as well—maybe more."

"Maybe this fool," McCoy said indicating Tate, "can access their computer network."

Tate seemed to be defiant again but the stranger's antique pistol plainly terrified the man. McCoy and the stranger hustled Tate into a chair near a terminal. McCoy told the man to download his data to wafers. Tate did so slowly. The blood from his nose smeared the keyboard as he entered the commands. McCoy had time to see a number of invoices and waybills as Tate transferred the data to the portable storage medium. When he was complete he looked fearfully at the stranger. McCoy shuddered inside: He feared that the man was going to execute Tate. Instead the stranger produced an injector of his own and slammed the device into Tate's arm. The bloodied man soon nodded off.

"Did you even manage to gather any useful data chief?" the stranger asked McCoy.

"I shot some video yes," McCoy responded.

The armed man held up McCoy's pouch. He returned it to the chief; including McCoy's Colt. McCoy looked at the man and saw that he was being appraised. Frank looked likewise at the stranger.

"What now?" McCoy asked.

"We can continue to play games I suppose," the man answered. He seemed to be very reluctant when he uttered his next statement. "Or we could join forces. One thing for sure you won't last long in the spy game if you are as clumsy as I observed tonight. You need some help." The man looked at McCoy smiled and added: "The name is Brack, Micah Brack."

"Damnit Brack, I'm a navy man—not a spy!" McCoy exclaimed. Then the chief grinned sheepishly. The name sounded familiar to Frank for some reason. But he supposed that was a symptom of age; a lot of names and faces seemed familiar after so many years.

"Okay McCoy, agreed," Brack answered. "I suppose we should destroy this complex. I don't suppose that you have any expertise there?" Brack asked as if he expected an answer in the negative.

"Actually it is Frank if we are going to be working together Brack," McCoy replied then added: "Actually I started in the navy as a missile maintenance tech on the old Clarke."

"Its Micah then Frank," Brack said. "So what exactly do you propose?"

McCoy explained that the missiles' push motors, the chemical thrusters that gave the weapons their initial push off should the magnetic launch coils fail, were fueled by a very explosive fuel mixture. Frank went on to explain that he estimated that the fuel for the motors in the workshop would generate enough explosive force along with the plasma packets that powered the impulse drive to take care of the whole complex including the other buildings. McCoy looked uncertainly at the unconscious form of Tate.

"No Frank," Micah said quietly, "I am not going to leave him here. I believe that Mister Tate is due for a stay at a mental institution." He motioned to McCoy to help him. The two men gathered the things they had brought with them then picked up the drugged man and supported him between them. "I have a vehicle rather closer to the gate than yours. I'll head out with the deranged Mister Tate here and you finish what you spoke of."

McCoy helped Brack to drag Tate to an exit. McCoy mentioned to Brack that he thought that the database looked to be localized. Micah nodded in understanding. Frank was relieved: That meant that their escapades here; though they might have been recorded would vanish when the complex was blown. Frank headed back to the workshop.

It took him a few minutes. The technology was alien but the working parts were the same. Frank could tell that the fuel was the same that was used in Narwhals by smelling some of it when he tapped a fuel line. McCoy knew that was stupid and dangerous of him to do: Missile fuel was highly toxic. But a quick sniff had never killed any missileman McCoy reflected. There he thought: Set a time on the launch computer then connect a jumper wire from the igniter to a circuit board, open the fuel line over that same board. A fine mist formed in the missile's maintenance bay. Frank backed away now. That mist would kill him quickly. He had experimented with the alien launch computer before rigging his bomb. The machine's time units were different but McCoy figured that he had five minutes to get away. He ran out of the building nonetheless.

Brack was waiting outside of the gate with the unconscious Tate in the back of his groundcar. McCoy slid in the passenger seat. Brack drove away as if he were leaving the scene of a family picnic rather than assisting in a major act of destruction. The two men were silent as Brack tracked back to where McCoy had parked his rental.

"You know Hawk—Chondra reminded me of a Pointie," McCoy said thoughtfully. Frank had been thinking about his experience in the offices of Hansu Corporation. He was about to say more when Brack slammed on the car's brake and looked sharply at him. For second McCoy thought that Brack's face had changed to another's.

"No!" Brack roared in a strange voice. Then Frank looked as Brack calmed somewhat. Micah then said in an even tone: "I'm sure that a new alien would come across differently Frank." He started driving again.

"Yeah," McCoy answered still not convinced. "She did smile at me and I think a Pointie's face would fall off if one of them tried to smile." Frank thought about it some more: Chondra did smile at him; even if it was prior to drugging him then probably murdering him. Brack had a point: How would a new type of previously unknown alien be perceived Frank wondered?

"What do you make of the burning up?" McCoy asked. Frank already thought that he knew the answer and Brack's reply echoed McCoy's suspicions.

"They do not want to be taken," Brack answered then added: "Dead or alive."

They discussed meeting at McCoy's hotel after Brack dropped Tate off. McCoy wondered how Tate could be kept in an institution. Brack explained that he would give the unfortunate man an injection of something Brack called a lysergic acid derivative. Frank was no doctor so he took the seemingly more experienced man at his word. Frank expected that a wounded man showing up at a hospital who was seemingly incapacitated might be sent to an institution. McCoy was getting in his car when the sky lit up. A few seconds later McCoy, who had wisely ducked into his vehicle felt the car shake as a hot wind blast went down the road. This particular part of Hansu Corporation's operation had just been shut down McCoy thought. The two men, now partners in a desperate venture headed their separate ways.

Vulcan, the Forge, Jul 2157

Lieutenant Gupta was beginning to realize that Arev was stringing them along. The Vulcan had translated some of the triangular tablet. But Tarang had studied enough to realize that he was purposefully deleting whole sections of the recovered artifact. Gupta had approached T'Pol with his suspicions. She too had a sense that the Vulcan wanderer was holding something back. The trio was less than a day from civilization now. Gupta also realized that Arev expected to take the Ka'Al' Zin. Arev seemed to believe that it contained clues to the location of the Kir'Shara. Gupta wondered what would happen when they returned to the city.

They group was currently camped at one of the small caverns that lay along the old pilgrim's path. Gupta appreciated the time to wash somewhat. He was almost beginning to feel human again. Tarang had considered shaving but he knew the cold water would make that a painful experience. Gupta had left with the Ka' Al' Zin in hand. He was refilling his water bottle in one if the cavern's deeper chambers when he heard a noise behind him. Gupta spun around to see T'Pol crouching over as she entered the chamber.

"I thought that it was our desert wind," Gupta said in greeting.

"Arev is in a meditative state," T'Pol replied. She looked around in what seemed like a human gesture of someone sneaking off from their parents. "It is a good time for us to speak together."

"Yes it seems like Arev is acting like an older brother of a girl I once courted," Gupta said thoughtfully.

"You have never told me that you were with another," T'Pol said suddenly.

"Well I uh," Gupta started clumsily in English then after a breath returned to speaking to T'Pol in her native tongue. "We courted when I was a young man. Nothing came of it. She married a fine man from Mumbai." Gupta realized that as far as he knew there was no word for date in the Vulcan vocabulary. One either had a meeting with an associate or if it involved intimate relationships it was called courting.

"Arev has told me that I am acting improperly toward you," T'Pol said at last. "He says that you are an off-worlder and that I am straying from the ways of Surak in my association with you."

"I am an off-worlder T'Pol," Tarang said. "But I do not see why—one day a human and Vulcan could not--," Gupta was hauled up short: The only words in Vulcan that he knew were expressions of mating or marriage. "Why one day a human and Vulcan could not be together," Tarang said at last doing what he thought was a fine job of being tactful.

"I agree Tarang," T'Pol replied. She lowered her gaze in a most human like gesture. "Arev was right: The kiss was intentional." T'Pol would not look at Gupta as she explained further. "I have watched your people and I was curious about that particular thing. You share that experience with one you want to be intimate with do you not?"

"Usually we do," Gupta answered. He laughed until he realized that T'Pol was looking at him. "Sorry I was just thinking that should be a standard reply for the human condition." Then he considered what she had said. "I enjoyed the experience T'Pol." She moved to squat beside him at the pool.

"Perhaps we could--," T'Pol started when they heard another voice.

"I believe that is it is time to go," Arev said. Gupta could see the suspicious look he gave to both of them whereas someone unacquainted with Vulcans would not have.

"Have you completed the translation yet?" the intelligence officer asked the Vulcan.

"I have indicated that it is a difficult passage," Arev replied. "And perhaps it is a matter that an off-worlder should not concern himself with lieutenant."

"Minister Soval is concerned with the matter Arev," T'Pol interjected. "Why has the High Command sealed the ruins? There could be information contained in the relic however unlikely that may be."

"Is that because you take the words of Surak so casually T'Pol?" the Vulcan man asked her. "Is that not the purpose of why you slipped away just now?" Arev asked looking at Gupta.

"I do not know what you mean," T'Pol answered.

"Come now Vulcan integrity is a cherished thing," Arev declared. "It is illogical to lie: The truth is far more direct. So I say again: Did you not come down here to indulge your animal passions? Have you drifted that far from the ways

resent that sir," Gupta interjected in English then realized from Arev's blank stare that he had gotten no where. He started again in Vulcan. "We were discussing the journey--,"

"I heard some of what you were discussing," Arev said in an atypical interruption; uncharacteristic for a Vulcan anyway Gupta thought. The man seemed to relent somewhat. "I cannot complete the translation as you seem to have taken to guarding the relic lieutenant. You've indicated that you know almost none of our ancient language. Why then do you believe that I have not told you all that there is?"

"Now I wonder who has the problem with integrity?" the lieutenant asked in direct challenge to Arev. "I would not accuse you sir, a Vulcan of lying. But I have known your people long enough to know that you do not always say everything." Arev was looking intently at Gupta as was T'Pol. Tarang thought that at least she knew what he was driving at. The two had discussed it during the few private moments they had together.

"I have not made a great study of ancient Vulcan sir," Gupta declared. "Your own scholars have been doing so for generations. I do not pretend that I, an off-worlder as you say could do any better. But this I know." Gupta removed the bulky object from the cloth he had wrapped it in. "You have translated the lower part of the tablet. Nothing you have said addresses what is contained in the first part. You see I studied enough to know that these glyphs here," Tarang indicated the inscription near the tablet's pinnacle, "mean the beginning of a section or chapter as it were. The time stamp here also indicates that. When T'Pol asked me to learn archeology I tried to do that. But the task proved too daunting given the time. But I did learn a few things."

Gupta could detect the emotion beneath Arev's demeanor. The man seemed to regain control within seconds. Tarang supposed that individual Vulcans possessed varying degrees of emotional control. The intelligence officer thought back to his encounter with T'Pol's husband. The man had been positively livid for a Vulcan. Sremen could be mildly aroused when it came to discussions of logic Tarang thought. T'Pol, he looked at the beautiful alien woman, she was something else indeed. He tore his glance away back to Arev.

"What is contained in the beginning is a matter for only a few Vulcans to know of," Arev said. "I offer you my apologies lieutenant. Sometimes Vulcan pride can cloud even the most logical of my people—and I am no exception." The man seemed to come to some kind of internal resolution. "Perhaps I should start by telling you that my real name is Syrran."

Gupta visibly started at the mention of the man's name. Tarang glanced over to see T'Pol arch one of her eyebrows. Syrran for the most part was expressionless: Typical Gupta thought. Tarang and T'Pol waited for the Vulcan to continue. Gupta had been curious about the Vulcan behind that civilization's attempted revival of older ways. To tell the truth Tarang was a little concerned: Earth had suffered its share of so called visionaries trying to revive past customs; sometimes with dreadful results. But Tarang determined to keep an open mind.

"Celada was one of my followers," Syrran explained at last. "She was anxious to discover the Ka' Al' Zin." Syrran paused and Gupta was sure that the man was close to uttering a sigh. "I wanted her to find it so that we could in turn find the Kir'Shara; I know what was inscribed on the Ka' Al' Zin. I had hoped that Celada would be satisfied merely to find the object. But I suppose it was much to ask of even a Vulcan to halt a scientific endeavor."

"If you know what it says then why—," T'Pol started.

"I do not know the specifics of what is there," Syrran replied; "just like I know that the Kir'Shara is located in the ruins of the ancient T'Karath Sanctuary. But I cannot say where." Syrran looked hard at T'Pol and Gupta. "Celada read what is there as I have since examining the object. The knowledge of what she learned proved to be too much for her."

"Why is the High Command taking Syrranites into custody?" T'Pol asked.

"Were our movement to grow the logical next step would be a return to the ways of Surak," Syrran replied. "For one thing it would mean the dissolution of the High Command."

"Then it is just a matter of the government protecting itself from what it sees as a growing movement?" Gupta asked.

"Were it that simple lieutenant," Syrran answered then looked sharply at Tarang. "Your people were the first stirrings of what happened. Many saw your people surpassing ours in technology. That is only logical for the children to one day out strip their parents. But rather than embrace the logic of what was happening some chose instead to turn to emotion—fear."

"We have never been a threat to anyone," Gupta said. Tarang was amazed to hear himself work an undercurrent of bitterness into the Vulcan words he had just expressed.

"That is true," Syrran responded. "I said some—not all Vulcans fear your people."

"How far does this fear go?" Gupta asked pointedly.

"Far enough for certain people in the government to ally themselves with others," Syrran answered.

"Romulans," T'Pol said simply.

Syrran's silence was all the answer that Gupta and T'Pol needed. Tarang for his part was amazed: Vulcans allied with Romulans he thought. He suddenly felt that he was going to bubble over with questions. He was about to ask Syrran some of those when the Vulcan spoke again.

"They see an alliance between our people as a way of preserving our mastery of the quadrant," Syrran replied. "Fools!" he exclaimed in a manner that almost floored Gupta. It was the closest to strong emotion he had ever seen a Vulcan reach. "They do not remember the teachings of Surak. All an alliance will accomplish will be the destruction of Vulcan."

"But you have yet to explain the role of the Syrranites sir," Gupta said.

"As I said it is logical to embrace change," Syrran said. "But the teachings of Surak would not have us make partners out of killers. The Romulans have proven themselves to have no integrity as evidenced by their sudden attack upon your people Gupta. It would follow then that one day they would do the same to us." Syrran looked at T'Pol.

"I have been unfair to you T'Pol," Syrran said. "Despite whom your mother is it is still natural for the young to be curious." The Vulcan looked at Gupta and T'Pol. "Perhaps there is a common future for our two peoples. Embracing the teachings of Surak is not a rejection of change: Rather it is to accept the inevitability of change. There has been much trust between our two peoples Gupta. But we dare not embrace the Romulan: That is not change, it is destruction."

"What do you mean about my mother?" T'Pol asked. Gupta could tell that she was agitated.

"Your mother has been a Syrranite for many years now," Syrran answered. "She wished to indoctrinate you in our ways as well. But you have had other interests since your return from earth," Syrran looked at Gupta as he added this last.

So if the Syrranites ran the government there would be no Romulan Vulcan alliance Gupta thought. That explained much to the intelligence officer. Tarang knew he was no spy but he had studied history and politics in pursuit of his profession in the military. Armed with that knowledge he began to see the first inkling of why he was here. Would a Syrranite government enter the war on earth sides Tarang wondered? Even were they to drop their neutrality and accept allied ships at their ports the effects would be severe for the Romulans. Allied fleets would have yet another axis from which to strike out at the Romulans.

Gupta was about to run his theory across Syrran when they all heard a scuffling from within where they had been staying. Syrran looked sharply at the electric lantern that Tarang had brought with him. T'Pol dived for the light and quickly extinguished it. The chamber assumed the absolute inky, pitch darkness of the underground. Gupta froze where he was. Finally his eyes adjusted as he made out the lantern light of their rough living quarters in the adjoining cavern. The scuffling grew closer. There was the sound of voices. Gupta jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Make for T'Les' home human," Syrran whispered quietly in Tarang's ear. Gupta felt something being pressed into his hand. "This will help you find the Kir'Shara. Soval may be a nonbeliever but it seems his choice of you was quite fortuitous."

Gupta reached out when after a few seconds of silence he wondered that Syrran was still there. There he is Tarang thought until he heard Syrran's voice outside of the chamber. T'Pol moved next to him.

"You there," an unidentified voice said in Vulcan.

"I am a simple pilgrim," they heard Syrran say. "You are invited to share my abode here."

"We know who you are Syrran," another voice declared. This one was female. "We know that there are others with you. There is equipment for two more in the cavern above."

"They are not here," Gupta heard Syrran say; not quite a lie Tarang thought. It was true that the two were not in the next chamber with Syrran.

Gupta had been exploring the small cavern earlier. He reached out and took T'Pol's hand. He pulled her along gently. Gupta was glad that part of his military training had emphasized nighttime combat. He proceeded slowly until he found the small tunnel to the next chamber. Another pool was there. Gupta found it when one of his hands slipped down into the cold water. He looked around wildly. He thought that the splash had sounded like an ancient chemical pistol. He hoped that was his imagination working as he turned about and slipped feet first into the pool. He had guessed that it was a deep pool and he was not disappointed when his feet did not touch the bottom. T'Pol followed slipping into the water silently. The telltale beams of a torch shined into this last chamber. They could hear the shuffling of someone approaching. Tarang took a deep breath then slowly released it.

The Indian and Vulcan sank beneath the surface. The pool was small yet the two embraced as they sank into the freezing water of the underground spring. Gupta looked up; long seconds later he could make out a light playing over the surface of the water. Gupta reckoned from seeing the light that the pool was at least six meters deep. The light persisted. Had they spotted ripples on the surface the naval officer feared? He was sure that they had gotten into the water and sank slowly enough that the elapsed time should have allowed the water to settle. Gupta's lungs started to burn. He was not panicking. Tarang was an experienced swimmer and had checked out as a diver in one of his spare time activities. But he knew that soon he would try to breathe water. Gupta could feel his body spasm as the natural instinct to survive tried overriding his willpower. The light was still there he thought bitterly. It was too much he thought. Gupta kicked to the surface. He was not even sure that his head was above water as he breathed uncontrollably. The cave was completely dark as Gupta inhaled a draught of air. He had been on the verge of passing out he realized as blue dots cleared from his eyes. T'Pol was beside him.

They listened for several minutes: Silence. They released one another and made for the stony edge of the bowl-like pool. Tarang dragged himself up out of the water. Both were shivering and sat pressed together by the water's edge. There was no noise. Gupta once again led T'Pol back to the first pool. It was slow going as whomever Syrran had encountered had taken their lanterns. They stumbled about slowly until Gupta felt the heat of the Vulcan day intruding near the entrance of the cave. He was grateful for the oppressive heat. Their equipment was gone along with Syrran. Tarang reached into his soaking wet cloak and felt the weight of the Ka' Al' Zin. They waited near the cave's entrance until night claimed the desert day's fierceness.

The two had resolved to continue on after nightfall. Both assumed that Syrran had been seized by agents of the High Command. If that Vulcan agency was looking for Gupta and T'Pol it was possible that they may be lying in wait, the two thought. In addition their equipment was gone except for one water bottle and what they had on their persons. They could not possibly have made the final crossing during the day under those circumstances.

"It is at least thirty kilometers into the town," Gupta said thinking of his feet. He had not been on a forced march since his academy days. The two scurried out of their hiding place. No one came to arrest them or hinder them.

"We should be able to make it before dawn," T'Pol said.

"I should go back to my shop," Gupta said thoughtfully as he started out at a brisk pace. "And you should go to your mothers." Gupta explained how Syrran had told him that they should seek out T'Pol's mother. "I will send messages to Captain Soames as well as review any intelligence she may have sent then meet you later."

"Agreed but I believe that we should stay together," T'Pol said. "Besides the High Command it may be that Romulans are on my world. That would certainly make you, a human one of their possible targets."

"Apparently if they are here they are yet another humanoid species," Gupta said thoughtfully; "unless they are in hiding and acting through agents."

T'Pol nodded. Gupta thought how many Vulcans did not perform that gesture. A little time on earth and T'Pol had picked that up. The day's events swirled in the Indian's mind. He thought back to when T'Pol had confronted him near the underground spring. He remembered her question. Gupta stopped suddenly. It occurred to the officer that his mother would say that he was thinking with another part of his body besides his brain. She turned and faced him.

"Is something wron--," TPol started to ask when Gupta seized her in his arms, pulled her to him and kissed her lips. She threw her arms around him in turn after a few seconds.

The two stood thus for almost a minute. Finally Tarang untangled himself from the woman turned and preceded walking. He said over his shoulder: "The answer is yes, in my case I like to share that with someone I want to be intimate with."

T'Pol caught up with him after a few minutes. The two walked in silence occasionally sneaking looks at one another.

Taskforce 33, UES Trafalgar, near Tarod V, July 2157

Lieutenant Commander Charles Tucker had been explaining to one of his aides how being the third Charles Tucker in the family had resulted in him being called 'triple'. The moniker had been shortened to Trip. Tucker sometimes felt that he had to explain that. He remembered a girl at the naval academy who had thought that the name applied to Tucker's ability to dance. Trip thought that he was getting better at that. He remembered Jo-jo saying that she enjoyed dancing. Tucker hoped that they would get to do that soon. First things first there was the war.

Tucker had finally gotten the time to review some of the reports on the surface action. The marines were at the Birdie fortress. So far they had been repelled in three attempts at gaining entrance. Shocking details had emerged from the fight: The Romulans, if they were Birdies Trip thought, he knew they could have allies of their own, were apparently rigged with some sort of gas plasma device that consumed their bodies when they were injured. Thermograpic images had shown a network going through a bipedal form before the bodies were completely incinerated. Added to that was the fact that apparently they could adjust their body temperatures as well as stand great amounts of radiation. They had literally assumed surface temperature when they had been discovered hiding in the ground of Tarod V.

But the marines had defeated those Birdie attacks. The Tellarite Shaktaks were making quick work of the entrances to the Birdies underground fortress Trip had read with some relief. Tucker hoped that the Romulans did not have a final option to blow the base. The navy had shut down their reactor with a high speed heavy metal slug fired from the Gettysburg; not enough to wipe out the base but it did the job on their power source. Tucker knew that they could have nuclear warheads in reserve though. The engineer thought of the marines battling their way across the surface. Tucker said a silent prayer for them.

The fleet was here Tucker thought. Taskforce 33 had quickly deployed a network of Hercules anti-ship missiles near their objective. General Sav and Admiral Carstairs had declared jointly that it would take a force of over one hundred Birdie ships to break through to Tarod. Trip wanted to share their optimism but no one knew how many Cabbages and Jellyfish the Romulans still had. The allied navy ships were for the most part superior to their enemy counterparts Trip knew. But the trouble he thought was that there were damn few allied ships. Things were better than they were six months ago but Tucker realized that things still hung by a thread. Disaster could befall them all if they were not careful the engineer thought.

Tucker sat back at his desk and looked at the picture of his sister. Nothing they did here would ever bring Elizabeth back he thought painfully. Tucker wondered like many others he thought of what the Birdies motives were. Space was full of millions, hell billions of worlds Tucker knew. Why start a war then he asked himself? Surely the Birdies had not been short on resources. Tucker wondered if they would ever get a satisfactory answer. He was interrupted in his thoughts by the Trafalgar's alert klaxon.

"Captain to the bridge," Commander Valz's voice announced over the Trafalgar's speaker system. "Red alert, Romulan pirates inbound; counting sixty-eight ships on an intercept heading—warp 3.2."

Tucker sprang up and stepped out to the main engineering space. He noted his techs throwing on anti-radiation suits. Tucker ran for the locker room after making a quick inspection of the Trafalgar's main engineering board.

"You wanna watch that number three power coupling Webb," Tucker said as he watched flow indicators showing power being directed to the Trafalgar's hull plating system.

"Aye sir," the chief answered confidently. "I made sure we routed around that. The repair crews should have it back on line in a few minutes anyway."

Tucker continued on his way. It only took the experienced engineer a minute to climb into the bulky suit. He joined the bustle at the entrance to the locker room. The technicians and relief engineers parted quickly for him. Rank did indeed have its privileges Trip thought. He made his way to the control board to note that Chief Webb had things well in hand. It was time to find out what was happening Tucker knew. Trip went to the bridge interface panel. The small table top screen illuminated showing the Trafalgar's subspace sensor display. Trip saw the check marked red figures representing the attacking Romulan force. Tucker was a little puzzled at the enemies' speed readout.

Normally the Birdies would slow to less than warp 2 to allow their subspace radar to lock onto allied ships and provide the gunners with the data needed for a firing solution. At least Trip assumed that was so. That was how Stellar Navy ships had operated prior to subspace sensors and it had been the typical Birdie attack pattern; except for now. Tucker decided that it was time to consult Captain Valdez.

"Tucker to bridge," the lieutenant commander said after closing his intercom circuit. "I have a bad feelin' about this sir."

"The admiral has ordered us closer in to Tarod," Valdez replied. "This might be some kind of suicide run. Do what you can with the hull plating Trip." Valdez closed the circuit on his end. Tucker got back and went back to the engineering control board.

"Carl get some teams to junction fourteen," Tucker said at last to Webb. "It just occurred to me that we could transfer some of the auxiliary power relays through there—in case things get bad."

"I'll get a team together myself sir," the chief answered.

"No Webb you stay here with me," Tucker said. "Just get some people on it."

The engineering section seemed to tip sideways as Trip grabbed for a handhold. Chief Carl Webb went flying hitting his head on a padded instrument panel across the room. The lights went out momentarily. Tucker realized that they had either had a hit or at least a near miss. The board blinked red in several areas. Tucker made some quick transfers and started the sequence that would seal off several sections of the cruiser. Trip was about to call the bridge when Valdez's voice broke over the engineering speaker.

"Keep us together Trip!" the captain exclaimed. "They dropped out of warp too damn close to us and opened up almost before we could launch the Narwhals. We were just hit by a plasma cannon. How is down there?"

"Looks like we might lose plating near shuttle bay two!" the engineer answered. "The mam reactor is at a hundred and five sir. I can shunt around that section but there is a lot of damage down there."

Tucker wondered if the bridge might've been destroyed after another impact disturbed the artificial gravity web. Finally Valdez's voice returned after what had seemed like an eternity to Tucker though Trip realized it had been less than thirty seconds.

"Madre de dios!" the captain's voice cursed out of the engineering speakers. "I don't know how they got a firing solution that fast considering their warp speed. It is almost like--,"

"Goddamnit," Trip cursed back to his captain, "it is like they got a solution off of subspace sensors."

Tucker watched as the section that had been hit showed the telltale cascades of power transfer failures. If they lost that the Trafalgar would be vulnerable along that section. Tucker decided that Webb was doing a good job here. Trip needed to make a hands-on assessment. He turned the board over to Webb and headed for the damaged section of his ship. He sped past running crewmembers. Tucker knew that despite looking like a madhouse that was far from the truth. Each of the navy personnel knew their destinations and the jobs they had to do.

Trip descended down a ladder sliding down the rungs and bounded off to the shuttle bay. The smell of burnt wiring and plastics assaulted Tucker's olfactory senses. He pressed against the side of the passageway as two medics ran past him bearing—Trip wasn't sure. The person was burnt over most of their body. Tucker fought down a fit of nausea as he smelt the burnt flesh as the medics rushed past with their charge. Tucker was not even sure if the burn victim had been human or alien.

The PA crackled alive, "attention this is the captain," Valdez announced. "We are evacuating the marines off of the surface. Standby to receive the troops; the Reid has been destroyed along with the Gettysburg. We are currently holding behind our missile defense shield. But that is not expected to last long. We need to stand until our ground forces are evacuated—Valdez out."

Tucker continued on his way. He arrived at the inner airlock of the shuttle bay. Tucker paused for a second to catch his wind as he saw a vision of hell: His technicians were jacking down a live power line in an attempt to route it to another junction. Crackling electrostatic energy ran down the inner wall of the shuttle bay. Part of the metal glowed a bright cherry red. Trip's pause to get his breath is what saved him. The inner transparent aluminum door slammed down isolating his crew. Trip wondered why for a second until the hull plating blew out. Tucker watched in horror as one woman was cut in two as she was gored by the jagged metal on her way to being sucked out into space. The remainder of his engineering team was gone. Tucker threw himself down as a blinding flash lit the now empty bay. Tucker thanked god that the nuke hadn't detonated any closer or he would have been blinded.

Tucker realized that the assault on Tarod was about to come to an ignominious end. He only hoped that they could get their people off of the surface in time. Trip sped back to engineering. He had a ship to hold together.

The surface of Tarod V, July 2157

The platoon was moving in to the first tunnel of the Romulan fortification when all hell broke loose for Juan Morrison's company. The ground had erupted throwing radioactive dirt and debris high into the air. Morrison had a few seconds to conjecture that the Birdies must have used some kind of undetectable organic explosive. Then the Birdies had come boiling out of the blasted ground. The cloaked hooded figures had cut three of his people down with laser fire right away. Morrison then emptied his rounds of explosive ammunition as he retreated behind the protective bulk of a Panthera. That was when the retrieval signal came over Juan's headset.

Morrison called Jeffries on the private circuit. "Get ready to move to the fallback," Juan said morosely. This particular piece of real estate was going to cost them dearly he realized and now it looked like they were losing their option to claim it.

"Organizing them now sir," the chief replied. "How bad is it?"

"The fleet is getting their asses beat," Morrison answered. "Somehow the Birdies made a high speed approach and started letting loose with everything they have."

The company commander peered out into the Tarod night to see the bright laser flashes and the plasma fire of burning Romulans. Still the Birdies kept on coming. Morrison started a running crouch. The first of the Yeagers screamed overhead and landed as close as they dared to the fierce battle.

Morrison was knocked flat as the Panthera he had been relying on for cover slammed back nearly crushing Juan underneath of it. The front of the tank was reduced to flaming wreckage. Two surviving crewmembers were scrambling out of a hatch; both of them fully evolved in fire. Juan wondered what could be so hot as to ignite their protective armor as the unfortunate tank crewmen fell to the ground dead in a burning heap.

Small and fast armored vehicles were emerging from an opening near one of the entrances to the battered Romulan underground citadel. The Romulans had built the things for speed Morrison could tell. The small oval shaped, tracked vehicles fell into two classes as far as Morrison could see and hear: One mounted a powerful laser while the other seemed to be some kind of armored bomb. It was apparently one of those last that had just made short work of the slower moving Panthera. Morrison watched as two marines rose to repel oncoming ground troops only to be cut in half by a searing beam fired from one of the Birdies armored vehicles.

"Chief," Morrison called over the private command circuit. He hoped that Jeffries was still alive. His fears were dismissed when seconds later the chief, breathing heavily, responded. Morrison continued after mentally reviewing the plans for retreat. "Chief, form into overlapping fields of fire with Echo Company and start pulling back. Have the company fall back to point Sierra. Tell the company to make as much use of armored protection as they can!"

Juan dived for a smoking shell hole as his audio pickups conveyed the telltale sizzling of laser fire near his position. Morrison should follow his own advice he thought as he looked on his eyepiece and saw the companies forming up as he had commanded. Morrison reloaded quickly before slowly rising. Several of the black figures were approaching his position. Morrison selected armored piercing rounds. The figures which Juan had thought of as ninjas dissolved into burning torches after being hit by the powerful slugs from his Beretta. Morrison saw one whose self-destruction seemed to have delayed. Juan watched as dark blood and gore exploded out of the other side of the being. The lieutenant commander's scanning equipment was so fogged that he could not even tell what color the being's blood or intestines had been. The field looked relatively clear.

Juan looked around until he spotted a Shaktak rolling backwards. Morrison sprinted to the protection offered by the armored land cruiser. Another marine joined him in the sprint as an insect like Romulan armored vehicle rolled past both star fleet marines. The red beam of the Romulan laser burned a gash into the side of the Shaktak. Juan dropped just in time but his unknown mate who had joined him in the run did not: The nameless marine ran on for three steps before his helmet, head and all fell away from the rest of his body. The headless armored body collapsed to the ground.

The Shaktak rolled on firing away. A Birdie armored vehicle popped out of a rough entrance to the Romulan base only to be blown into small pieces by the Shaktak's main gun. Morrison watched as another vehicle followed its unfortunate mate. This one fired a beam of destructive laser fire into the Tellarite vehicle. The Shaktak lashed out at its attacker with laser fire of its own. Morrison watched as the nimble Romulan vehicle dodged and weaved as it fired another laser both. That shot destroyed one of Shaktak's armored tracks. Morrison waited unto the Romulan got closer until the sighting device on his Beretta told him the marauding vehicle was in range. Juan fired four armored piercing rounds at the Birdie. The last one seemed to cause the vehicle to slow. Juan added a shot from the laser mounted beneath his Beretta. He was happy to see a flaming line form where he had raked the laser fire over the Romulan tank. Seconds later the small enemy tank exploded.

Tellarite crewman started leaping out of hatches of the Shaktak. Morrison realized that the ponderous vehicle must have taken incapacitating damage. The Tellarites moved quickly for being somewhat on the portly side Morrison thought. But the company commander knew that a Tellarite soldier's look belied his skill. Their infantry soldiers were tough Juan knew. The suited Shaktak crewman fired as they exited their beleaguered vehicle. Black suited Birdie ninja troops sprinted from behind a Romulan tank firing as they emerged. Morrison turned and acquired two of the black robed figures and proceeded to lay down a hail of explosive ordinance upon them. The enemy troops dissolved into burning plasma. Juan had been steadily moving back as he tried to offer the retreating Tellarites some cover.

A Panthera joined the withdrawing Star Fleet marines. Its twin Brownings opened up on a group of Romulan troops. Morrison was shocked to spy an armored figure in their midst. The lieutenant commander had never seen nor heard a report of any armored troops among the Birdie resistance before. The figure who Juan perceived was in some sort of command role was not visible for long as his, her or its unit along with the figure were torn to small pieces by the flechettes from the Browning. A Romulan armored vehicle drove through the hail of micro spears as it dodged the Panthera's main gun. Morrison fired armored piecing rounds at the enemy tank. Juan took off in a crouching run as the Romulan vehicle exploded off of the right side of the Panthera turning the huge tank into three pieces of flying metal junk.

Fox Company had moved all of fifty meters in their rearward plunge during all of this Juan thought. Morrison was beginning to wonder if they would make it back to Sierra. That particular point was supposed to be reinforced by Star Fleet engineers Morrison knew. That had been the plan anyway; now Morrison wondered how much of the original plan was still intact. The information coming over the battle net was not good. Juan suspected that they would have to make a stand somewhere before they could get to the hastily made fornications at Sierra; just four kilometers away.

Taskforce 25, near Tarod V, July 2157

Commodore 'Grizzly' Oulette did not like the reports that were coming him. His taskforce had been under orders to resupply and buttress Taskforce 33. But now it seemed that twenty-five's role would be to offer covering fire for the retreating Star Fleet ships. Oulette had heard the reports over subspace radio before coming out of warp. Grizzly had been cautious in his approach. Oulette's old friend from the war college, Xavier Valdez, had inherited command of taskforce 33 after the deaths of General Sav and Admiral Carstairs: Sav had perished while leading a holding action against Romulan ground troops while Carstairs had been killed along with everyone else aboard the ill-fated Bismarck.

"Chief Traz," Oulette said to the Tellarite sensor operator, "coordinate with the helm to keep us out of range of their plasma cannons."

"They are forming an attack wedge to our port quarter," Commander Talas said as she studied the tactical display on the Fearless' viewscreen. "It is a flanking maneuver."

"Order the Oguma, Charleston and Badr to defend that space!" Oulette exclaimed. He saw the impending trap as well. "Helm take us into the center of their resistance," the commodore ordered Lieutenant David Guerrero." Pierre knew that their only hope was to smash through the Romulan's between them and Taskforce 33 and try to bolt back out the hole that they had made.

"Communications," Oulette turned to Ensign Peter Wilson at the communications' panel. "Open a channel to the Trafalgar." When Pierre heard the digitized sound of secured channel over the bridge speakers he spoke into the air at the bridge audio pickup. "Xavier my old friend; you have to leave there now. We will open the way for you."

"We still have over six-thousand marines on the surface!" the captain of the Trafalgar answered. Oulette listened intently as he heard damage reports from the Trafalgar come over the open channel. He waited while his friend dealt with the immediate dangers to his ship.

"Lieutenant Moran," Oulette turned to the gunnery officer, "target the lead group of Birdies." He turned his attention back to Valdez. "We should be able to break through in two minutes. You need to be ready to form up with us for the withdraw."

"I am not blind commodore," Valdez's voice announced over the bridge speaker. "We shall be ready."

Oulette could hear the emotion in his friend's voice. The commodore was examining data from the surface of Tarod V: Some of the marines would have to be left behind. It was either that Pierre thought, or they all stayed to die here.

"We are breaking through," Chief Traz said. "Sensors show nine Romulan cruisers destroyed."

The bridge lurched as a Romulan missile went off in near proximity Oulette's Fearless. Pierre said a silent prayer of thanks. Without the new hull plating he realized that his Pioneer class cruiser would be wreckage after a near miss such as that last one.

"Sir I'm showing twenty of their ships warping away," Traz said. Oulette could tell that the Tellarite was puzzled; as was Grizzly. The Birdies had this one Oulette knew. It would be a miracle if the remaining Star Fleet ships could escape unscathed.

"Captain Valdez thinks they have developed subspace sensor capacity," Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey Sutton interjected. Oulette watched as the man entered some figures into his computer keyboard. Sutton turned and added after he viewed the results on his screen: "If they are preparing to make another high speed approach they should drop back to subspace at a point just beyond five AU's away."

"Give me some timing!" Oulette snapped.

"We don't a good idea of their rates of acceleration in warp or if they have a buildup time," Sutton answered. "But using our ships as a baseline we have about 3.2 minutes from now sir."

"The Trafalgar and her surviving ships are forming up with us sir," Guerrero announced from the helm.

"The Dolphin has been destroyed sir," Traz announced meaning the Torsk class ship from Taskforce 33.

"The Al' Kumariz reports full fighter recovery," Talas said.

"Take us back out David," Oulette said.

The surface of Tarod V, July 2157

Morrison dropped over the embankment. This was it he thought. The Echo Company commander was happy to see the Star Fleet engineers. Their commander had been wise enough to move his people up. The marines didn't have the cover that the Sierra fortifications would have provided them Juan lamented. But the way their retreat had been dogged Morrison knew that it would have been a miracle if any of the companies made it to Sierra. Chief Jeffries words over the secure link only confirmed Morrison's suspicions.

"Sir the men are turning into a mob," the Barbados native said. "Did they bring every bloody Romulan from Romulus here?" Jeffries complained bitterly.

"It sure as hell looks like it Andy," Morrison answered. He knew it was no use to try to lie to his platoon chief. The man had been around the block too many times Morrison thought. Besides, Juan had too much respect for Jeffries for that.

"Load them in the shuttles chief," Morrison ordered firmly. He strode up to the armored figure of Jeffries as the chief directed marines into the hatch of a Yeager. The small craft's airlock was fully open. There would be time to worry about decontamination after they got off of Tarod. The important thing was to avoid dying now Juan thought.

"We aren't going to make it boss," the chief said. Jeffries voice was neither panicked nor depressed. It was as if he was making a casual inquiry about today's weather.

"Some of you will Andy," Morrison replied. Juan had received the news via the command net: These were the last shuttles. He surveyed the barren alien plain: Star Fleet marines shot from behind the protective embankment at approaching Romulan troops. The last of their armor was digging in to make a stand as well. As Juan looked a Panthera was spilt down the middle by a combination of laser fire and an exploding Romulan battle tank. Flames poured out of the open hatches of a Shaktak. A few burning heaps surrounded the Tellarite land cruiser: Dead Tellarites Juan realized. Morrison realized that Jeffries was looking at him even though both men were behind polarized face shields that hid their faces.

"Your little girl will about three months by the time you get back sir," Jeffries remarked. Morrison was about to answer when Jeffries voice belted out on the common net: "You there; clear the bloody goddamned lock!"

Morrison followed his chief to find out what was going on. Jeffries stumbled. Morrison took two steps bringing him about half a meter before the open airlock of a Yeager shuttle. Juan didn't see any problem. He turned to ask Jeffries what was the matter when he was knocked bodily into the airlock. The shuttle's interior darkened as the airlock hatch closed. Juan could feel several things: Gee force hit him as the Yeager leapt skyward, his suit filled out as the shuttle's contaminated interior was dumped, and then his armor relaxed as the shuttle's interior pressure increased. Juan removed his helmet.

Someone was screaming in the shuttle. In fact several people were doing that Morison realized. Medics surrounded one marine who laid convulsing and screaming on the floor. The medics knelt in an expanding puddle of red. Juan wondered what the marine was screaming about until one of the medics moved aside: A jagged piece of metal was sticking up from the marine's abdomen. Juan turned away quickly. A tear ran down his cheek as he thought of Chief Jeffries on the surface below.

Taskforce 33, UES Trafalgar, Jul 2157, outbound from Tarod V

The Star Fleet ships had ran the scathing gauntlet between the Birdie ships. Narwhals had filled space over the surface of the planet below. Seven Romulan cruisers flashed out of existence. Romulan Aeon fighters fell before the Minotaurs. But the sky was rapidly filling with the nimble Eightballs. Three Minotaurs only survived. One of those accelerated to warp directly into a Sabinus that was launching yet more Aeons. The Romulan Cabbage exploded before it could eject anymore of its deadly spawn.

The stout little Oguma fired several Spiders at the anticipated impact point of Romulan plasma cannons. The one-hundred and seventeen meter Kretchet accelerated quickly laying down two sets of Narwhals in quick succession. A Romulan Sabinus was destroyed by the Narwhals followed by a Veronus class cruiser. The ship's laser defeated three Romulan anti-ship missiles. But a fourth got through to explode in close proximity to the Oguma. Static discharges ran the length of the Kretchet's hull as it turned more slowly this time to discharge another flight of Spiders and only a single Narwhal. Gases were leaking out of the Oguma's other missile tube. The Kretchet made for the Badr's covering fire but too late: The Star Fleet ship was hit by plasma cannon fire. The Oguma tumbled end over end twice before another plasma beam obliterated the Star Fleet cruiser.

The Badr fired combinations of Narwhals and Spiders until they avenged the Oguma's destruction: First one of Cabbages that had fired the fatal cannon blast at the Oguma fell to a Narwhal that had negotiated the neutronium pellets to hit home. Then its partner Sabinus was on the defensive as missiles from the Badr made their way for the Romulan craft. A Narwhal fused for proximity went off near the Cabbage. The Romulan betrayed no signs of damage but it did not defend itself against another inbound Star Fleet missile. The Sabinus was consumed by the nuclear fireball.

The Badr continued firing as it turned to join the combined survivors of the two taskforces. Spiders filled space between the retreating Star Fleet ships and the oncoming Romulans. The space around the allied ships were illuminated as if by a new sun as Romulan missiles exploded sometimes less than five hundred kilometers from the escaping ships. The returning Romulans stretched into normal space; they fired plasma cannons seconds later. The allied ships flashed into subspace as the plasma beams intersected where they had been.

The surface of Tarod V, Jul 2157

"Who is the goddamned officer in charge here?" a panicked marine asked.

"Settle down!" Chief Andy Jeffries exclaimed. Jeffries had conducted a hasty roll call from which he had determined that he quite possibly the highest ranking Star Fleet marine on Tarod V at this point. The Birdies had just been too damn good at picking off the officers he thought.

"Can we swing our visors sir?" a nameless marine asked.

"Negative!" the NCO exclaimed. Jeffries knew that the radiation had subsided but he had no idea what else the Birdies might throw at them. Andy turned his attention to one of the Star Fleet engineers.

"You there, Harvey," Jeffries said to an engineer after he read the man or woman's name off of their helmet. The engineer acknowledged Jeffries. "How fast can you get those Katana batteries set up?" he asked, meaning the mobile armor piercing missile batteries. The small Katanas were ejected by a magnetic launch system then their small motors powered them the rest of the way.

"We'll have three set up in about ten minutes sir," the feminine voice of the engineer responded.

"Get your butt on it then," Jeffries told the engineer who was clearly doing a good job of directing her crew. "And don't call me sir—I work for a living."

"Aye-aye chief!" the engineer replied with a chuckle.

Jeffries rounded up all the marines he could find who were carrying personnel missile launchers. The tube-like launchers with their control boxes were called Venoms. The devices had not changed a lot in two hundred years except for the targeting system and the addition of more powerful missile engines.

"You marines get up to the line and dig in," Jeffries told them.

"Chief," a nameless marine chimed in on the common circuit, "I think that we can pick out the Birdie roaches that are loaded with explosives."

Jeffries had thought that he noticed a difference in the rolling bombs that the marines had already nicknamed roaches referring to the vehicles similarity to the shape of the earth insect. They seemed to have more frontal armor for one thing.

"Take those out first," Jeffries instructed the marines. "I want to station teams of two: One marine with a Venom and a marine with a laser rifle; use the Venoms to open them up then go after the Roaches with lasers."

Jeffries organized his troops. He reckoned that he had inherited slightly over one-hundred marines. Andy wondered if he could link up with the two-thousand or so troops near the jungle who were setting up a supply point. He had called over the battle network but he had heard no response. Had those marines made it off, the Barbados native wondered or were they dead? It could be radio interference too Jeffries knew. The non commissioned officer didn't have time to think about those things as Birdie troops were on the move.

Jeffries could not order a retreat down the barren slops to the cover of the jungle without getting his marines shot up. They had to make a stand here. Andy was hoping that his marines could repel an attack long enough to evade to the jungle. For now the marine chief ordered his marines arrayed in a rough inverted semi-circle with his missile teams on the flanks. The upwardly sloping terrain allowed for that and Jeffries planned to take advantage of it. Andy made for a central point near the bottom of the circle. He peeped over the rise cautiously.

Romulan tanks were speeding along firing their high powered lasers into the soil at the top of the rise. Jeffries activated his external pickups to hear the sizzling crack of the red beams burning into the soil of Tarod. He also heard then saw a few luckless marines who were dug in too close to the top of the rise. The lasers sometimes penetrated deep enough to heat a marine's armor up, literally cooking the person inside alive in his or her last few agonizing seconds of life. Those people's screams were mercifully brief. But few of his marines died that way. The Birdies must be using some sort of mass detectors Jeffries thought. They were concentrating their fire on few remaining dug in Pantheras and Shaktaks.

Jeffries watched as the Star Fleet armor opened up on the Roaches. Andy ordered his missile/laser teams into action as the Birdie vehicles came into range. Jeffries quickly counted up twenty of the Roaches destroyed or disabled by his teams. The Panthera and Shaktak fire took another dozen or so of the agile little tanks. Jeffries used his helmet's telescopic system to peer out.

The chief spied teams of black suited Birdies along with an armored figure on each team. The Birdies were busy planting a large metal tube into the ground. Jeffries did not have a complete encyclopedia of Romulan weaponry at his disposal; but he recognized a mortar when he saw one.

"Snipers!" the marine NCO called out over the common circuit, "take out those mortar teams!" Jeffries reviewed his small contingent. He had four mortar teams but that was it. He ordered those teams to open up. Jeffries had hoped to hold those troops in reserve as the Birdies got closer.

"Chief the Katanas are ready!" Harvey said breaking into the battle net.

Just in time Jeffries thought as he watched two of the Roaches speed past the hail of fire: One collided with the underside of an entrenched Panthera, throwing pieces of the heavy tank into the air. The other Roach blew up beside a Shaktak taking out some of the Tellarite vehicle's anti-personnel weapons. Jeffries also noted the approach of the ninjas. He wondered again what sort of go to hell fighters they were to dodge through the blistering hail of Star fleet firepower.

"Katanas open fire," the chief ordered calmly.

Mortar rounds exploded near one katana battery. Jeffries watched as a wave of rolling fire spread out from the mortar shell's impact. Whatever it was it burned through anti-personnel armor Jeffries thought mournfully. The Katana's crew was killed instantly. Jeffries popped his head up again and swung his Beretta up. The chief let loose with a stream of armor piercing rounds. A wave of at least a dozen black suited figures burst into plasma fire. An armored Romulan was firing away as Jeffries fire neatly severed the being's arm. Another round hit the birdie squarely in the chest. Jeffries had time to see the Birdie explode into a mass of green gore. Katanas started tearing through the advancing troops. Jeffries ducked back down.

The chief briefly wondered if he was the first ally to ever see Birdie blood? Jeffries made a running commentary into his suit recorder. Maybe the record would survive to be retrieved along with the video. Better yet Andy thought; that he would get retrieved along with the recorder.

"Incoming aircraft," one of the radar operators on a Katana battery announced.

Andy called on the net hoping beyond hope that more Yeagers were on their way down. He was greeted by static rather than the friendly voice of a Star Fleet shuttle pilot. Jeffries ordered two of the Katanas to assume an air-to-ground attack role.

"Chief they are making their way past our flanks," another platoon sergeant informed Jeffries. Andy switched his eyepiece to a tactical display. His suit's small computer relayed radar reports from the Katana batteries. Jeffries cursed to himself as he watched the Roaches roll past his flank just out of range. He popped up again and surveyed the plain.

Wrecked burning Roaches littered the Tarod desert. Scorch marks that Jeffries understood were the remains of dead Birdies were noticeable in several spots. The Romulan mortar crews were gone. The combination of snipers and Katanas had taken care of them Jeffries thought. Jeffries looked at his tactical display again. The marines only hope he thought was in making their way to the peninsula. The Roaches could not flank them there. Jeffries estimated that the Romulan armor would be on his flanks in ten minutes. That was a lot of time in combat he knew.

Andy considered what to do with the Katanas as those batteries opened up skyward. Explosions filled the red sky of Tarod. Jeffries hopes of making for the peninsula were dashed as three Romulan Eightballs roared overhead. A Panthera and Shaktak exploded sending metal fragments flying. A marine scrambling just beneath the chief was sliced into three bloody pieces by the shrapnel.

"Move, move move!" the chief cried out as small packets that had been ejected by the Aeons spun lazily down to the surface.

Jeffries went sprinting himself. He dived behind a piece of metal: It was the gunners shield from a Katana battery he thought bitterly. Roiling burning hot plasma spread out engulfing the last of the Katana batteries and their crews in fire. The screams filled the common circuit as some marines too close to the Birdie plasma spent their last seconds being burned alive. Andy felt the heat as the plasma thinned out before it engulfed him. The chief looked up to see a handful of black robed figures scrambling down the small slope. How in god's name did they move that fast Jeffries wondered?

The NCO stood up selecting explosive rounds on his Beretta. He fired burst after burst at the black cloaked troops. Some were no more than ten meters from him. Jeffries felt his Beretta rock back in his arm; out of explosive rounds he thought. A robed being sprang at him. Jeffries swung the butt of his rifle up solidly connecting with where he thought the being's head should be. The ninja went reeling away.

Andy stood aghast. "A bloody vampire bat!" the chief exclaimed as the Romulan's cloak had been torn off. Andy fired his last laser round neatly bisecting the creature as it advanced on him again. Was that a Birdie he wondered?

Jeffries felt like he had been punched in the stomach. He dropped to his knees breathlessly. Silence descended around him as he felt another impact near his shoulder that jerked him around. The chief looked down to see that his Beretta was gone—along with his right arm. Blood spurted onto the sandy soil of Tarod. Andy looked down to see that most of his insides were on the ground as well. Jeffries looked up and away from his torn abdomen. A green armored biped walked up to him.

The figure carefully raised its hands up to its helmet and pulled it off. Andy knew that he was dying. He didn't want the last thing he saw to be one of those bat things. Jeffries was astonished again: A bloody Pointie he thought. Andy watched as the Pointie calmly withdrew a sidearm from a holster on the side of his armor. Jeffries' last thoughts were of his wife Rosy and their home in Bridgetown as he looked into the muzzle of the pistol.

Homecoming

San Francisco, California, Earth, Aug 2157

The intelligence officer made small talk with the president of the United Earth government. Admiral Erica Soames never dreamed that her career would take her this far. It was not that Soames lacked confidence in herself rather it was that up until recently a military career usually held little chance for advancement. So it was with no small amount of surprise that Soames found herself making ordinary conversation with the most powerful man on the planet.

The admiral and president were waiting for Admiral Maxwell Forrest. Soames knew that the man would be running late. Forrest had just made planetfall less than an hour earlier. Erica knew that this was the time to bring up other issues with Thorpe that she had been working on. Soames listened as the president told a joke the butt of which involved one of the councilmen who was fronting for The Sons' of Terra. Erica laughed politely although she had been listening with only half an ear as her mother used to say. Soames felt that this was as good an opportunity as any.

"Sir you've heard the reports about possible Birdie agents on earth," Soames started then asked in a rush. "I was wondering if you were going to take more drastic measures to deal with the threat?"

"I've got the Unified Intelligence Agency on it Erica," Christophur Thorpe answered. The man sighed before continuing. "I know that it is a threat. But I am far more worried about how the council wants to deal with the danger." Soames watched as Thorpe's face wrinkled in anger. "Do you know those bastard representing the Sons' wanted a mandatory identification program for all earth nationals?"

"Perhaps that is a good idea," Soames answered. "We could bring in people for blood screenings sir."

Erica had gotten Frank McCoy's report of his encounter with the woman he called 'Hawkface'. Although Soames suspected that her operative had held something back his description of Hawkface's demise was consistent with what had been observed on Tarod V. Erica was also intrigued by McCoy's suggestion that the agents he had encountered seemed to look somewhat like Vulcans. Soames wondered if the Romulans had somehow penetrated earth through Vulcan. Erica had briefly considered that the Vulcans were somehow instigating things but none of their previous behavior had hinted at that race's involvement in this war.

She had received a communiqué from Tara. It was short and to the point: The Romulans were making trouble on Vulcan as well. That had further blunted Soames suspicions concerning the Pointies. Erica had reasoned that the Romulans were planning to segregate Vulcan for some reason. Gupta had mentioned a possible alliance between the Vulcans and the Romulan Empire but the lieutenant had been unsure of that. Soames was still concerned about young Tara's involvement with the Vulcan woman. The admiral had felt that perhaps Gupta was being led on but then she thought: How could a Vulcan possibly use sex to their advantage? Soames imagined that it would be like trying to make love with a computerized refrigerator. Erica had dismissed her fears there. But she had come to believe that the Romulans had used Vulcan for a jumping off point to come to earth.

The admiral thought that it was possible that Romulans may have been altered to pass as Pointies. Soames guessed that with a little plastic surgery they could further be made to look human. Soames and McCoy had discussed the possibilities and that seemed to be a reasonable one.

Thorpe pushed his salad away and rose from the small dining table. The president had turned the conference into a working lunch. He proceeded to pace.

"Admiral I have a degrees in psychology and political science," Thorpe said. "I also enjoy history as a hobby." Thorpe smiled then continued. "You've no doubt read about the twentieth century nation states' attempts to disarm their citizenry?" At Soames answering nod he continued as if he were conducting a lecture. "They obscured their real agenda behind meaningless statistics admiral. Really, think about it for a minute Erica: Is a criminal likely to say; 'oh look a law. I must abide by it. I will stop my behavior immediately'." Thorpe laughed then grew serious. "Seems ridicules on the face of it, doesn't it?" he asked Soames.

"Yes sir," Erica answered. She had studied history as well. "But those people were trying to seize power from people. We are talking about a real external threat here; not the perceived one those governments were trying to create."

"I believe that the existing police by being more vigilant can help a lot," Thorpe answered. "But my point is this Erica: Do you really think these Romulan agents will say 'we must turn ourselves in—we are caught now!"

"But surely screenings will isolate these aliens," Soames argued back. "I mean, what if evidence came to your attention that they were here to commit acts of mass murder sir?" There is was Erica thought. Now to see how Thorpe reacted, the admiral thought.

Thorpe slowly sat back down and leaned forward giving Soames an appraising look. Erica started sweating so penetrating was the president's gaze. Finally Thorpe replied:

"Erica you do understand the penalty involved should the military be found to commit acts of domestic spying."

Phrased as a question, Thorpe had uttered it as a statement. The admiral nodded in turn. Did he know, Erica asked herself?

"I have come to have enormous respect for you admiral," Thorpe declared. "But I shall not allow history to repeat itself Erica. I shall not allow earth to degenerate into some fascist regime where the people are prisoners of the government. Are you breaking the law admiral?" Thorpe asked her pointedly.

Part of Soames' mind screamed at her to tell Thorpe the truth. Let him know that there were Romulans here; Romulans who were in possession of missile motors and the components of chemical weapons. But would he act on Soames admission she asked herself? Or would Thorpe take her confession, have her arrested and then continue on in his libertarian world?

"Of course not sir," Erica replied. "I was merely conjecturing. Some on the council are doing se as well." Soames quickly scooped up a fork full of seafood salad. She looked at Thorpe as she chewed the food. Just five minutes ago she had thought that the meal was delicious. Now under Thorpe's withering gaze she found the salad to share the taste of paper.

"I am sure that you are not," Thorpe answered. His sharp gaze stopped. He took up a fork as the door chime sounded. Karl Ebenstark announced Admiral Forrest. Forrest entered dressed in a casual gold command jersey; his black slacks were bloused in his boot tops.

Erica rose with Thorpe. She watched with relief as the president greeted the admiral. He seemed to have forgotten about their discussion for the moment Erica hoped. Forrest turned and greeted Soames in turn. At Thorpe's beckoning Forrest filled his plate with fresh greens and took a seat on Thorpe's right.

"I think every spacer craves fruits and vegetables after months of concentrates," Forrest said in between bites.

"I understand admiral," Thorpe said. "We started without you but we are all adults here; no need to stand on ceremony."

"No problem sir," Forrest answered as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "I'm surprised I'm even hungry after the news."

"It's conclusive I'm afraid," Thorpe said nodding to Erica.

Soames realized that she was on stage now. "It looks like the Birdies have acquired subspace sensors."

"You mean developed?" the naval chief of staff asked around a mouthful of crab cake.

Soames took a deep breath before replying: "I'm sorry Admiral Forrest," she paused a few seconds before finishing, "our tech people confirm that it reads like an early version of our subspace sensors—an exact version mind you."

Forrest blew out a breath between pursed lips. "Goddamnit!" he cursed then looked at the president. "Sorry sir," Forrest added.

Thorpe chuckled. "Spare my virgin ears," the president said sarcastically. He continued in a kinder tone. "It is okay admiral I spent some time working on fishing boats when I was in college."

Forrest took a bite of salad as he sat thinking, finally he swallowed then said: "Can we take advantage of the fact that we know the system? I mean given that it was taken from us."

"We know its capabilities," Soames answered: "Elementary mass and energy readings." Erica looked to her lap where she had some notes scrawled on a pad there. "We can't blind them if that is what you are asking sir."

Forrest nodded. He looked at Thorpe. "How could this happen, sir? I thought that our systems were secure." Forrest looked troubled as he continued. "Is it true what I've heard; Romulan agents on earth?"

"I am afraid that is so admiral," Thorpe answered. "As to how it happened; don't forget that most of our scientific database is open to the public. Subspace sensors have been in use now for four years. The public became curious about them so small details were put out."

Thorpe looked sharply at Soames. "I think you are going to suggest that this is another reason for those screenings admiral."

"I wasn't sir but now that you mention it…" Erica trailed off in silence. She felt that this was dangerous territory for her now.

"These things were bound to happen," Thorpe answered. "Perhaps a disgruntled scientist or technician sold some information; who knows? But what I said before stands: I won't turn earth into a prison camp because of the actions of what I know in my heart is a very small minority of trouble makers."

"It is another military problem sir," Forrest said intruding into the awkwardness. "We'll solve it." Forrest nervously took another forkful of salad. He held it before him as he said: "I hope that things remain unchanged. I know you are fighting a battle here—a political one. We are making progress sir. I can't guarantee you victory this year or even next for that matter. But our ships are superior and we have shown that we can be as aggressive in an attack as the Birdies are. But I do know if we quit now we will never win."

Soames knew that Forrest was referring to the council's condemnation of the Battle of Tarod. That campaign had costs the lives of over eight-thousand allied troops. The Sons' of Terra had spared no time in condemning the Tellarite General Sav; decrying how human troops had been led to slaughter by what the Sons' called a pig-nose. Added to that was former Admiral French's beating the drum over Commodore Stiles' destruction of the disabled Sabinus. Soames sometimes thought that the entire news establishment had been taken over by Romulans. Perhaps she should have gotten McCoy to mix it up with some of the journalists she thought. Erica became more resolute in that instant than she had ever been before.

"I understand admiral," Thorpe answered. "The average man and woman are with you. Individuals are a hell of a lot smarter than the Sons' of Terra give them credit for. I'll deal with those bastards on my terms."

Erica was taken aback. She could see that Forrest was as well. Thorpe had seldom used strong language. As far as Soames was concerned Thorpe truly earned the nickname 'gentleman campaigner'. But the intelligence officer felt for the first time that Thorpe might be in the process of taking off the gloves. Good, she thought, it was high time for that.

The trio spent the next several hours discussing the war. Progress was being made on several fronts. Erica knew that more ships were on the way. The manpower situation was coming under control finally. The Birdies had betrayed the acceleration curve of their ships in the Tarod campaign. That had been one positive thing to emerge. Thorpe assured Forrest of continued support and a promise to slap the Sons' of Terra. The naval officers rose and departed after exchanging courtesies with the president. They left together.

They walked in silence until Forrest turned to Soames as they went along. "May I call you Erica?" At Soames nod he continued with a sly look on his face. "I feel like I'm a teenager again. But I was wondering Erica. I've been interested in getting to know you better."

Soames cheeks reddened a little. Erica enjoyed the single life which was fortunate given her job. But she had been feeling a little lonely lately. She had heard through circles that Forrest was divorced. She gave him a quick appraising glance.

"I think that I would like that admiral," she answered with a slight grin on her lips.

"Call me Max please," Forrest answered. The two exited the Presidium Presidium into the warm California day. They stopped and chatted before going their separate ways.

They made plans to meet later that evening for dinner. Soames had weighed the pros and cons of seeing Forrest. It was only dinner she reasoned. Erica was also aware that she getting older. That was not the problem it once was many decades ago with the increased life expectancies these days she knew. It was just that men looked at older unmarried women and assumed they wanted to stay that way Erica thought. Soames also considered an association with Forrest in that coldly analytical part of her mind: Information gained from the man might prove useful in her extracurricular endeavors. The two parted company as they each headed for their respective groundcars.

Talhava, Capital city of Andor, Earth year Aug 2157

"We'll skate up the ice canals to the city center after nightfall," Shato told his human companion.

"How cold does it get then?" Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey Sutton asked his Andorian friend meaning the temperature after dark.

Shato looked into the sky. Sutton could tell that he was doing conversions in his head. Finally the Andorian engineer replied: "I believe that makes it minus twenty-three C." Shato smiled and added: "A fine night to be out and about as you humans like to say."

Sutton had to admit that there was some truth to what his roommate was saying. The Fearless had put in the Andor for repairs and rearmament after the evacuation of Tarod V. Oulette had fought with command to get his people some much needed shore leave. So it was that Sutton had found himself touring the icy world at the invitation of his roommate and friend.

He had thought of Andor as a barren place much like one of the earth's poles. But Sutton had been pleasantly surprised by the majestic visages on the surface of the frozen world. Shato had shown Jeff part of the underground city of Talhava. Sutton had thought he would see a boring network of tunnels. Instead Shato had shown Sutton a mighty city cut into the planets native rock. Rising spires of towering building had been designed to look like ice covered stalagmites. The underground city was heated and powered by geothermal energy. Sutton had grown quite warm in the heavy clothes that he had chosen to wear in anticipation of a colder environment.

Shato had taken Jeff to the surface to show the human the sun descending through the venting steam of the city's power plants. Sutton was indeed awe struck by the sight. For awhile he had even forgotten the oppressive cold. But only for a little while; Sutton turned the heat up in his anti-exposure suit. Normally the Florida native was not one to wear his uniform while off duty but he made an exception here: The Star Fleet issue survival suit was quite comfortable against the oppressive cold of Andor.

"Can't we just go underground to the city center?" Sutton asked.

"It is not the same Jeff," Shato replied. "The canal reflects the starlight." The Andorian turned to the human. "You do know how to ice skate?" the engineer asked.

"I'm not the greatest," Sutton said while grinning sheepishly, "I spent a week with a few friends from Minnesota during winter break. They took me skating."

"Minnesota is an earth colony?" the Andorian asked. "I do not know that one."

"Uh not really," Sutton answered. "I suppose it could be described as a division of an ancient nation state."

Shato was silent for a full minute as the two walked over to the canal's edge. Finally the engineer said: "It seems like you humans spent a lot of your time trying to segregate yourselves from one another."

"I suppose there is something too that," Sutton answered in a serious tone. "I think we learned our lesson last century though." Jeff looked around as he sat on a bench to change into the skates the two had slung over their shoulders. "Maybe if we had a tougher fight to survive like your people did we wouldn't have become so territorial."

"I did not mean to judge you or your people my friend," Shato said. "We Andorians were much the same. I believe had we had atomic weapons before unifying under one banner we would have did the same as humans. We are more alike than either of us may want to admit."

"I don't know," Sutton answered as the stepped on the ice. Jeff slid around somewhat clumsily as he recalled his skating experience on a lake near Minneapolis. After a few trials he felt surer of his footing. He spun around to see his friend staring at him.

"You seem to have doubt about that Jeff," Shato said. The blue-skinned alien was not referring to Sutton's skating.

The two started skating in silence until finally Sutton said: "It is just this thing with Talas. I just don't get it. She has been all over me in the gym." Sutton was glad for the facial covering of his suit as he heard Shato's chuckle.

"So what is the matter?" the engineer asked as he glided along the ice. "I saw the way your eyes followed her that first day in engineering. We Andorians have a saying: One always gets what they ask for."

The irony of the saying was not lost on Sutton. His father had a similar expression meaning sometimes people got the things they asked for not realizing that those things were not always good.

"I just don't understand her," Sutton said abruptly. Both of the skaters laughed then.

"I believe that you have discovered the underlying similarity between every race with more than one sex, in the universe," Shato said. "What is the problem—you need not say of course. It appears to me though, that things are going well for you two."

Sutton wondered what had brought the Andorian to that conclusion. Jeff was silent for several minutes as he took in the reflected starlight beaming off of the surface of the ice. The two Star Fleet officers skated past slower skater as they went. Sutton was also a little taken aback at the younger Andorians streaking past them. He thought that they could easily give a Terran Olympic speed skater a run for their money. Finally Jeff asked his friend why he thought that things between Sutton and Talas were alright.

"I didn't want to bring it up," Shato said. "I mean it is a private matter but I could help to note the bruise on your face."

"That's it!" Sutton roared back. "I get don't get her. I was on the treadmill when she walked up and hit me." Jeff allowed things that he had bottled up to come out as he continued. "Then, to make things worse she invited me to her parent's home. Is that some Andorian way of saying I'm sorry?"

"I warned you Jeff," the engineer answered as the lights to the entrance of the main section of Talhava became visible on the horizon. "Our women are far more aggressive than yours are. I had thought that our first officer was only interested in a—how do you pink-skins put it—a roll in the grass."

"Hay," Sutton corrected. "What are you saying then?"

"Don't you see?" the engineer answered, "no of course you are not one of us. She is courting you."

Sutton nearly collided with another skater as Shato's last words sunk in. Jeff was trying to picture his own parents meeting the alien woman when here he was about to meet her family. Then again what had started as a sexual interest had changed into something else for Sutton. He had found him and Talas' time together to be very enjoyable. Sutton never saw himself getting married. He was not like many men and women in the Stellar Navy: Resigned to being alone because of the nature of their work. It was rather that Jeff enjoyed being single. It suddenly occurred to Sutton how it pleased him when he could make the Andorian woman smile.

"What are you going to do?" Shato asked Jeff suddenly.

"I don't know," Jeff paused as he thought over the situation. "I guess I need some advice on this."

"Are you asking me to tell you about the foxes and trees?" the Andorian asked.

"Birds and bees," Sutton said with a laugh. "But yes I think that is what I am asking."

The two skated into the entrance of Talhava's business and entertainment district. The artificial light of the city center had been dimmed with the fall of night. Blue and white lights reflected off of towers that looked to have been carved out of ice. The two officers left the ice and changed out of their blades. Sutton noticed several hastily written scrawls covering some of the walls of the public areas. Jeff had been studying the Andorian language so he recognized a glyph indicative of the word alien. He asked Shato about the graffiti

"Your world is not the only one to contain trouble makers," Shato said sadly. "Much of the writing is a condemnation of our government's support of your people." The engineer suddenly grew angry as he continued. "They wait until they can put out their filth in private. They do have the edaks to make their statements before others."

Jeff grew curious. He had considered broaching this subject with Talas but their conversations together had been of pleasanter things. He decided that he could ask his roommate now that the subject was near at hand.

"What do you think of this federation stuff?" the operations officer asked abruptly.

Shato's antenna twitched then drooped. Sutton knew that was a sign that the Andorian was deep in thought. Shato looked at him as the two headed into the food district. "Ambassador Ketra speaks well of it. What do you think of it?"

"Frankly it is sort of scary," Sutton answered with much conviction. He explained at his friend's expectant look. "I mean I'm not some racist Sons' of Terra member. I just think that if we do that we will change."

"But you do not know what sort of change," Shato finished Sutton's line of thought.

Sutton nodded. "I know we will still be humans. But here I am thinking of—well thinking of having a relationship with one of your people. I always looked at intermixed couples I saw on earth and thought: What sort of walls they must run into. Now I'm thinking about doing the same thing." Sutton looked at his friend before continuing, "I've changed I guess. Maybe a lot of us have changed."

"You know," Shato started thoughtfully, "if it happens it will probably amount to nothing. Probably every generation of beings on every planet thinks that this it the pivotal time in history. But life goes on as it usually does."

"I think that you are right," Sutton answered. Shato guided him to a well lit restaurant. Sutton was curious about the strange but enticing aromas that were exuding from the establishment.

Except for the writing and the beings seated in the eatery Sutton saw no difference between this business and one that performed a similar function on earth. It made Jeff wonder just how alien they were to each other. He would find out tomorrow when he met Talas' family.

Baltimore, Maryland, Earth Aug 2157

McCoy had a lot to think about. His new partner as he had come to think of Brack had shown himself to be full of surprises. Frank had looked the man up: It was the multi-billion credit engineer and industrialist. He wondered how the man had gotten involved in this but that question did not stop McCoy from accepting Brack's help. The two had looked over the data from Hansu's Choctaw office. There were trails that led to several other cities. The two had sifted through the material until they had determined that many deliveries were being made to Trenton, New Jersey. Neither of the men knew what the Romulans' progress was.

Were their adversaries close to completing a battery of chemically armed missiles? McCoy did not know. But they had discovered a notation pointing to a date on the second of August. That time had come and was now gone with no attack on any earth cities. Brack had pointed out that several pickups had been scheduled for Choctaw. The two men had pretty much obliterated any item that the Romulans might have been planning to use from their Choctaw operation.

The news from Oklahoma had only been of a mysterious explosion. The unfortunate Aubrey Tate had been implicated in the burning of his own industrial park. The man had been unable to defend himself as news agencies had reported Tate as being mentally incapacitated. McCoy was amazed that they had gotten away with what they had.

Brack was on the way to meet with McCoy tomorrow. It was that meeting that brought Frank to a position that he did not relish: He had just finished looking through Eileen Thomas briefcase. The woman had been distraught after hearing the news about Hansu's Choctaw operation. McCoy had become suspicious of her for a short while until he discovered that her distress was just one generated out of sympathy for Tate whom she had indicated to Frank she had met while there. McCoy had told Brack a little of his association with the woman. Micah had told McCoy that he should snoop through her belongings to find out anything he could about possible Romulan operations. McCoy felt terrible about it yet he had did it.

One folder showed that some sort of conference was due to take place in Philadelphia next week. The paper had showed that the strange Mister Loch and an associate were due to attend. McCoy wondered if it was a recruitment meeting or if the Sons' were planning something at the urging of the Romulans. McCoy quickly replaced the folder when he heard the bathroom door open. The two had planned on going out for dinner.

"It is so good to have you here Frank," Thomas said as she sat before her mirror on her dresser. She was dressed in nothing but her bath towel. She started combing through her wet hair as she continued. "You know that you can catch a tube to Langley Frank. I don't want to come on too strong but it would be really nice having you here all of the time."

"What if I'm called into space on duty?" Frank asked her. McCoy had wondered about this very subject. Eileen had been dropping some not so subtle hints. Part of him ached to take the woman up on her offer. But the proposition presented a few problems: Namely how was he to conduct his secretive activities right under Eileen's watchful eye?

"Then you are called into space," Thomas answered. "I would miss you. But you are close to retirement and this war may be over soon."

"What do you mean?" the chief asked rather more sharply than he had intended too. He continued in a more conciliatory voice. "Sorry hon it is just that we have been pulling our hair out in intelligence over this thing. I would love to see it stop."

"The Sons' have gained a lot of support—and friends," Eileen answered as she started the miraculous act of putting on makeup. McCoy thanked god again for making him a man. He had always thought that women's makeup was just a little less complicated than subspace equations. She explained as she applied a pad to her cheeks. "We have a few of our people on the council and with our friend in journalism we can continue to spread our message. We are slowly gaining support."

McCoy knew that Maclaren was spreading something. He did not consider what that was as being a message though. Frank thought that he saw an opening that he had not seen since Thomas' return from Oklahoma. "Is that why you went to Oklahoma City babe?"

She turned and looked at him. She smiled. "You know I really can't say much Frank. I know that you support us but you know—party business." She looked at him then said in a softer voice: "Hansu is pledged to help us. They have generously provided money for us to organize protests in several cities. That will show Thorpe and his fascists that the people can't be fooled."

"I'd like to help," McCoy said. "You know that Eileen." He laughed. "Once the uniform comes off nobody knows I'm in the navy. I could help organize some of the groups."

"We'll have to put that off for now dear," Thomas said with a sigh. "Mr. Loch had a setback after that horrible accident in Oklahoma. He wanted us to protest last week but then he notified us at the last minute that plans had changed."

"We could certainly show Thorpe, you are right about that," McCoy declared stridently. He did not feel that way though and it frightened him how easily the lie came to his lips.

"We would have shut down those cities Frank!" Eileen exclaimed. "No one has seen a display like that since the Trials after the last war!" Frank looked on as Eileen got that faraway look in her eyes. She spoke in a voice full of enthusiasm as she plunged on. "And those protests were for the wrong reason too. All Colonel Green wanted to do was ease the suffering of those poor people. He would have too if the protesters hadn't gotten to him first."

"I suppose one of those cities should be San Francisco," McCoy interjected trying to sound as excited as Thomas obviously was. Frank took a seat behind her on Thomas' bed.

"You know that was one of our main areas Frank," Thomas answered excitedly. "I just wish that we could haul out that alien sympathizer Thorpe; take him right out of the Presidium."

"It'll be impressive just disrupting life in those cities," Frank said with an evil grin on his face.

"You've guessed most of what we were going to do," Eileen said as she stood up and stood in front of McCoy. "I have been pushing to get you on the planning cell Frank. I know that you can really help us. That way there doesn't have to be anything between us ever again."

McCoy felt a brief stab at his heart at her words. That was good Frank thought; he must still have some humanity left. He didn't feel like there was any left. McCoy had never been raised to take advantage of another person; especially in the manner he now found himself doing to Thomas. McCoy looked up to see Eileen looking at him; a pleasant smile was on her face.

"Don't feel bad Frank," she said as she ran a hand through his hair. "You'll be in the organization in a better capacity soon—I'll see to it." McCoy realized that she had mistakenly assumed his downcast look was from his exclusion from the inner circle of the Sons' of Terra and not his own feelings of betrayal.

"Thank you Eileen," McCoy answered as he stood up.

"You know I think we should just stay in tonight," Thomas said as she let the towel fall from around her.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Earth, Aug 2157

Brack walked along side the enlisted man. The two had met near Penn's Landing. The area had been a gathering spot for the old American city for well over two hundred years now. Micah remembered this town when it had been dominated by horses drawing carts along. Brack had owned a farm near what was later called Chadd's Ford. Another time, another war Micah mused. The other that was in his head mirrored a third conscious that rejected warfare and violence. But Micah had come to understand why as he was now intimately familiar with the Vulcan heart.

"So your lady told you that they planned to shut down some of our cities?" Brack asked McCoy. The chief nodded in turn. Micah noticed how preoccupied the man seemed. He could guess why too.

"That would leave things in total chaos were attacks to come then," Brack said.

"They would kill their allies here," McCoy replied softly.

"That is why they are called useful idiots," Brack said meaning the Sons' of Terra. He noticed the chief's somewhat angry glance at him. Micah was going to relent but he understood that he had to confront this problem head on. "Frank," Micah began. He stopped near the display of an ancient seagoing warship. "I know that you have feelings for this woman. I didn't mean to imply that she is stupid. Intelligent well-meaning people throughout history have been led on by the promise of fanatics." Brack continued thoughtfully. "Think about this Frank: Were things to have continued without our interference quite possibly your woman would be dead from a gas attack."

"I suppose there is that," McCoy answered. "Okay you are right," McCoy added in an apologetic term. The navy man sighed. "It is just that I have been wrestling with this whole thing. I thought that I would just start a casual relationship with her to obtain information. I despise her politics but…" the man trailed.

"People are people, Frank," Micah told his recently acquired partner. "Do you think every nation that was labeled evil in our past was peopled by a lot of ghouls who ran around performing the cruelest acts they could?" Micah continued before McCoy had a chance to say anything. "In the twentieth century some nations called the old Soviet Union an ally and yet near the conclusion of the second war they stood by while Soviet troops raped German women in Berlin. Do you think that those German women were evil Frank?"

"No," McCoy replied finally after an extremely long pause. The two men had resumed walking. "No Micah I suppose they were victims of war." McCoy sighed again before continuing. "But I don't believe every one of those women stood waving a flag for Germany then just like a lot of them didn't know about the death camps. Eileen on the other hand is an active member…"

"I'm not going to excuse her behavior Frank," Brack said. He sympathized with the man. Relations between men and women were complicated enough; but when politics were added to the mix it could become total chaos. "There is little you can do. She will either continue as she is or she may see the error of her ways after this is all over."

"You seem confident Brack," McCoy said abruptly.

"I'm an optimist Frank," Brack answered. Micah suddenly realized that something else was on McCoy's mind. He guessed what that was as well. He said so next:

"All of this seems a little daunting eh?" Brack chuckled then resumed after McCoy's answering nod. "We were lucky in intercepting the Romulans. It was a narrow thing I'll not deny that. But now we are on to them. It is only going to be us. I happen to believe in what Thorpe is doing. But idealistic people must sometimes be protected by people who are willing to take more extreme measures. As long as you do as you and your admiral have said you were: Forget about all of this after the war, then all will be fine."

"But, damnit Micah, what if we are too late next time?" the reluctant agent asked.

"We are on to them now Frank," Brack answered. "Say Thorpe was to declare marshal law tomorrow and order the navy to descend on all these locations we discovered. Don't you think that these Romulans have planned for that?" McCoy stared blankly back in reply. "Right now we have an advantage--," McCoy asked what that was. It was apparent to Brack that the man was ill-suited to this task. But he would have to become suited Micah realized. "They don't know what happened in Oklahoma. Hopefully they think it was an accident or perhaps that their boy Tate went over the edge. In the meantime it seems that they have returned to pushing political moves while continuing with plans to build more missiles. We have some time. Moreover they will be looking for police and probably UI involvement. That two," he paused and laughed before continuing, "Maverick agents are on to them they probably don't even suspect yet."

"Okay I'll buy that," McCoy answered in a voice that betrayed his lack of confidence in what Brack had just said. "So what is our next move? Do we go blow something up in Trenton?"

"More covert surveillance," Brack replied. He smiled as he added: "And this time I'll show you the proper way to conduct a burglary."

"Ouch!" McCoy exclaimed. "I should have taken my mama's advice. She always said: 'Frank, you want to go in medicine. Don't get involved in other things. What are we looking for?" the navy man asked changing the topic.

"We want to find out exactly how many of these Romulans are here," Brack answered. "How many are here and where they are located," he added.

"Admiral Soames said as much," McCoy answered. It seemed to Brack that the man hesitated a long time before adding: "Then what? I mean this whole thing is under wraps. They aren't going to just leave after we announce that we have caught them."

"I think you know the answer to your question Frank," Brack answered in a stern tone. He did not allow McCoy time to reply. It was time Micah thought, to lay the cards on the table. "They will have to be killed of course." He watched as McCoy visibly gulped. "It sounds cold-blooded I realize that McCoy—but really you know that is what they had planned for us."

McCoy and Brack headed back toward their respective vehicles. The sun was slowly descending into the humid eastern United States afternoon. The walkway was filled with locals out for a stroll as well as tourists both human and alien. Many of the men and women wore Star Fleet uniform jerseys and slacks. Children were running haphazardly through the crowds.


	12. Chapter 12

UES Beagle, Terra Nova, Wolf 359, Aug 2157

"How are things with the crew Mary?" the commodore asked in a brusque businesslike manner.

"They are getting a little worn sir," Chief Mary Vong replied.

"I'd second that sir," Captain Ed Minford chimed in. The man seemed uncomfortable as he resumed. "I concede that you have extraordinary tactical abilities. But I've captained two ships in my life and I've gotten to know how to run a crew. You are pushing sir; pushing way too hard."

Stiles leaned forward in her office chair. Jocelyn preferred her cramped office to hold staff meetings in as opposed to one of the Beagle's few wardrooms. She looked at both of her people. It was at times like this that Stiles really wondered if others realized how serious this war was. It occurred to Jocelyn that neither Vong nor Minford had lost people in the war. Oh, Stiles knew they had lost fellow navy friends. But they had not suffered the intimate loss of one who was close. Or two for that matter Stiles thought bitterly. She was ready with a snapping retort when Stiles thought better of it. Instead she said:

"Mary, make a roster of those who you think really need shore leave," Stiles said. Jocelyn had to concede that some of her people had experienced losses of their own as well. "I'll allow no more than ten percent of the crew out on a seventy-two hour pass."

"Sir we are in for repairs," Minford and Vong cried together. The captain and chief looked at one another and laughed. Finally Vong deferred to Minford's rank. "Sir we can go as high as thirty percent under present circumstances. We can recall most of our personnel within two hours if need be too," the older man argued.

"And we can use the extra twenty in the repair gangs Ed, Mary," Stiles tried to force a smile. Finally she settled on pursing her lips as she continued. "Allow for an extra ration of alcohol in the mess Mary. See if you can put together a rotating forty-eighth hour leave schedule. I'll sign off on that." She looked hard at Minford and Vong as she added: "I hope the Birdies are taking their leave as well."

"They should be tucked down on Deneva after what you did to them sir," Minford said.

Stiles nodded. Jocelyn had taken Thorpe's letter of rebuke hard but she did not stop. Stiles had elected to hang back after the attack on Deneva. Sure enough the Birdies had launched a convoy; apparently for Topaz. The few escorting Sabinus and Veronus class cruisers had never made their destination. The burnt twisted radioactive wreckage of the Romulan convoy now littered space where they had encountered Stiles and her ships. The commodore had not stopped there: Reasoning that the Birdies might have a regular run between Topaz and Deneva she had lain in wait. Stiles had then returned to Wolf immediately after attacking and destroying the second Romulan convoy. The Beagle's casualties had been light: a Tellarite engineer had been electrocuted while trying to repair a power junction on the bridge. Anjin had been burned along with a human gunner trying to put out the fire. The Andorian had survived with minor injuries as had the gunner. Dead and wounded for the rest of the taskforce had been mercifully few as well. That pleased Jocelyn: She wanted experienced spacers to fight the Birdies with.

The commodore sat back. The truth was she only ordered a port call because their supply of Narwhals and Spiders had become dangerously depleted. Stiles was pushing, Minford was right. She was pushing to get rearmed and repaired. The Birdies had proven to be unrelenting. Stiles wanted to show them what a relentless foe was really like.

"I hope that is true Ed," Stiles replied. "But if they are hunkered down that seems like a fine time to nuke them on the surface." She looked at the chief and the captain. "We can't let up now. I feel it. They think that they had us figured out from the beginning—arrogant bastards! Now is not the time to stop. I know we are tired. I know that people are making mistakes. But we can't afford to let up on them now."

Minford and Vong both nodded. Their conspiratorial look at one another did not escape Stiles' attention. She discussed the rest of the taskforce's administrative issues as well as the repair schedule for the ships. When Jocelyn was satisfied that they could set out in ten days instead of the three weeks that had been allotted for her taskforce she dismissed her crewmen after some polite small talk. Minford got up and left. Mary Vong remained standing before Stiles desk.

"Okay chief," Stiles said at last. "I think this is going to be more of the same but go ahead."

"Maybe," the enlisted woman replied. She handed Stiles a roster printed out on a piece of paper. "I figured you'd come up with something like you did on the pass situation. So I took the liberty of drawing up a list of those who have been identified as needing shore leave the most."

Stiles looked at the paper without really looking at the names on it. That was until Vong said that she should review the names. Stiles looked impatiently at the list then returned a bitter smirk to the chief. Stiles' name was at the top of the list.

"Very funny Mary," the commodore said. "But I don't have time to go prancing around on Nova. I wish that I--,"

"The Trafalgar has put in along with the rest of Taskforce 33," Vong said interrupting Stiles. "Sorry sir I just thought that you would like to know that."

Stiles suspected that Trip Tucker's ship would come this way. She had read dispatches that seemed to suggest that some of the survivors of the ill-fated Tarod expeditionary force would make directly for Utopia Planitia. It had been a conundrum to Jocelyn: On the one hand she wanted to see Trip Tucker again; on the other hand she did not want to see Trip Tucker again. Stiles had been trying to put the events on earth behind her. She thought that some small part of her had feelings for the engineer. But another part didn't want her to develop those feelings for anybody again. People died in war Stiles realized. There was seldom some lingering death where the survivors could mentally prepare themselves for the end. Death was fast and brutal in this war. Stiles supposed that had been true for all wars but this was the one she was involved with.

"Very well you have advised me," Stiles said in a formal command voice. "Thank you chief."

"I'll just add this then sir," Vong said. "The repairs won't go any faster by you staying up here like some mother hen. You need the time whether you meet Tucker or not. Go—go get drunk at the O-club down there," the chief said meaning the officer's club. "Drink by yourself until you pass out. Or go run along one of the mountain trails until you tire yourself out."

Stiles shook her head. "No Mary. It looks like the Birdies have subspace sensors. I want to look at a adding a few things to our bag of tricks to defeat that." Stiles held the leave roster out to the chief.

"One last thing sir," the chief added. This time it was Vong's turn to be formal. "You haven't had leave since this thing started." Mary hesitated. Stiles had come to know the chief well enough to know that she had something unpleasant to tell her. Vong took the roster from Jocelyn as she said: "I've talked to the doc. If need be Doc Anders will order you to take a pass."

Vong stepped back from Stiles. Jocelyn had a few seconds to realize that her temper had shown through her facial features. Stiles took a breath and composed herself. Damnit, Jocelyn cursed to herself. She valued Mary's friendship but she also knew the chief had logged many more star hours than had Stiles. That and the look that Vong had shared with Minford led Jocelyn to believe that if she refused Mary's advice then she would soon be receiving a visit from the Beagle's crotchety chief medical officer. Neils Anders was a former reserve surgeon who had been called out of retirement. Commander Anders was an excellent doctor Stiles knew. He was also a hardnosed son of a bitch as far as Jocelyn was concerned.

"Damn you Mary," Stiles said with a contrived grin on her face. "Okay I'll make the preparations."

"Good sir," Vong replied smiling. "I knew that you could be persuaded with a few kind words."

"My ass chief," Stiles replied; this time with genuine laughter. "This was blackmail and you know it."

"Blackmail, me?" the chief declared in mock innocence. "Just make sure you are on the 1700 shuttle sir." Vong snapped a salute to Stiles and turned and left.

Terra Nova, Walston City, Aug 2157

Charles 'Trip' Tucker was surprised that so much of the city had been rebuilt. Many civilians had elected to stay behind despite orders to leave. It was a tribute to humanity as far as the engineer was concerned. Tucker recalled the expression about rats and sinking ships. He supposed that was what made humans—and hell he thought aliens what they were: The ability to hang on; even when things were the darkest.

Star Fleet engineers had built several low permacrete structures replacing the tall thin curving buildings that the colonists had started building after prosperity had come to the colony. The squat Star Fleet made housing was no where near as majestic as the towers of the old city had been but it was functional. Uniformed personnel were in and out of the buildings mixing with a few civilians. Tucker headed to one building in particular: Walston City's only hotel. The cube like multistory building would have looked more at home on nineteenth or twentieth century earth Tucker thought. But it was functional and from what Tucker had heard it was comfortable. Trip didn't really care: He was just happy to get out of the ship.

The engineer entered the heated lobby. This was Terra Nova's fall season and the evening air had been growing crisp. Tucker was relieved to feel warmth on his skin. He was about to make for the registration desk when something in the hotel's bar caught his attention—not something, someone Tucker said to himself. Trip walked into the bar that was styled like some club out of old earth. A large reflective ball hung from the ceiling. Cheaply padded red leather seats and booths dominated the rest of the bar.

"Interested in a good time sailor?" Tucker asked as he tapped the shoulder of the person who had caught his eye.

Jocelyn Stiles turned around on the barstool. She looked angry for just a second then broke out in a grin and just as abruptly stifled that facial expression under a stolid military demeanor.

"Trip—Commander Tucker," Stiles said formally. "It is good to see you again."

"Well, I'll be," Tucker started, then in a voice steeped full of military protocol he said: "It is good to see you sir. Shall I salute?" Stiles was dressed in casual civilian clothes; a nondescript blouse and comfortable slacks. Tucker noted that the combination showed the curves of her athletic body well.

"That is okay Trip," Stiles said. She seemed to soften somewhat; only a little Tucker thought. "It is hard to be a commander one minute and relax the next." She beckoned for Tucker to take a seat beside her.

Tucker put his small grip down and sat himself on the stool. The bartender; an older portly man poured Tucker a Jack Daniels on the rocks after some small talk.

"This makes being from the south worthwhile," Tucker said as he sipped the aromatic drink. Stiles nodded in turn. Trip grew increasingly uncomfortable in the silence that ensued. "Look I thought we had something going after Mars. If you are going to tell me different then you at least owe me an explanation—is it the rank thing?" Tucker blurted out.

"You should know me better than that Trip," Jocelyn replied in a voice devoid of feeling. There was a full minute of silence before Stiles resumed. "You remember what I told you then: I'm not sure that I want to feel that way again. I let my guard down on Mars."

"So you are going to spend the rest of your life like this?" Tucker asked quietly. "What happens when all of this is over? There won't be any Romulans to kill anymore."

"There will be others," Stiles said. This time there was a strong undercurrent of bitterness in her voice. "If that is one thing that this war taught us is that there are people out there who want to kill us. Who knows who or what else is out there."

"But we've met good aliens," Tucker retorted defensively, "the Tellarites and Andorian, hell even the Vulcans in their own way."

"Those pointed-eared bastards stabbed us in the back Trip," Stiles replied sharply. She explained: "Think of where we might be at with the help of a few of their cruisers. Their ships are fifty years in advance of anything we have. But all they think to do is sit back and wait."

"I'm sure they have their reasons," Trip answered cautiously. He sensed that a change of subject was in order. "Your mother is concerned about you, you know. Jo-jo she says that you haven't sent a message in weeks now." Tucker rushed to explain at Stiles look of curiosity. "I guess your mother sort of adopted me after what happened. Anyway two letters from her caught up to me on the Trafalgar. She is worried about you is all."

"You know what I've been doing out here," Stiles said in that cold voice again. "I don't have much time to write frivolous letters."

"Okay I can understand you pushing me away," Tucker said. "I'm just a guy you ran into. But it is another thing to do that to your mother. She has lost a lot—so have you I know. And me too." Tucker tried to think of anything he could to break through the ice. To his surprise the fat bartender who hadn't appeared to be eavesdropping but apparently had, handed Trip a pen and paper. Tucker was puzzled when the man winked at him. Trip turned away from Jocelyn and started scrawling as something occurred to him. When he was done he slid the paper over to the woman.

"There," Trip said with a perfectly straight face, "a frivolous letter and that took me all of thirty seconds."

"Thirty-eight to be exact lad," the bartended interjected.

"There your face won't fall off," Tucker said as Stiles smiled happily.

"This isn't really a letter you know," Stiles said to him. Tucker was happy to see the woman smile. He thought that the light in the room had just visibly increased. "And this stick woman; that is not me on even my worst hair day." She looked at it again. Tucker could see an inner struggle being played out on her face. "And you misspelled love."

"I'm an engineer, not an English major!" Tucker retorted. Trip found himself at a loss for words which he understood could be bad now.

"You two should go out and catch the starlight on Selena Falls," the bartender said as he strode across from the Star Fleet officers. "It is one of the best sites near the city and it is only about half an hour's walk." He looked at Stiles and added: "You really should she it lassie." He looked at Tucker then, "you too lad—it is a very romantic place from what I've been told."

"You've never been there?" Stiles asked the bartender.

"Juliann is not much for that sort of thing," the man replied. His wrinkled his face up at the mention of the person who was obviously in some sort of relationship with him. "Speaking of which," he added as another older, balding man entered the bar and proceeded to a back room. "My relief is here—I have already worked extra today. Juliann will not be," the man paused. His face was a mask of distress. He removed his apron. "I bid you both adieus. Have a good trip to the falls."

"I suppose your name will be mud when you get home late," Trip said as the man stepped from behind the bar. Tucker finished his bourbon in one swallow.

"It already is laddie," the man said. The portly man spoke briefly to his relief. "It is about time you got here Mark."

"Sorry Fenton it was the goddamned car again," Mark complained loudly. "Computers and nuclear power cells and the damn things still break down!" Mark's face filled with concern. "I hope it won't be too bad for you when you get home." His manner and speech suggested that Juliann was a formidable woman indeed. Trip felt a pang of regret for their kindly host as the man left.

"What's say you and I see some falls Jo-jo," Tucker said to Jocelyn. He got up and held out his hand to her. "That is unless you don't want to be seen with a lowly lieutenant commander sir!" Tucker exclaimed with mock military formality.

Stiles got up and took his hand; hesitantly at first. She said: "No, it's just that I don't want to be seen with a guy who draws stick figures in his frivolous letters." She smiled ever so slightly at Tucker then her face grew serious. "I'm not gonna promise you anything Trip. We have now. I'm not going to change—I can't now. I have to see this through. But maybe; like you said when all of this is over—maybe then." Trip could see the doubt plastered upon Stiles' face.

"I suppose that is all I can ask then," Tucker answered as the two headed out of the bar after inquiring of Mark about directions to one of Walston City's most scenic points. "I hope you don't mind if I try to change your mind Jo-jo." Tucker smiled then added in a voice that sounded somewhat fearful; "and please write your mother. She told me if I didn't get you to write she would deal with me when I got back to earth."

"Well then Mister Tucker I will write my mother then," Stiles said with a chuckle. Trip thought a little of the ice had melted: Very little he thought. She added: "I know that woman and she has a fearsome temper. You probably wouldn't be sittin' down for a few hours after she got done with your butt!"

Ri-Fainu City, Vulcan, Aug 2157

Gupta stared at the glyphs on the metallic surface of the Ka'Al' Zin until they seemed to be crawling before his eyes like some sort of twisted worms. The Indian had read as much as he could on ancient Vulcan. Tarang had copied the glyphs and fed them through his computer with no positive result. The writing seemed to be a variation from one of Vulcan's early tribes. But then again from what the naval officer had learned the writing could just as well be a corrupted form of a later language variant. Tarang sighed as he looked at the metallic shape.

"What do you say?" Gupta whispered to the object.

"I do not believe that will yield any results Tarang," T'Pol said as she entered the inner office of Pan-Pac Corporation.

They had returned several days ago. T'Pol had gotten in touch with her mother who had warned her not to come home for now. T'Les had not said why but both Gupta and T'Pol had guessed it had something to do with T'Les' involvement with the Syrranites. It had become obvious that T'Les had hidden her belief; even from her daughter. But with the government rounding Syrranites up Gupta had conjectured that T'Les did not want to share the danger of arrest with T'Pol. Gupta had felt awkward about the whole situation.

Despite what had happened in the desert he had since reexamined things: T'Pol was married according to the laws and customs of her people. Gupta had grown up in a culture steeped in custom so the Indian realized that breaking those self-imposed rules could have disastrous results among families. Tarang sensed that T'Pol wanted to discuss the matter with him further. But both of them were deeply involved with the mystery of what had happened to Syrran as well as what to do with the Ka' Al' Zin. Gupta recalled Syrran's words: The Kir'Shara was located in the ruins of the T'Karath sanctuary. But where was that Gupta wondered? Did T'Les have that knowledge he wondered?

"I did not expect it to," Gupta replied. He looked at T'Pol.

"You have something that you wish to say to me?" the Vulcan woman asked him without ceremony.

"Many things," Gupta replied as he loudly exhaled. "But most pressing I suppose is this Kir'Shara. Syrran mentioned that it is somewhere in the T'Karath Sanctuary."

"I have my doubts that ancient writings will change things all that much for my people," T'Pol said. Gupta now knew her well enough to detect her self-doubt. "Perhaps Syrran was right: Perhaps we have lost our way."

"I cannot speak to that T'Pol," Gupta answered. Tarang sensed that T'Pol was going through what in a human would be called a crisis in faith. Gupta considered himself a good Hindu but sometimes he wondered about gods and fate: How then could he counsel another in that matter Gupta thought. When Gupta resumed it was in a completely different direction. He paused and then plunged ahead with what had been on his mind. "We need to find this T'Karath Sanctuary T'Pol."

She looked at him and replied after a few seconds of thought, "and you believe that my mother may know where it lies?" At Gupta's nod T'Pol continued. "She advised us—me to stay away. I suppose that we can penetrate her home using stealth."

Gupta laughed. "Vulcans don't have a word for 'sneak'," he said reverting to English to express his last word.

"That is because Vulcans do not 'sneak'," Sremen answered as he entered the office. He too had used English.

The young Vulcan man had taken to the import export business actually boosting Gupta's sales figures. Tarang had truthfully experienced a flash of jealousy upon learning of the Vulcan's business acumen. Gupta had thought that Sremen would plod along, well logically he thought. The man continued in his role allowing Gupta time to pursue what was turning out to be a fruitless endeavor. Still Tarang had managed to break away long enough to renegotiate a deal with another Denobulan captain. The freighter commander had intimated to Gupta that this might well be his last Vulcan run: The Denobulan government was near to entering the war on the allied side the captain had told Gupta.

The intelligence officer had received news from Soames that Romulan agents were on earth. Gupta believed as Soames apparently did that the Romulans had used Vulcan for an entry point to earth. He wondered how long they had been here. They seemed to have been on Vulcan long enough to infect the High Command Gupta said in answer to his question. The intelligence officer guessed they were trying to do the same on earth: affect change in the government through nefarious means. That explained to Gupta how a fringe radical group like The Sons' of Terra had managed to get some of their people elected to the Council: Credits had to have came from somewhere because Gupta realized that the Sons' really had little support among their fellow earthmen.

"You just penetrate by stealth," Gupta replied with a smile on his lips.

"Are you two going to leave again?" Sremen asked the Vulcan woman and the human.

"It seems that we must," Gupta replied. "I believe that answers may lie in the sanctuary."

"Answers which may fundamentally change my society," Sremen replied. Gupta could tell that the Vulcan was somewhat bitter. Tarang could detect that: Another human unused to Vulcans could not he knew.

"Was it not you my friend who defended logic as the center of all things?" Gupta asked in reply.

"I did not put it thus Tarang," Sremen answered carefully, "but yes; I believe that logic is that which binds our civilization and defines what makes us Vulcan."

"But it was not always so," T'Pol said. "Once, in the time before the awakening we were a people governed by our emotions. Most accepted logic rather than die before the bombs. Enough Vulcans realized that change must take place so that our civilization would continue."

"It may be impolitic of me to ask this," Gupta started then resumed, "but, just who is Surak?" the lieutenant rushed to explain as he noted the glances from the Vulcans in the room. "I mean I have read some of your history. I have read the outline on Surak. But there seems to be little on the person himself. It is like he just appeared."

Sremen looked at T'Pol. The two held a silent conference. Finally T'Pol replied: "Little is known of Surak's early life. He emerged from The Forge after one of the first nuclear attacks and proceeded to instruct followers in the ways of logic. You have associated religious connotations to Vulcan logic Tarang. There are similarities insofar as a comparison between Surak and figures from some human religions: Surak went about teaching the ways of logic and gradually gained followers. This led to a final confrontation between the followers of logic and those who rejected the teachings of Surak."

"So in essence," Gupta began hesitantly, "my apologies for generalizing a great even in your civilization. So in essence this fellow Surak came out of nowhere and started his teachings. No one knows where he came from before or who he was."

"Scholars surmise that Surak experienced an epiphany while he was out in The Forge," Sremen added. "Some writings say that Surak's emotions were burned away in a horrible battle. That in the clarity of no emotions he came upon the foundations of logic."

"Why do you ask?" T'Pol asked the human.

"I am certainly no archeologist," Gupta replied with a slight chuckle. He could tell that the humor was lost on his Vulcan companions. "But I came to intelligence because I like putting puzzles together. Were this an intelligence gathering situation I would look at the evidence: Photographs, sensor readings, ship movements. If I could not ascertain anything from that," Gupta paused while he gently hefted the ancient Vulcan heirloom. "Then I would try to find out something about the man."

"What do you mean?" Sremen asked.

"I meant," Tarang said as he stood up, "that in absence of hard evidence or where that evidence is difficult to decipher the next step is to try to guess something of the mind behind the movements. Or in this case what Surak was trying to achieve when he left this," he lifted the Ka' Al' Zin up to display it.

The Vulcans looked at one another. Finally T'Pol answered: "Many of our scholars have tried to guess the mind of Surak. The same is true on earth for your ancestors who are long gone."

"But we know he left this," Gupta said displaying the relic. "That could indicate several things: Surak may have guessed that one day future Vulcans would falter. But I think that unlikely." Gupta replaced the object on his desk. He looked at his alien friends with some trepidation in his eyes as he said: "He could have left this record behind because he had a truth to conceal. A truth that would have, at the time damaged all that he was working to achieve. Perhaps he wanted that truth known; in fact I surmise by his actions that is exactly what he wanted. But at a later time when the information would prove less dangerous." Gupta had wanted to say damning but there was no Vulcan word equivalent.

T'Pol nodded as did Sremen. Gupta smiled: Sremen had not exhibited that gesture until recently.

"An interesting theory Tarang," Sremen said at last. "On what do you base it?"

"Earth history," Gupta replied. "Oh I know that is an incredible leap of logic but you have all indicated that Vulcans were once as we are—you even said worse in some cases. Earthmen and women who have done questionable things sometimes have retained the knowledge only allowing it to be released after they have died."

"Are you saying that Surak did something questionable in his--," Sremen started when the outer office alarm chimed indicating that they had a visitor. "It is too soon for my next client," the Vulcan said. Gupta admired the way that Vulcans could tell time using only their developed mental skills. "I shall meet the visitor," Sremen added.

"I'll do that," Gupta said hastily. He was still smarting from the Vulcan's success in business and wanted to conduct some of Pan-Pac affairs himself before the next spy gambit played out. He would show the Vulcan who was the better capitalist Gupta thought.

"Very well Tarang," Sremen said. Gupta had a notion that he could just make out a smirk on the young Vulcan's impassive visage.

Gupta left the inner office and collected his thoughts. It was time to switch from archeology and religion to business again. Tarang briefly felt a spike of homesickness. He wondered how his parents were. Gupta had missed them but after the allied victory over earth and subsequent winning battles out in deep space the intelligence officer had grown less fearful for his parents' health. But now with the knowledge that Romulans were on earth his concerns renewed themselves. All of those thoughts were dismissed however when he saw who his caller was.

Koss stood in front of the counter of Pan-Pac's outer offices. Gupta could see the antagonism visible on the Vulcan's face. This time it was not from being acquainted with Vulcans Gupta realized. The anger was visible for anyone to see. He approached the opposite side of the counter carefully.

"May I--," Gupta began.

"I wish to see my wife human," Koss said in an uncharacteristic violation of courtesies. "I know that she is here. I have been to the home of T'Les and though she forbade me entrance I realized that T'Pol was not there."

T'Pol emerged from the inner office. "Koss it is good to--," she started when Koss interrupted her.

"I do not need your platitudes T'Pol," The Vulcan said in a loud uneven voice. "You have dishonored me before my family. You have violated our ways by being with this human. Even now through our familial bond I can sense your feelings for him."

"What would you have of me Koss?" T'Pol answered. "My association with Tarang is due to my employ by Minis--,"

"Soval is being sought for questioning by the High Command," Koss said. "Minister V'Las himself has issued a statement about Soval. Your employer may soon be dismissed from his position in the cabinet."

"I was not aware of that," T'Pol said. She looked at her husband and after a brief pause said: "You are exhibiting emotions Koss. That is not like our people. But I wonder why that is?"

"You know why that is T'Pol," Koss answered. "It is our customs that you are breaking to be with an off-worlder."

"Your family is connected with the Command's bureaucratic services," T'Pol said. "My family is largely composed of scholars. By marrying me you would gain an ancestral seat at the Vulcan Science Academy. It would greatly enhance your power as well as that of your family."

"I am not marrying you solely for personal gain," Koss said. The anger was gone but it was replaced by something else Tarang thought: Surprise.

"You are not marrying me out of a sense of commitment or lov--," T'Pol started then stopped abruptly. Gupta saw something that he had never seen before: The Vulcan woman's mouth dropped open. She glanced at Tarang quickly. Gupta noted that if anything her complexion was turning even greener. She turned abruptly and stalked away leaving a stunned Gupta and Koss behind.

Both beings stared at where she had stood for several seconds. Then they stared at one another. Gupta had read up on the marriage rites of Vulcans. He doubted that he could prevail in a fight to the death against Koss even though he was acclimated to the harsh Vulcan climate now.

"You," Koss exclaimed, "you humans have done this!" Gupta was amazed to see the emotion seething beneath the Vulcan's exterior. If this was the heart of Vulcan, its past, then it must have been terrible indeed. For one small instance Gupta had a glimpse of the passion that had nearly annihilated a people. Gupta wondered where it would all lead when Koss removed an object from his cloak and slammed it down on the counter.

"Give that to T'Pol human," Koss said. "It is from her mother." The Vulcan took a deep breath. "Tell her that she is released!" Koss exclaimed in a loud voice before he pivoted and stalked out of Pan-Pac's offices.

UES Daedelus, near nebula 1411, Aug 2157

A presentation of the nebula dominated the viewscreen. Cromwell had mixed feelings about their impending arrival at the nebula. Astrometrics had furnished the commander of Daedelus containing an estimation of what they would find: The interstellar dust cloud showed evidence of high energy static discharges. Cromwell guessed from his mental presentation of their quarry that the Sabinus may have been disabled by one of those charges. Commander Somers had detailed an engineering crew to ensure that Daedelus would be well protected prior to their entry of the nebula.

Fourteen-eleven was spectacular to look at Captain Cromwell thought. He felt a pang of regret knowing that Daedelus was out here for military purposes and not to explore the nebula. That was the point of going into space Michael thought. He wondered again what sort of people the Romulans were. Who could see all of this wonder he thought and choose to become conquerors rather than explorers. Daedelus was less than two days from the multi-colored spectacle.

Cromwell was playing a hunch: Those that had been affected by the Zeta Roticuli aliens had held a discussion concerning their experiences. Cromwell had felt that many of them had held things back: He had held a few personal items back himself. Michael was beginning to have doubts about what they would find. But the image and location of the Romulan Sabinus was imprinted into his mind. It seemed as solid to Michael as any fact that he knew the certainty of. Cromwell was considering that fact as his bridge tour neared its end. He heard the bridge doors part. Cromwell swiveled around to see Lisa Somers arrive for her tour.

"How is the work going on the hull?" Cromwell asked as he stifled a yawn.

"Taln tells me that between the hull polarization and the new field coil setup we can dissipate any charge that hits us—within reason." Somers said with a voice steeped in caution.

"You disapprove number one?" Cromwell asked his first officer.

Somers looked around the bridge. She lowered her voice as she said: "We are entering an unknown phenomenon based on a shared psychic experience. Yes sir I am a bit concerned."

"Whatever else that encounter was I feel that these aliens are benevolent," Cromwell replied. "I'm also thoroughly convinced that if they had wanted to they could have pulled some mental trickery that caused us to destroy the ship."

"I suppose there is that," Somers said. "There is also the supply situation.

Cromwell knew that she was right. The captain had taken an awful risk: Daedelus was two months past their forecasted turnaround time. The crew of one-hundred and six was down to food concentrates. Those could be extended in an emergency for another month. But even if they headed back to allied territory now they could not hope to arrive at a port before their foodstuffs ran out.

"I know what I'm risking here commander," Cromwell replied. "We will investigate the planets that astrometrics scanned as we went by." Cromwell could see the doubt on his first officer's face. The science sections had been active using the opportunities provided through their search for the origins and identity of the Romulans. Daedelus had done several flybys of star systems. The astrometrics section had identified several planetary bodies that could be possible Minshara class worlds.

"Are you going to order rationing?" the first officer asked pointedly.

"Starting next week," Cromwell said. "Hopefully, Trudy and Bashir can extend our food supply through onboard hydroponics." Cromwell had brought up the food situation with his chief medical officer who he discovered possessed knowledge of hydroponic gardening. Bashir also had similar knowledge claiming to have gained his skill as a hobby.

"You are relieved sir," Somers stated formally.

"I stand relieved," Cromwell replied in a voice just as steeped in military protocol. He left the bridge.

The captain would have liked nothing better at this point then to get to his quarters and turn in early. But Schultheiss had spoke to him earlier indicating that she wanted to see Cromwell at the end of his duty tour. Thinking of seeing Trudy raised Cromwell's spirits a great deal. He was finding himself enjoying the doctor's company a great deal. Cromwell realized that this would be no social call: Schultheiss had sounded quite concerned about whatever it was that she wanted to discuss with Michael. On the other hand Cromwell thought she did not say it was urgent enough to call him away from the bridge for. Cromwell wondered if it was another problem with Crosby.

Michael was already starting to wake up somewhat as he descended down the ladders of several maintenance crawlways on his way to sick bay. He emerged several minutes later into a corridor packed with the growing tanks for Trudy's gardening. Green-leafed vines supported by thin wires were growing up towards the ceiling. Schultheiss and Bashir felt that with much care they could have some vegetables in another month. In the meantime the corridors and a few of the shuttle bays were taking on the appearance of a greenhouse.

Taln's engineers had increased the lighting in the cruiser's corridors where Schultheiss and Bashir were engaging in their gardening. Energy was one thing Daedelus had in abundance Cromwell knew. Thanks to the matter/anti matter upgrades that were now common on Stellar Navy ships. Cromwell wondered what the future held in store for the new generation of starships. For the first time since this expedition had begun he wondered how long this war could go on.

There was precedent in human and alien history for long conflicts. Could they defeat the Romulans in the foreseeable future Cromwell asked himself. Or would this war drag on for generation after generation growing increasingly destructive as it went along? It would be ironic Cromwell thought that after man's self-inflicted near extinction to have their end come from without. Cromwell stifled the depressing thoughts as he entered sickbay.

Michael made his way back to Schultheiss' office after inquiring of one of Trudy's doctors as to the chief medical officer's whereabouts. He found the tall doctor setting behind her desk staring intently at her computer screen. She did not seem to have noticed Cromwell's entrance.

"It must be something really interesting," Cromwell said after a few seconds causing the doctor to jump in her seat.

"Close the door, please sir," Schultheiss said as she transitioned from studying the data on her screen to conversing with Cromwell. Cromwell did as the doctor instructed; curious now as to what she had to tell him. She wasted no time in coming to the point.

"I have been examining the DNA from the body we discovered," Schultheiss said without ceremony.

"You mentioned abnormalities," Cromwell replied, "it is nothing that could affect the crew?" The captain asked.

"No Olly," Schultheiss replied. "I would have notified you the second I made a discovery like that anyway. No I was wondering if you have ever heard of the Aenar?"

Cromwell dug through his memory coming up with the answer: "They are some sort of Andorian myth. Sort of like Yetis on earth: They are rumored to exist but no conclusive evidence was ever found proving that. Why do you ask?" Cromwell smiled and said in a playful voice, "have you found an Aenar Trudy?"

"Very funny Olly," Schultheiss answered with a slight grin on her lips. She soon resumed a serious look however. She explained further: "What would you say if I told you that I believe there may be another species of Vulcans?"

"They have never mentioned that in all of our association with them," Cromwell replied. "I'm no Vulcan expert but one would think that such knowledge would emerge at some point."

"Come now Herr Captain you know our pointed-eared friends," Trudy said as she sat back and steepled her hands beneath her chin. "They do not lie—they just withhold the truth when it suits them." She beckoned Cromwell to sit down. When the captain was seated across from her she continued. "I examined and reexamined the DNA from the remains of the skeleton. What I had at first took for abnormalities I have since concluded are perfectly normal markers for the gentleman."

Cromwell considered what his medical officer was saying. The Vulcans could be vexing at times: Offering a hand of friendship as they had done after First Contact then withdrawing from a mutual defense pact after over ninety years of friendship. But men had been on Vulcan several times. No evidence had ever been uncovered concerning another species on the same world. Still Cromwell had to acknowledge that what humans knew of Vulcans probably didn't even begin to scratch the surface of their world.

"Was this fellow the only one like that?" the captain asked in reply. When Schultheiss nodded Cromwell added in a speculative voice; "so they brought this fellow along on their expedition. For some reason the captain decided to kill him; all very un-Vulcan like mind you."

"You still do not know exactly what transpired on the surface," Schultheiss retorted.

"We can conclude that the lander commander was the last one standing," Cromwell said. He resumed in a more thoughtful tone. "The Vulcans may not have mentioned another species because they do not know of any." Cromwell rubbed a hand through his hair. This was a puzzle for sure. "We do know that there are similarities among several of the species we have encountered Trudy. That has given rise to Marcel's progenitor stories that he likes so much. But given what we know is it not possible that there is a race similar to Vulcans somewhere?"

"Exactly the question I have been considering myself Olly," Schultheiss replied.

A chill ran down Cromwell's spine. A race related to one of earth's formerly strongest ally Michael thought. A race that was heretofore unknown. Cromwell recalled his discussions with Crosby when the man had first come to Hangar 51. Crosby had briefed Cromwell that intelligence thought that the concealment of the Romulan's physical appearance could be anything from a tactic to generate fear in their enemies to an alien cultural taboo about revealing their appearance. Michael voiced his thoughts to Trudy:

"What if there were an offshoot of men somewhere? I suppose that it would depend on what this other race of men was like. But if these men started a war with aliens, revealing who they were how would that affect things?"

"It would certainly bring earth under scrutiny from the warring parties," Schultheiss answered.

Cromwell suddenly stood up. "There are just too damn many pieces here Trudy!" he exclaimed while trying to pace in the doctor's small office.

Schultheiss giggled. "I have better luck pacing in the main section of sickbay. I do not believe there is space in my office for anything larger than a mouse to pace in."

"I see what you mean," a clearly frustrated Cromwell answered. He resumed his seat. He smiled despite his frustration then grew serious as he said: "Keep your discovery under wraps Trudy."

"I have already done so," Schultheiss replied. "I have gone as far as transferring my findings to a personal journal rather than the sick bay record." She leaned forward as she asked the captain: "You aren't thinking…" the doctor fell silent.

"I do not know," Cromwell answered. "I do believe that I'll hold another discussion with our intelligence officer. Thank you for the work you have put in Trudy."

Schultheiss nodded in turn. An awkward silence fell between the two. Finally it was the doctor who broke that quiet. "We have all been rather secretive since the alien's mental intrusion. I was curious about your experience—if you do not mind me asking captain?"

Cromwell turned red. Part of his experience had concerned the doctor. It had been somewhat personal to him. Michael wondered if besides intruding on the thoughts of others the aliens had caused some of the participants to share their feelings.

"It was mostly boarding their ship," Cromwell answered hastily. "Then I recollect being back in the hospital after my accident on the Sovereign—that was all."

"I was just wondering is all," Schultheiss said. She looked at him then asked suddenly: "What are you going to do when all of this is over Olly?"

"You caught me there Trudy," Cromwell replied truthfully. He really hadn't thought much past the war. He thought about that now however. "I was all primed to retire before all of this began. I don't know if I'll do as I planned or stay in the navy a little longer. I suppose it depends on the type of navy that exists after all of this is over."

"What do you mean?" Schultheiss asked.

"I mean will we have a fire and brimstone military force or an exploratory one?" Cromwell said. His voice clearly betrayed the fact that he preferred the latter. "I joined to see new things—new frontiers and all like the recruiting posters used to say before the war."

"You could stay and shape the future," Schultheiss responded. "I know how you feel about exploration but if anything the Birdies have shown us the need for a strong military force."

"True," Cromwell answered. "But there is no reason why the two can't coexist." Michael laughed. "Maybe I'll teach at the Star Fleet Academy. Not that I'd like living in America. But I suppose I could make sure that the naval officers were explorers first and military men second."

Schultheiss laughed. ""Why stop there?" the doctor asked. "You could become the commandant."

Cromwell laughed. "All those formal uniforms!" he exclaimed with a voice full of mock disdain. "But I suppose that I can polish my boots as well as the next fellow. What are your plans Trudy?" he asked abruptly.

"I was actually thinking about the academy medical program," Schultheiss answered. "I was in the process of considering an assignment to San Francisco before all of this happened. Either way that was my last tour on the Beagle."

Cromwell smiled. "Who knows though what the future holds doctor," he said at last. "Breakfast tomorrow?" he asked quietly.

"Of course Olly," the doctor replied with a smile on her lips.

Wichita, Kansas, earth August 2157

The sky was the color of lead. The hot Kansas sun shined from behind the gathering clouds. Walters looked across a flat plain at the familiar scene. When he was here last corn had been planted. Walters knew that oldman Buckman had rotated crops this year. Bill remembered the old farmer: He had been generous in allowing Walters and his friends to steal some of his crop. That had been close to four years since Bill had taken corn for a barbecue from the man's fields. Four years that felt like four hundred Bill felt. Walters recalled the young man that he had been. It was like looking at the life of another person now.

Walters was out walking despite the threat of a sudden August thunderstorm. The fighter pilot had survived Romulans so he wasn't particularly worried about lightning. Maybe that would be a relief Walters thought. He was walking now to get away from his family's home. The reunion had been just as he had pictured it: His father had shaken his hand then embraced him and wept. His mother had just hugged him and wept. Tom Walters his younger brother had waxed on about how he would join the fleet when he got older. He would be at the minimum age in another two years Walters knew. Bill hoped to god that either the war would be over by then or that the recruiting station docs would find a disqualifying but not serious condition that would exclude the younger Walters from military service.

Bill's older sister Helen had been the one seemingly sane person in the Walters' family. Perhaps it was the influence of her husband Sam Witmer. Bill's brother-in-law had a rare inner ear problem that had excused him from space duty even though the man had volunteered. Karen Witmer had fallen silent on the heaped on praise of Bill from his father, mother and younger brother. Tom had even gone so far as to ask Bill to speak before his high school class. Apparently the young man had bragged up his relation to a decorated war hero.

Walters was surprised to hear of the campaigns attributed to him. Somehow he had gone from a survivor of the Deneva massacre to the hero of the Battle of Deneva. Walters had wanted to shout that running scared for his life was not a battle. He wanted to tell his parents about the screams of his squadmates as they were killed by Birdies and his fall over the gory remains of April Martinez. Walters almost blurted out the story of his last minutes in the Minotaur before he had been rescued. But he had remained silent.

Walters thought of his last discussion with his father. The one that had brought him out to the Kansas prairie:

"What in the hell is wrong with you Billy?" his father had asked. "You sit around the house and don't talk to anyone. It is like pulling your teeth to get you to talk. I know it has to be rough for you out there son. But we are worried."

Walters had been afraid that his parents had discovered other things as well. Bill had received an unpleasant confirmation that his fears were justified:

"And the nights Bill; we can hear you screaming and—and sometimes crying. Doesn't the navy have doctors for that sort of thing Bill? What happened to you out there?"

Yes Walters thought: They have doctors for that sort of thing. But where would he begin Bill wondered? Walters supposed he could check himself in at a military hospital. He would rather be the town nut than a war hero anyway he thought bitterly. But what he really wanted was to get back out there in the fight. Those people knew him. The pilots and maintenance crews knew Walters. They were his family now he thought.

Walters felt that it was time to return. He didn't know what to say to his family. How could he when he didn't understand himself what had happened to him. Bill turned sharply. On second thought if a storm blew up he would only get wet—he couldn't have the good luck to get struck by lightning he thought. Walters spied the figure coming down the ancient highway toward him. It took him a few seconds to recognize her as she was dressed in the same manner as was Bill: Casual shorts and a short sleeve shirt that was comfortable in the hot Kansas summer.

"Did you even know what a mountain was until you left this place?" Sharon Patelli asked as she walked up to Walters. She looked around the flat Kansas prairie. "The earth really is flat here Bill."

"We don't have to walk up and down all of those hills like you folks back east," Walters joked.

"I like this though," Patelli said gesturing toward the gray sky. Faraway a bolt of lightning shot down out of the approaching storm. "It is different from New York State. You have to see a sunrise from the Adirondacks. I can't explain it."

"So you just happened to be out for a stroll and ended up in Kansas?" Walters asked. He knew that Patelli had planned to visit her family in New York.

"I needed a leave from my leave," Patelli replied. She got a distant look in her eyes.

"I feel that way myself Guido," Walters said.

"Hey let's forget the callsigns for now," Sharon retorted. She sighed then added. "I guess that is why I wanted to get away from Old Forge."

Bill fell silent figuring that Patelli would explain what she meant if she chose to do so. Finally she related the tale of her homecoming: It was much the same as Walters' visit home was. Everyone had wanted to hear about her glorious exploits.

"To tell you the truth," Sharon continued, "I would rather have told them about the time Aimless made those fake antennae and stuck them on his head." Both of them laughed. "Remember that new deckhand—a young kid? Aimless had him convinced that he was a pink Andorian; and that he needed special acoustic panels."

Walters laughed heartily. "That poor kid went to the engineer and told him that he needed sound baffling for the pink Andorian's sensitive hearing." Bill guffawed. "I'll never forget the look the chief gave him!"

"Did you go to Minnesota?" Patelli asked. Walters had been invited to St. Paul by Vince Mason's parents.

Bill shook his head. "It was just too close to what happened Gui—Sharon."

"So I guess it hasn't been good for you?" Patelli asked. She motioned back toward where the nondescript houses started at the edge of the Wichita City line.

Walters shook his head sadly. "Same thing as you I guess." Walters looked up beyond the Kansas sky into the blackness that he knew lay beyond. "I don't know," Bill said as he exhaled loudly. "I just feel like I'm living someone else's life. I'm back on the Forge but I have to pretend to be this Billy Walters guy."

"I know what you mean," Sharon replied. "I just want to go back home—to the fleet."

The two were walking side by side back towards the line of homes. Walters glanced over at the pretty fighter pilot. He recalled Vince Mason's advice: That he should pursue Patelli romantically. Walters had felt like an ex-enlisted man who was temporarily an officer so he had been reluctant to approach Sharon whom he felt was a real officer. But now he shared a bond with her that crossed the ranks: They had both experienced the raw terror of combat and the grief from the sudden loss of friends.

"Are you sure the bastard didn't put you on to me?" Walters asked meaning Admiral Buchanan. The admiral had detailed Patelli to ensure that Walters got on the cruiser for earth. Sharon had indeed stuck to Walters for the entire trip.

Patelli shook her head and said: "No Bill; he wanted me to make sure you made it to earth. Beyond that—well," she shot a rueful smile toward him. "I also tailed you to the shuttle terminal to make sure you took the western shuttle. That was orders."

"I didn't see you!" Bill exclaimed.

"Guido is a good callsign for me," Sharon said by way of explanation. "My ancestors were part of an organization that did some shady things on the east coast of the old US. I guess I inherited a little criminal in my makeup. It wasn't hard to follow you." She grinned at him.

"Damn!" Walters cursed. "Some fighter pilot I am: I get followed and don't even know it." Bill shot Sharon a questioning look as he asked: "So you just showed up here?" He asked pointedly.

"I need a friend Bill," Sharon replied. "You know what I mean. We are on leave but I just can't deal with my family and some of my friends. They just get it! They don't have any idea of what we are doing out there." She kicked at a small rock on the old road. "I want to be with someone who understands."

Bill nodded. The two walked in silence to the Walters' family home. Finally Walters asked: "Do you want to go into town with me?"

Sharon nodded. "Sure; you actually have places to go out here?" she asked in an amused tone.

"I thought we would start the evening cow-tipping," Walters said with a broad grin on his face as he continued, "then we could race my dad's groundcar."

"That sounds okay with me!" Patelli shot back.

The two arrived at Walters' home. Bill was quick with the introductions. His parents were somewhat unhappy that the two officers wanted to go off on their own but in the end Clark and Janet Walters relented. So it was that Walters found himself speeding along the ancient interstate road system in the company of Sharon Patelli. The lights of Wichita lit the horizon as the sun sank below the curve of the earth. Walters found a place to park and the couple proceeded from their to a transport tube to the city center. Minutes later Bill Walters and Sharon Patelli emerged from the tube into the hot Wichita night. The heat from the day's sun rose up out of the old concrete and new permacrete sidewalks and streets.

"This is Oldtown," Walters explained to Sharon. "I was thinking we could go to The Loft." Walters explained further at Sharon's questioning look. "It was the first place I ever got drunk at." Walters explained sheepishly.

The two made their way through a small crowd that was milling around the entrance to the combination restaurant tavern. It was just as Walters remembered it: The interior was decorated along the lines of the ancient American west. The skulls of cattle shared spots on the wall along with old style hats of different sorts.

Bill made his way to the bar with Sharon in tow when a voice exclaimed: "Billy—Bill Walters is that you?"

A thin man about the same age as Walters made his way through the crowd from the darkened back of the tavern. He had a broad smile on his face as he came forward and clapped Walters on his back. The man stuck out his hand which Bill took and shook vigorously.

Finally after exchanging pleasantries Walters introduced the man to Sharon: Warren Sheffield had graduated from school with Bill just a few years ago. Walters had immediately went out and enlisted in the marines whereas Sheffield had remained behind to go to school for computer engineering.

"What have you been doing Warren?" Walters asked his old friend as the man escorted Walters and Patelli back to where Sheffield had been sitting with friends.

"I've been with Dave Johnson's harvester servicing company," Sheffield replied. The man introduced Bill and Sharon to his friends. Walters recognized one of Sheffield's friends from school: Patty Baker had not changed much. The heavyset blonde was in the company of a slightly older man. The rest of the group was unknown to Walters.

"So you guys are in the navy?" a medium built ruddy-faced man Sheffield had introduced only as Steve asked. At Walters' and Patelli's answering nods he continued. "What do you think of this disaster on Tarod?" he asked hotly. Steve plunged ahead before either Walters or Patelli could reply. "I'll tell you we were wrong to let our people be led by an alien commander! We don't belong out there anyway. We've prospered from our few colonies but even those were going to be trouble spots."

Walters recalled the colonial timeline for independence. Terra Nova had been in the progress of establishing itself as a separate entity from the earth. Deneva was not far behind whereas Topaz still had a few decades to go before it could stand on its own feet—or all of that was true before the Birdies, Walters thought bitterly. It had been a sore point among earth humans: Their feeling that they had paid for the colonies with no return on their investment.

"We paid for the ships and supplies to set those people up," Steve continued. "Then they were going to turn their backs on us!"

"I think the colonies paid for--," Walters began.

"Now Billy doesn't want to be bogged down hearing about all of that," Warren interjected. "After all these two fine people are out there fighting because of the colonists. And just think," Sheffield started, "who in their right mind would want to emigrate? I mean to live out in the wilds like a lot of animals when we have it so good here on earth."

"The colonists seemed to have it pretty good I thought," Sharon said. "I mean they worked hard to get what they have. And the Birdies took that away."

"If they had stayed put on earth," Patty Baker spoke up and said, "then they wouldn't have had to worry about the Romulans. Who knows we might even have invaded their territory. After all Thorpe never even tried to contact them."

"Well I think he sent out messages--," Walters began.

"He wanted to get us in this war from the start!" Steve spat out. Walters listened incredulously as Steve expounded his theory of a massive conspiracy between Thorpe's government and the Andorians and Tellarites. Walters glanced at Sharon and could immediately tell that she was just as amazed and just as unconvinced as he was. "That is why you guys have to out and fight," Steve concluded.

"Yeah it is obvious now," Patelli jumped in with what Walters knew was her playful tone. "This thing goes so far back that probably even Cochrane knew before First Contact."

"Exactly!" Warren exclaimed. "He was another one who got us into this. If the Pointies hadn't happened by we never woulda got involved in this war." Warren looked at the marines conspiratorially as he added: "You know that he knew the future so that is proof that he was in this plot."

Bill actually laughed as he recalled the old saw about Zefram Cochrane's visitors from the future. Walters had been delighted by such stories as a teen. He considered that tale in the same vain as Nostradamus' predictions and Khan's exile via a spaceship that could not have existed at the time. Warren looked at Walters sharply. Bill could tell from the hushed comments that perhaps between his laughter and Sharon's patronizing that his friend was becoming agitated.

"You can have that attitude," Warren said defensively, "I mean you were brainwashed in the military—more alien influences. We all know that."

"I don't know if you would call it brainwashing," an angry Sharon retorted; "But it's obvious that you could use your mind cleaned out a little."

Bill laid a warning arm on her shoulder. "It is just that we see it out there everyday Warren," Bill interjected. Walters was as angry as Sharon was over his old schoolmate's last comment. But Walters recognized the need to calm things down. "I was sort of curious. We don't hear all of these things out in the fleet," Bill started. "Where did you find out your information?" besides the wall of a latrine Walters thought to himself.

"It is well known now," Steve answered for the group. "Since the Sons' of Terra have been out there telling the truth." Steve looked angry in turn. "You know how Thorpe suppressed everyone that tried to speak out."

"I don't know about that uh Steve," Bill replied. "Seems like there was always freedom of expression; I can't even think of a time like the bad old days." It also occurred to Bill that he had heard about these Sons' of Terra as well. Most of the talk around the wardrooms had portrayed them as people with little intellect and curiosity who seemed to want to make names for themselves.

"No you're wrong Billy," a woman Walters remembered only as Felicia said quietly. Felicia explained further. "It is just that people are afraid to speak up: They can't do that anymore without someone challenging them. We don't any rights nowadays."

Bill had finished high school but hadn't gone any further. He had learned a great deal from many of the senior enlisted people and officers he had served with. So it was that a chill ran down his back at Felicia's comments. People who could speak out unopposed used to exist: In the old fascist regimes, Walters knew. The problem was that those privileges that Felicia mistakenly identified as rights were only granted at someone else's expense. Sure Bill remembered; under those governments people could speak out: If their governors allowed them to do so; and it was always only a certain few who were permitted the privilege.

"If you have good ideas then people listen," Walters said in an effort to placate things with the crowd.

"Too many people are fooled," Warren said. "You remember Linda Nealy Bill?" Warren plunged on without waiting for Bill's answer. "She signed up: She was out there on Tarod and never came back—all because of some pig-snout!"

Sharon looked like she was about to say something that would lead to worse things. Bill could see her frustration where he knew others probably could not. Finally she spoke up but on a different tack than one Walters had expected from her:

"Yeah you are right there Warren," Sharon said with a crooked smile on he lips. Bill groaned inwardly as Sharon started razzing the small group. First she played on childhood notions of aliens suggesting that Tellarites frequently consumed their young. Patelli continued on with tales of Andorian mind control and laser beams shot out of their antennae. Somewhere along that point the crowd realized that they were being played for fools.

"Sensor contact sir," Chief Ezra Crowder announced. Crowder was the one human sensor operator aboard the Kumari. The Alaska native was the only human aboard actually seemed to enjoy the comparatively chill environment of the Andorian ship.

"Maneuver to the eddy Graz," Albright ordered his navigator. Gordon hoped that the combination of secured subspace communication and message drone would make it to to a Star Fleet facility.

Albright leaned forward in his chair as he monitored the Kumari's progress. The Birdie sensors would be blind in the eddy. Gordon hoped to time his attack to jump at maximum warp into the tail end of the Birdie formation. The captain held one reservation: The Kumari's sensors were better then those of their adversaries but they could only just start scanning a phenomena like the swirling subspace disturbance he intended for them to enter. He would have to take the Kumari across the expanse at a slow enough speed to detect anything that might present a hazard. Albright's ship would not have that luxury on the retreating leg.

"Sensors to maximum," Albright ordered. Ensign Crowder nodded in turn. The Kumari was less than eight minutes from its objective. Albright compared the time presented on the tactical display to his wrist chronometer. Gordon had a fleeting hope that if this alliance lasted the alien and human naval personnel could come up with some sort of universal time system. The human was getting tired of doing time conversions in his head.

Trenton, New Jersey, earth, Aug 2157

McCoy crawled under the remains of the ancient chain link fence. For some reason somewhere in his mind he pictured the espionage profession as being a clean but sneaky one. The navy man never thought that he would be crawling around on the ground like he had as a child and later in basic training. It had always amazed the intelligence operative that part of the basic training for enlisted space navy personnel had involved crawling along the ground to avoid gun fire much like a soldier from ancient war. McCoy wondered if soldiers from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries had training to avoid spear thrusts or some such.

Brack crawled ahead of Frank much like a cotton mouth snake from McCoy's native Georgia: Silent and seemingly effortless. McCoy wondered about the man again. How had the industrialist become involved in this McCoy asked? McCoy had been reluctant to fill Admiral Soames in on his new partner. Part of it Frank had to admit to himself was the ease with which he had been caught in Oklahoma and Micah's seemingly effortless entry into the terrorist facility.

The two men stood up. The night was hot and humid. McCoy absently swatted at a mosquito that was buzzing around his left ear. They were still well over two kilometers from their objective which lay toward the heart of the old industrial park. McCoy looked through a pair of infrared glasses. A field stood between them and their objective: An old warehouse in what had once been a shopping mall. The men were sheltered from the direct view of the warehouse by a further outbuilding. Brack had planned it that way.

"Do you see anything Frank?" Brack asked as he stood next to the navy man.

"Nothing hot," Frank answered. McCoy waved a hand scanner before him. "Nothing electromagnetic either," he added.

"I wouldn't count on that as we get closer," Brack said.

"You think they are on to us?" McCoy asked.

"Perhaps not," Brack replied. "But they have to be concerned about Oklahoma."

The Oklahoma authorities had discovered the evidence of McCoy's arson. They blamed Aubrey Tate but since that unfortunate was still incoherent they could not prove anything. It would seem to McCoy that they had to be dubious about the man's gunshot wound to his knee. But, Frank mused; men had done far crazier things to themselves. The whole Oklahoma affair would remain a mystery McCoy hoped. Anyway as Brack had pointed out to Frank it was not likely that if Tate regained his faculties that the first thing the man would do would be to confess his involvement in a terror plot. McCoy accepted that notion.

"We didn't see any laser nets or video equipment," Frank answered. The two had done some long range scouting earlier in the day.

"I expect something here," Brack said. "The trouble is the security system is probably alien. I suppose your admiral doesn't have anything else on their technology?" the industrialist asked.

"Just the things I told you earlier," Frank replied. McCoy had told Brack of the Kumari's successful engagement with the Romulan reinforcements. Frank remembered Brack's wistful look and comment that the enemy was near the end of their resources.

That had been intelligence's assessment as well. McCoy had been at the briefing showing the footage from the Kumari's surveillance drone. The science teams had determined that the characteristic green color of Romulan cruisers were from a glazing process performed on the alloy, McCoy remembered. Frank remembered one science assessment proclaiming that the procedure gave the Birdies a little extra protection from laser fire but did little else to justify the time and cost of doing it. But the Kumari had returned video of gray-skinned Birdie cruisers. Frank also remembered the science division's conclusion that Romulan hulls would be gray if they were not so treated. More than half of the Birdie reinforcements had sported gray hulls. The allied intelligence division of Star Fleet had been very excited by the possibility that these

cruisers had been rushed through production suggesting as Brack had conjectured an end to Birdie industrial capability.

"That just means the Romulans are going to be all that more dangerous," Brack said with a sigh. "You're a historian Frank; you know that human regimes that have had their backs' against the wall sometimes became desperate."

The two men fell silent as they neared the far wall of the shelled out building. Both Brack and McCoy each had night vision glasses that they made use of. McCoy saw two apparently human looking individuals walk unloading boxes from the aircar. Frank could just make out that one was male and the other female. McCoy thought nothing of the scene at first until the short-haired woman picked up a large industrial drum. Frank was familiar with the storage container from his early days in the navy: Those types easily massed around seventy kilos and yet the woman handled it like it was a paper sack. McCoy started somewhat as Brack silently moved closer to him.

"We have a--," Micah started to whisper quietly then stopped.

Both of the would-be burglars looked in amazement as the man and woman turned sharply and looked towards where McCoy and Brack were hiding. McCoy reached for the comfortable weight of his Colt plasma sidearm. He knew that Brack had an ancient pistol with a device on the end that muffled its sound. The man had the weapon out and was pointing it towards the strange man and woman. The navy man and Brack froze as the two looked towards them while conferring with each other. Frank tensed as the woman seemed to have decided to proceed to toward them. McCoy was relieved when her partner laid a restraining hand on her arm.

The woman stopped and turned back. The two continued on with their work. McCoy in the meantime was starting to develop horrible cramps in his legs from being in a prone position for so long. Frank was even restraining his breathing after their near run-in with the man and woman. McCoy broke out in a sweat. He felt rather than saw Micah's warning glance as he considered standing up behind part of the building's crumbled wall. To Frank's relief though the couple shared a drink out of a bottle which they discarded when they were through, then the two got in the sturdy car which after another minute rocketed skyward. McCoy let out an audible breath; he could hear his companion do the same.

The two men got up. Frank adjusted his glasses and surveyed the area before him. He looked down to see Micah sweeping a hand scanner before him. The device was far smaller than the one that Soames had given to Frank; it also seemed to do more. McCoy wondered how the man had come into possession of such an advanced piece of equipment.

"Nothing visible," Brack said as he turned the small scanner off.

"Same here," McCoy answered agreeably. "Good of them to leave the door open for us." Frank said as he motioned to the large overhead door that the pair had left up. Frank was puzzled by Brack's answering grin and shake of his head. He soon realized why his partner was indicating that all was not as easy as it seemed: Three large, vicious looking black dogs emerged. Their angry snarls carried through the dense warm air. Brack fished into his pack until he came up with several chunks of something unidentifiable in a wrapper.

"The most sophisticated security system yet devised," Brack said as he unwrapped what Frank realized were bloody pieces of meat and threw them out in the clearing between them and the dogs. The animals instantly pelted towards them. They slowed down as they smelled the meat. The dogs sniffed and stopped. The dogs ate the tossed meat in several short hungry bites. Their appetites wetted they continued their way towards their intended prey; slowing as they went along. Frank started walking backwards as the largest of the pack entered the outer building. The dog, a Doberman snarled at McCoy—then promptly laid down and fell asleep. Frank heard Micah's soft laughter.

"Damn you," McCoy said with a rueful grin on his face.

"Let's go," Brack said in reply.

The two men crept slowly out of their hiding place and made for the second building. They walked in silence past the sleeping canine guards. McCoy hauled himself up short as Brack picked up the discarded bottle that the two delivery people had drank from. Frank watched as he put the bottle in his pack. McCoy was puzzled for a few seconds until it occurred to him: DNA. The bottle would retain traces of saliva. That was McCoy thought, if Birdies salivated. He wondered again at the apparent show of strength: Hawkface or Chondra as Tate had called her had not exhibited any such attributes. Then again McCoy thought that Brack had given her no chance to exhibit anything.

The two proceeded along to the entrance to the next building. This time they both stopped as their electromagnetic detection equipment warned them of impending danger. They stopped short. One of the offloaded storage drums was close to McCoy. He attempted to pick it up; determined that it was empty but was far too heavy to have been moved with such ease. That would be for a normal human; McCoy had no idea if the two individuals were Romulans or human dupes who spent most of their days in a gym. Frank jerked as he heard a low boom. He settled down a second later when he realized that a summer thunderstorm was on the way. Lightning lit the sky some distance away.

"Damn it Micah I thought this spy business was all about wearing formal suits and drinking cocktails," McCoy said. He continued in a more serious tone, "we are going to get soaked—hell maybe even electrocuted. How are we going to get in there?" McCoy asked as he carefully opened the lid of the storage drum and inserted a chemical sensor probe.

"Nothing lethal I take it?" Brack asked as he rubbed at his chin. He continued as McCoy shook his head. "No; I don't know how we are going to get in there. The security network is pretty thorough."

"I thought that you were cat burglar extraordinaire," McCoy declared tersely. He had become envious of Brack's abilities when it came to covert activities. McCoy looked back over the way they had come as the storm drew closer. Lightning flashed against the horizon lighting up the ancient city.

"Sometimes one has to cut their losses," Brack said absently. Frank could tell that he was considering a way through their predicament.

"Struck by lightning!" the navy man exclaimed.

"Are you alright?" Brack asked.

"Look you're right," McCoy said. He explained; "I am clumsy at this. But all this is powered by something," Frank said gesturing toward the security grid. "I know there are probably backups but if the main power was cut wouldn't some of this stuff go offline?"

"Possibly," Brack said. "But I believe they would notice if we cut the power off."

McCoy removed his plasma pistol. "Not if a power relay were to be struck by lightning," he said as he hefted the Colt. McCoy knew that the energized plasma created burns similar to that made by electricity.

"Let's find a junction," Brack said as they looked around the outside of the building. Micah moved carefully. Frank realized that he was looking for video surveillance equipment. They rounded a corner to discover the entry point where the city's underground power transmission system entered the building. The two backed away behind the protection of the corner of the building.

Frank leaned around and aimed the Colt at the junction box. He had turned up the filter of his glasses in anticipation of firing the weapon. McCoy fired a burst. He was glad for the protection that the night vision glasses gave him. Everything went dark for a second as the power junction exploded in a shower of sparks. The men scurried back to the entrance. Their glasses and Brack's scanner revealed only one laser trip wire in place.

The two burglars easily avoided the remaining laser sentry. The men entered quickly and proceeded to test as many containers as they could. All of them appeared to be empty. McCoy had to ask the industrialist what the chemicals did. Micah told him that most were components of chemical weapons. Frank wondered where Brack had come by such deadly knowledge. The more he became acquainted with the man the more of an enigma Frank thought that Brack was. McCoy had so far avoided asking a lot of questions though he was brimming over with them.

"I think they are dumping used containers here," Brack said at last.

"Meaning they are mixing the stuff somewhere else," McCoy concluded. Brack nodded. "These containers aren't marked but it is possible that there will be a traffic record for that aircar."

"Your admiral should be able to get into the database for that," Brack said. The man started back toward the grassy field. McCoy followed along.

"I suppose that you are going to have that bottle tested?" Frank asked. "If we could just find out what these Birdies were like physically that would do a good deal."

"Oh I think that the lab work will show that our stevedores are human," Brack said tersely.

"How could anyone do that?" Frank asked pointedly meaning the feats of strength. "I mean if they spent hours working out I could believe that. But neither of those people looked like they worked out."

"Unless they were born—or made with enhanced natural strength," Brack said ominously.

Frank stopped walking. "What do you mean?" McCoy asked as a sense of dread filled him. "You aren't talking about…"

"Talking about genetically enhanced human beings?" Brack asked finishing McCoy's query.

"There haven't been any of those around for almost two hundred years!" McCoy protested. Frank didn't like the way the discussion had went. Genetic enhancement of human beings was illegal; with good reason McCoy knew. The world could ill afford another Khan Singh. The two knelt down to crawl under the fence. A thought occurred to McCoy.

"Why do you think that Micah?" the intelligence operative asked. "No one has seen any of those guys. How could you know? How could you suspect that?"

"Two ships Frank," Micah replied, he resumed: "Botany Bay and Papillon."

"C'mon Micah that is hooey and you know it!" McCoy exclaimed. True the world had been ravaged by genetically augmented humans; Frank knew history. But they had been caught and in most cases confined; in a few cases executed. Tales of spaceships and exile were handed down but Frank knew that was usually the case when it came to the more nefarious chapters of earth's history. Frank had chuckled over accounts of the grassy knoll and Fifth Avenue.

"No Frank I know. I was—I know it," Micah replied.

The two men were outside of the fence and on their way to their groundcar. Frank could see the haunted look on Brack's face. He grabbed his comrade's arm causing Brack to spin away. The industrialist had a look of fury on his face. McCoy knew that he would have to start asking that litany of questions he had been thinking about. But now was not the time. Frank did want to know how Brack had reasoned out what he had though. He indicated that to the man.

"I've heard of strength and senses like that before," Brack said at last. McCoy was not convinced that Micah was telling him the whole truth. Brack explained further: "Chondra did not hear me until it was too late. Those two heard us whispering from twenty-five or so meters: Add to that the demonstrated strength. Khan Singh could—was rumored to be able to perform great feats of strength. He could supposedly snatch flies out of the air as well. You saw how fast they reacted when they heard us Frank. It is only logical to assume that these are genetically enhanced humans."

Frank heard that peculiar 'other' voice as he had come to call it in Brack's last utterance. These were the times when McCoy doubted his co-conspirator's sanity. But as he searched his memory of the Eugenics War, McCoy started coming up with the same conclusions as had Micah. Few historical records from that time still existed but there were enough. Still Frank had heard the story of the Botany Bay; but Papillon was unfamiliar to him. He felt that asking Brack anymore would somehow cross a line; still he had to know.

"Engineers in the old United States had made the breakthroughs necessary for first generation sublight engines," Brack explained in reply to Frank's question. Micah noticed McCoy's look of abject skepticism. He explained further: "Most of the records were destroyed in the fires of World War III. The work was hushed. At first the Americans were set to make a grandiose announcement about their discovery: Then the Eugenics War happened. So frightened were the men and women in power then that they decided that rather than suffer the genetically enhanced to live or to become martyrs they would instead commit them to space.

Think about it Frank: There would be a mystery and hushed stories but there would be no augments around which to rally people. The world could rest at last. Or so they thought—they could not have foreseen the war that was to come."

"But the first DY class ships weren't capable of extra-solar travel," Frank protested.

"The ones used to expel Khan and his people could make it," Micah said. "We—they were further ahead in development than the public was allowed to know. You have to remember Frank: This was a time when governments turned on their own people. The US government then was no less culpable than their more stringent cousins. Worse in some ways because a country that keeps secrets when it claims openness has sacrificed its people's freedom to do so." Brack seemed to be looking at something that was not there as he added: "But anyway those prison ships were equipped with state-of-the-art cryogenic units."

Frank considered the possibilities: A group of renegade augmented humans exiled to space. Subspace eddies were just one form of known faster-than-light phenomena. Frank had read that there could be many more of them. A primitive interstellar ship could get caught up in something like that and sent to god knew where Frank guessed. Were such a group to have run into the Birdies it could be possible that the Romulans would have accepted them into their society; rather as willing participants or something else Frank didn't want to think about. Admiral Soames had agonized as had so many others as to how the Romulans seemed to have such a grasp of human culture and yet the Birdies remained a mystery. The popular theory was years of surveillance. Now Frank wondered if the Romulans might not have gotten their information first hand. Frank dismissed those thoughts for now. The next task he realized was locating the Birdies' lab. They had so little to go on Frank thought bitterly.

Worse yet McCoy thought the one person that he worried about the most was the one who had instigated much of what was happening; albeit in an unwitting manner. Frank was having problems reconciling his relationship with Eileen while he was doing what he was doing for the admiral. McCoy wished that he could convince Eileen of just how wrong she was. But her dedication and inner strength was something that had attracted McCoy to her in the first place. Frank wondered again what the end of the war would bring for him and Eileen.

Tehran, Iran, Capital of the Persian Confederacy, earth, Aug 2157

President Gholamreza Sheibani was not pleased. This meeting seemed like it was too late. Not only was the Sons' of Terra movement under full attack from Thorpe and his people but now the president had called for a new unity that would effectively and finally dissolve the old nation states of earth. The worst thing was that the Sons' publicity campaign was failing miserably. Three supporters of the movement had been arrested in Glenn's country for brawling with two Star Fleet troops. Such incidents were anecdotal Sheibani realized but they were also on the rise. An angry mob had set upon a Sons' speaker in Riyadh just yesterday.

President Glenn was not as agitated as Gholamreza was; the Iranian found the American's attitude vexing. Sheibani reflected that westerners seldom took the long view. He worried that the short-sightedness of his allies could be the downfall of all of them. At least their friends from Hansu Corporation seemed to understand the need to move now to ensure the future that the Sons' of Terra was trying to secure for their more wayward human brothers. Sheibani surveyed his guests that were seated around the stylishly crafted marble top table, taking stock of each.

Todd Allen Glenn though a westerner seemed to be a kindred spirit to him the Iranian thought. The vidcaster Carson Maclaren, who Sheibani suspected had at first aligned himself with the Sons' to generate publicity had slowly transformed from that role of profiteer to believer. Herbert French had proven himself useful when it came to discrediting the military; Sheibani knew that Thorpe was too much of a gentleman to disparage to former admiral. The other two at the meeting were question marks Gholamreza thought: Both spoke in that oddly unaccented voice. Kanya Nayyar was a singularly impressive young woman. Sheibani held many of the traditional beliefs when it came to women but the short muscular woman had easily broken the arm of one of his personal guards when that man had tried to exclude her from the meeting. Nayyar seemed to be very protective of her associate: Benjamin Loch was a strange man for someone who proclaimed himself a European, Sheibani thought. Gholamreza thought that Loch shared many of the ideals that he himself had. The president of the confederacy listened as their primary benefactor spoke.

"The protests that you were organizing should be delayed for the meantime," Loch said in an imperious tone. "You will continue your political dealings unencumbered however."

"We are losing the window of opportunity for protests," Glenn supplied. "The Kansas incident sparked much support for the war."

"Remember our plan though Todd," Sheibani interjected, "we must agitate while pretending support for the military." The Iranian nodded toward French as he continued. "That is your purview admiral; to continue to discredit Thorpe's—how do you Euros say it—flunkies." Gholamreza was curios about something: "Tell me my friend why you requested that we change our plans for the protests?" he asked Loch.

"We could not support you monetarily as we had hoped," Loch said coolly. "We experienced a loss at one of our outlets that was a," the man hesitated as he considered his next words. "It was a major financial blow to us."

"It is too bad that the man you were renting your facility from went over the edge," Glenn said. "What was his name; Bates or some such?"

"That is what we have come to discuss," Nayyar declared sharply.

"But the man is insane," Glenn said defensibly. "He seemed to have several gambling debts as well as consorting with immoral women."

Sheibani realized as apparently so did his American counterpart that Nayyar was implying that the explosion at Hansu's US facility was something more than the act of a lone degenerate. The Iranian knew that Thorpe was a considerable adversary. But deep down, he knew that the man would not result to acts of sabotage. That, Gholamreza believed, the libertarian leaning Thorpe would never resort too. Sheibani was wondering how the destruction had set the corporation back. Gholamreza had been in public service for his entire adult life so he had come to see individual and corporate fortunes as being the domains of the state. History had shown again and again Sheibani knew; that unrestrained commerce always was an agent of change; for the worst as far as the Iranian was concerned. So it was that Sheibani knew to keep an eye on sources of income for the state. And he had examined Hansu's statements: Despite the corporation's declared income they seemed to have wealth to spare.

The Iranian wondered how the loss of the industrial complex might have affected them; in fact he was quite skeptical that credits were the issue with Hansu. Sheibani wondered what the real motive of Hansu was. Could it be he asked himself that Loch intended to use the protests to somehow take the lead against his competitors? Gholamreza would not put it past a businessman to do so. That the Iranian leader reflected was the reason that the state should manage entities and people rather than permitting this unrestrained freedom. That way lay chaos Sheibani knew.

"You can recoup your loss—," Sheibani started when Nayyar rudely spoke over him.

"You wanted our aid," the Indian woman said fiercely. "Have you been forthcoming with us though?"

"What do you mean?" Admiral French spoke up for the first time since they had exchanged pleasantries that morning.

Nayyar was about to respond when Loch held up his hand to her in a peculiar sign. Sheibani wondered if they had some sort of code they used to communicate between them. "What Kanya means is that the information that you supplied to us about your internal security agencies seems to be lacking."

"We have been open with you," Todd Glenn said.

"I can confirm that sir," Sheibani added. He had wondered why the corporation needed that particular information. Gholamreza had assumed that Loch wanted to do some industrial espionage against his competitors. But now he grew skeptical about his former assumption. Still Hansu had been generous and Sheibani as a skilled politician did not want to do something to cut off a stream of credits.

"I do not trust President Thorpe," Loch said. "I am unclear as to why a leader would allow his world to be open to outsiders who might then destroy it. Not all worlds are thus."

"Thorpe has some misguided notions," Sheibani said. "We agree my friend about the rule of government. It is why the Sons' of Terra will prevail in the end. People seek control rather than freedom. They may say otherwise as individuals but as a group they have always done the other. People like Thorpe believe otherwise. They can usually be convinced of the error of their ways through—other means."

"That is why my company supports you sir," Loch said in his peculiar flat tone. "I believe as you do." Loch looked at Sheibani and Thorpe as he asked: "So you believe that the president would not order any of your security agencies to investigate ordinary citizens such as ourselves?" Loch motioned to himself and Nayyar.

"Absolutely not," Sheibani said. Glenn chimed in with a similar opinion. Sheibani resumed. "Thorpe's romance with his ideals of liberty would not allow him to do any such thing. He has sent out an advisory to police departments and such to be more vigilant; but nothing else."

"What of your military?" Nayyar spit out. "We know that the Stellar Navy has an investigative arm."

"Only for internal military investigations," French answered.

"I see what our friend is driving at," Carson Maclaren said as he downed the final drink of his tea. "True, military involvement in domestic affairs is a capital crime but it is possible that Thorpe has charged one of his officers to do more than sit back."

"I do not believe that Thorpe would do that!" Sheibani exclaimed. No, he thought it just did not fit Thorpe's character Gholamreza thought. Despite the United Earth's president's blackmail of he and Glenn that move had been purely political; Sheibani knew the difference between that and spying.

"But navy personnel may not hold with Thorpe's high-mindedness," Maclaren said. "As a journalist I've always been wary of the military. They try to hold themselves up as being beyond reproach." Maclaren rocked back in his chair. "We've all heard fictional accounts of the Praetorian Guard: A story that doubtless was started to bolster the idea that the military is some kind of bastion of honor—rubbish! Those bastards are not to be trusted."

"I cannot accept that," French declared in an argumentative voice. "Just the penalties alone would discourage most from doing that."

"Not all of your military is composed of cowards," Nayyar declared.

Sheibani watched as French visibly wilted at the woman's statement as if from a blow. The Iranian knew that this was a time for intervention. Too many hours arguing before parliament had taught Sheibani that. French was an active contributor to the cause and what Nayyar saw as fecklessness and fear from the man Sheibani knew that the retired admiral had tried to act for the good of the earth. Gholamreza knew of French's attempt to negotiate with the Romulans: An act which in Sheibani's opinion might have ended the war.

"I do believe that Admiral French refers to most of the navy," Sheibani said in an attempt to placate French and Nayyar. Sheibani licked his lips as he continued. "I believe however that rogue elements can exist in any organization." Gholamreza turned to Glenn. "We can use our connections to investigate further Todd."

"When we find these rogues we shall deal with them" Nayyar said calmly.

A chill went through Sheibani. The woman's tone and her earlier actions with the Iranian's personal guard left no doubt to him as to how the individual or individuals concerned would be dealt with. Well, Gholamreza thought, the old ways were really the best. Sometimes extreme measures had to be taken the leader knew. Sheibani sometimes thought that he belonged in an earlier era: A time when order and authority were respected.

"Yes," Loch said deferring to his aggressive partner. "But let us move on to another matter." Loch looked at each of them in turn before he proceeded. "I've said that I want you to put demonstrations on hold—for now."

"And for the future?" the American president asked in a conspiratorial voice.

"This may not leave us my friends," Loch replied. "Soon I will give you a date—sometime in October. I will in the meantime ensure that you have more than adequate funds for your activities." Loch looked at Sheibani. "You are right that we shall soon recover our losses Gholamreza."

"October is excellent," Maclaren said. "We can use the time to gin up public support—play the masses to maneuver them in the direction we want." The journalist looked to the two presidents. "You two have been in consultation with our people on the Council. It would help if they could slow down Thorpe's plans. People are ready to hand us over to aliens." This last Maclaren added with a sad shake of his head.

"We shall advise them to that effect," Sheibani replied.

"Good," Loch said. "This demonstration must be large. We should tie-up the major cities at least and San Francisco in particular. We shall show Thorpe that the people's words must be heard."

"Agreed," Sheibani said heartily. The Iranian had entered the meeting in a somber, pessimistic mood. Now he felt once again that there was hope. The Sons' of Terra had powerful friends and Maclaren was a master of manipulating public opinion. Gholamreza had doubted Loch's motives but he was relieved that the man along with his assets had decided to stay committed to their cause. So many fair-weather friends as westerners called them had left the organization in the past month; since the night of Thorpe's acceptance speech in fact. But the president felt buoyed: They would yet prevail.

UES Daedelus on final approach to Nebula 1411, Aug 2157

Mariel Picard liked the shuttle bay. It was the most spacious compartment aboard the cramped starship. That both pleased her and saddened her: Pleased to get into some kind of open space but saddened at the reminder of the open space about the Picard family's grape arbors. Part of the auxiliary shuttle bay had been converted for a hydroponics growing area. The rest of it had been cordoned off for crew sporting events; anything from quash to American basketball. The civilians had even fielded a formidable indoor soccer team that had given the Star Fleet people a run for their money. Picard had cheered her fellow scientists and technicians along. The bay was not anywhere near the dimensions of an official soccer field which caused the games to sometimes become raucous.

Today she just wanted to walk back and forth and think. Alvin was on duty as Daedelus neared the spectacular looking nebula. Mariel was glad that her intended was not around: She had become increasingly frightened of him since their encounter with the alien vessel. He had gotten her alone soon after the strange encounter with the aliens. Mariel still bore the bruises from that encounter. She was proud of herself that she had hidden the telltale marks from Trudy and simultaneously sickened that she was concealing her abuse from people who wanted to help her. Worse yet was Crosby's reaction after he had completed his assault. Mariel had never seen fear so keenly displayed on one's face as she had on Crosby's that day. The couple had not spoken since.

Some navy personnel had been playing an Andorian game called paresis squares in the bay. It looked fairly intense. Picard knew that Cromwell had issued a statement proclaiming that if there were anymore injuries from the game then it would be forbidden. The game had looked exciting and Mariel had been pleased when she saw Marcel Dieulafoy playing. The two had made fast friends as they shared a common language. Mariel had never pictured the seemingly gentle sedate archeologist as a rough and tumble competitor. She was amazed when her countryman practically ran down a Tellarite who was blocking the goal. She had clapped happily when Marcel's team scored the winning goal. The game broke up as crewmen made their way to get cleaned up and return to duty stations before Daedelus' entry into the nebula.

Dieulafoy had lingered as he finished saying goodbye to his teammates. He walked over to Mariel. His jersey was soaked with sweat. He smiled broadly and greeted Mariel in French. The two talked about the upcoming mission and what they could possibly find in the nebula. There was much conjecture about Schultheiss' findings regarding the deceased Vulcan. The mathematician and archeologist fell to discussing the mystery of the Vulcan expedition.

"The captain asked me to pursue my findings," Marcel said in regards to his archeological research of the ruins they had discovered in the 61 Virginis system. "He asked me if there were any comparisons between the Debrune ruins and Vulcan artifacts." Dieulafoy's face assumed a look of consternation. "Now why would he suggest such a thing?"

"I do not know," Picard replied. "I asked Trudy about the remains she was working with: She said that it was a Vulcan male—only that." Picard also recalled how the doctor had become suddenly reserved over Mariel's inquiry concerning Schultheiss' analysis of the alien DNA. "She has been somewhat elusive but that is only my opinion—did you discover anything after the captain's suggestion?"

"There are remarkable similarities between early Vulcan glyphs and the Debrune writings," Marcel answered. Picard could see a faraway look in his eyes as he continued. "There could be a relationship."

"Could it be evidence of the Progenitors?" Picard asked. She was excited about the possibility; more so because she knew it was one of Marcel's pet theories.

"The timing is several million years too late for a direct correlation of course," Dieulafoy replied in a circumspect tone. "But it certainly suggests a common language form between two different alien civilizations. There are far more similarities than say between Vulcan and Tellarite."

"But I made a possible discovery when I considered the idea that these Debrune were migrants on their way to another place," Dieulafoy said excitedly. "I examined pictographs that might involve transitory migration and made some comparisons." Marcel looked down as he continued. "It is all speculation but one theme seemed to run through many of the glyphs." At Mariel's inquisitive look he resumed: "Reclaiming lost status of some sort along with annexing a continent or perhaps a whole world. There is evidence suggesting that these Debrune were exiled from their original world and they wish to return there."

"No idea which world that was?" Picard asked.

"Metallurgical examination and residual radiation signatures tell us that we are looking at a very elemental warp drive," Marcel answered; "definitely nuclear powered. It would be as if humans took Cochrane's first design and headed out to the stars. Drawing upon loci of stars within range of what an early fusion powered warp drive had there are several conclusions: They may have come from the vicinity of one of the allied core worlds as well as near this Romulan Empire."

"Could they not have come from further away?" Picard asked.

"That is a possibility but generational data doesn't support that," Marcel answered. "There are clues that lead me to believe that the first Debrune were the ones who completed the journey from their original world."

"They could be off-shoots of these Romulans," Picard suggested. "Of course there is the language conundrum but you have already mentioned common language forms among several of the races that we have already encountered."

"I suppose I shall have to go back to the drawing board as the English say," Dieulafoy said wistfully. The Frenchman turned the topic to lighter matters.

"You have the inside information on the captain and our doctor," Marcel said with a twinkle in his eye. Schultheiss' and Cromwell's frequent breakfast and dinner liaisons were the talk of the ship Mariel knew.

"Trudy has quite the glow these days," Picard said with a grin on her face. "She tries to conceal it behind that mask of professionalism but it is there to see." Indeed Mariel somewhat envied the surgeon. She wished that she was a strong woman as Schultheiss was.

"So you must tell me when they will kiss," Dieulafoy declared in a desperate voice. "I have bet fifty credits in the ship's pool. I bet that they would be caught in the interchange by next week."

Mariel laughed as she pictured the two officers caught in an act of passion in the well traveled section connecting the command hull to the primary hull. Marcel joined her as Picard realized that the two had just shared a thought in common and yet independent of one another. Picard had come to enjoy the archeologist's company; not only as a countryman but as a good friend. So it was that she was surprised when he leaned in quickly and kissed her. Picard started to back away at first then she found herself pressing her lips to his. Then she broke the kiss quickly.

"I…I cannot be doing this Marcel!" she exclaimed as she took a deep breath. She could feel her face flushed with heat.

"What can you be doing Giselle?" Dieulafoy asked. He continued without waiting for her reply: "Making love to a man who beats you?"

"Alvin does not do that!" Picard protested.

"Please spare me Giselle," Dieulafoy pleaded. He reached out and took her hands. Mariel froze in fear. Marcel saw her reaction and withdrew his hands and apologized.

"I am so sorry Giselle," he said. "I would never hurt you." Marcel turned away from her. "You could have anyone you wanted Giselle. Why do you choose a brute that beats you? I am sorry little dove but that is no kind of man."

"He will change!" she exclaimed in a squeaking voice.

"Come now even you doubt your own words Giselle," Dieulafoy said as he turned back to her. "Look I am not pretending to be your knight to rescue you. But I do care for you Giselle." He seemed confused as he said his next words. "No matter what; do not throw away your happiness on him Giselle. Choose anyone; I wish it were me but if it is someone else I would be happy for you; just as long as you are not with that animal anymore Giselle."

Picard was about to protest when Cromwell's voice came over the ship's public address:

"Stand by: We are entering the nebula in less than one minute."

"Do you not have a station to go to lieutenant?" Mariel asked coldly.

"The Stellar Navy was good enough to give me a commission in the pursuit of my digging up ruins," Dieulafoy said as he turned and faced her again. "Unfortunately I am a navigator in name only." He fell silent as the lights in the bay went out. A few seconds later emergency lighting illuminated the bay with a dim light.

Mariel was angry and hurt all at the same time. Marcel had exposed what had been on her mind for a long time. How could Marcel have known she asked herself? Picard had prided herself on her ability to hide the results of Alvin's behavior. Mariel could not believe that Trudy would have betrayed her secret. She thought for moment before she asked:

"Is my business the ship's business?"

"Come now, Giselle," Dieulafoy said. "By now you know most people on Daedelus not only know everyone else's secrets: We even know the name of each other's second cousins and favorite childhood pets. Did you really think to conceal such a problem from people who care about you?"

"If you care about me then you should mind your own business!" Mariel exclaimed. She felt a twinge of regret as Dieulafoy jerked as if hit by a blow. He seemed on the verge of saying more when he shook his head sadly.

"Very well Miss Picard," the archeologist answered. "I shall leave you be. But I must add one thing before I go. Only you can determine rather you will be happy. Do not let another take away that."

"What did you say?" Picard asked. She was flabbergasted: Her father had said almost the same thing to her. The events of the past few months came flooding into her consciousness. Indeed of the last few years. Schultheiss had told her that controlling people accomplished their manipulation slowly. It was almost as if the victim was under a spell Trudy had told her. Mariel had been reluctant to accept that—until now. Up until this moment she had been convinced that nothing of that sort could happen to her. She was too smart she thought: Too well educated, too pretty. It could not happen to her. But it had. She watched as Marcel turned to walk away.

"Wait," she said quietly. Mariel had been fighting how she felt ever since meeting Dieulafoy. The woman had buried her feelings in the adventure of their journey. When that wore off she had retreated into the safety and comfort of higher mathematics and languages.

Picard's mental experience with the aliens was also on her mind: She had pushed it away since the experience happened. But now she thought further about it: Dieulafoy had figured prominently in it. She had been at her parent's home. Alvin was with her at first. The couple was surrounded by their family and friends. Mariel realized on some level that the abuse from Alvin would be no more. She felt happy and safe on a level that heretofore had been unknown to her. Mariel was talking and laughing when she had turned to Alvin to kiss him—only to discover that it was Dieulafoy. The illusion had ended then.

"Do you need something miss?" he inquired. Picard could tell that he was trying to be detached but was doing a poor job of that. She reached out and took his hand.

"I do not know," Mariel answered. She didn't know what to make of Marcel. Mariel saw her life with Crosby and for once realized that part of what had happened she had permitted to happen: No more she thought.

"I know that this is hard for you Mariel," Dieulafoy said. She guessed that he had somehow sensed her thoughts. Picard listened as he spoke. "I told you I know I can't be your knight. But I would like to help you." Mariel could see his confusion. "I would like to be your friend. How is that for a start?"

"That is acceptable," Mariel said. She stepped closer to him and kissed him lightly on his lips. "The doctor says that I must discover who I am for myself." Mariel hesitated before continuing. "She also said that friends could help me with that. I would like you to help me Marcel."

Mariel hesitantly stepped into Dieulafoy's embrace. The two hugged in the shadows of the bay. Picard was even happier after Marcel asked her to dinner later. The lights came back up. Although several minutes had passed neither of them were really aware of the time. Picard was making her own attempts to decipher the Debrune glyphs. She knew she needed to get back to her area to continue her work. Marcel planned on going to the bridge to see how the search was going. The two kissed again and headed their respective ways.

Neither Picard nor Dieulafoy noticed the figure hunched in the shadow of the bay's emergency air lock. Crosby had been silent. The intelligence officer had accomplished everything he could on the bridge; staying there made him think that he was, as his father used to say a third wheel. But he had come to the shuttle bay in search of Mariel only to find that he was a third wheel there as well. Crosby had heard the entire conversation. He realized that she was slipping away from: As he knew that she always would.

Crosby started shuddering uncontrollably as the memory of his experience with the telepathic aliens returned. He ducked further back into the shadow of a bulkhead as the couple walked past him. Alvin had a terrifyingly clear thought that his inability to get a grip on his shivering body was what saved the lives of Mariel and Dieulafoy. Crosby was wearing one of the new plasma sidearms on his hip as were all the Star Fleet personnel. He had wanted to use it to kill the two. Some indeterminable time later he got his body under control. He slipped to the deck to sit with his back against the hull. Everything was coming apart. He was a failure yet again just like his father had always said.

Crosby didn't know what to do. He had nearly gone insane after his experience at the hands of the gray skinned aliens. He loved Mariel and yet that love led to her death. As bad as that dreamlike experience had been Crosby had suffered worse two nights later when he had a nightmare in which his father was administering another of his frequent lessons to Crosby's mother. That had been horrible enough but when he saw his own face where his father's should have been he had woke up screaming. But it all came together now: He was a monster as his father had been. Crosby removed his pistol from its holster.

The officer could go and find Mariel. He was infuriated, but he could find her before anyone realized that anything was wrong. He would kill her then; what he asked himself? There was no place for him to go. Daedelus was too small to hide on. Crosby held the Colt before him. He looked at the business end. That was another way out too. He could do it right here. It wouldn't matter where: His corpse would be discovered soon enough no matter where he killed himself. He moved the pistol toward his head. His hands were quaking so badly that he knew he might well miss. Crosby deliberately jammed the pistol's emitter into his mouth. So forceful had the action been; that he cut his lip on the weapons cool metal. Time for the next step Crosby thought as he wrapped his index finger around the trigger.

"Lieutenant Crosby to the bridge," Commander Lisa Somers' broadcasted voice echoed in the shuttled bay.

He yanked the Colt out of his mouth. The barrel hit one of his upper teeth sending a jolt of pain through his mouth. He was sweating and felt a little ill as he tasted his own blood. Alvin started to stand up when his sickness became severe: He vomited on the bay deck. He didn't care anymore. He returned the Colt to its holster as he reeled toward the shuttle bay hatch on his way to the bridge. The intelligence officer stopped at a comm panel and after a moment to compose himself he told Somers that he would be there in ten minutes. That would give him time to clean up Crosby thought as he departed the bay for his quarters.

Grand Centre, Alberta Province, Canada, earth Aug 2157

He paced back and forth on his balcony. The flies had subsided with the setting of the sun but Herbert French still found the cloying humidity annoying. His wife Kaelin had gone to bed early. The retired admiral had enjoyed a brief second honeymoon with his wife since his return; that despite his busy speaking schedule. Carson Maclaren kept him busy on the stump. But the Sons' of Terra also paid well. More than MIG-Bell had offered him, much more Herb thought as he absently stroked his bare chin. The admiral missed his beard but Maclaren had recommended that he shave it; image and all the vidcaster had told French. The balcony of his Grand Prairie home was attached to the family room so French's sleeplessness did not disturb his wife.

That was well as he was particularly restless on this night. His meeting in Tehran of a few days ago had left him unsettled. Herbert had been a fortunate man for most of his life. French had managed to rise up through the ranks of the Stellar Navy during a time that many people were advocating and the government was supporting the elimination of the military. Herbert had overseen a shrinking navy. For a long time he had as many other humans believed that the military was necessary only as a search and rescue force. French had been a good officer he believed: When his civilian bosses had ordered him to start cutting back on naval forces he had been a good soldier and complied. Now he was having second thoughts about the past.

There had been no enemies during French's long military service. No aliens bent on killing humans. Herbert grasped the handrails of his balcony and looked out. The retired officer was a product of his time he realized. Those times had been peaceful. But all along a danger had lurked in the background. French had been too blind to see it he thought bitterly. The admiral thought back to his actions that day in January aboard the Vigilant. French had come close to selling humanity out. Herbert wiped at his eyes as they moistened up. No more he thought. His fellow naval comrades were out there fighting and dying: They embodied the things that had drawn a young Herb French into the navy almost thirty years earlier.

French went inside for a moment where a glass of brandy set on an end table besides a plush stuffed couch. The liquor smelled sweet French thought as he took a sip and headed back out to his balcony. But no sweetness would relieve his restlessness tonight. He was battling the voices in his head. As the defacto spokesman for the Sons' of Terra anti-military campaign he had found what he at first took for kindred spirits. Now the retired military officer was seeing them as people who were using him. There was that and then there was French's long time affiliation with the navy. Some of his old friends still in the Stellar Navy had turned their backs on him. Most were officers as French had been and they hid their refusals to speak to French behind tactful terms. But Herb realized the real reason: He had become a pariah to them because of his espoused views.

Worst yet after Tehran, French had spoken before a crowd in Vladivostok. Herbert had trouble dealing with Russian but he had been handy with languages all of his life. His speech had been eloquent he thought if somewhat slow in pace as he tried to get the diction and pronunciation just right. French recalled sadly that as he was heading toward his chauffeur driven aircar a young woman with two children, one walking and one cradled close to her bosom, had approached. The woman had greeted the admiral in a neutral tone. She had then gone on to explain how her husband and brother both in Star Fleet had been killed in action. The young lady; she had then introduced herself as Yanka had asked French if her husband and brother had died for nothing—or worse yet she had said alien monsters. Herbert had been prepared with the stock answer provided by Carson Maclaren when he had, much to his amazement blurted out a different answer.

Herbert had thrown his mental script aside and substituted feelings and thoughts that had been growing in him recently. He told Yanka that her husband Denis and brother Venedikt were heroes fighting against a dreadful enemy who had attacked without reason. French had gone on to call her dead spouse and sibling heroes; better men than he French had thought but not added to his consolation of the young woman. But he had finished by telling Yanka that the men had died while writing the future for all of them. He had wanted to say more but one of Maclaren's hired people had gotten to him. The small Japanese woman had physically pulled French away to his ride home. That had ended that. French had yet to receive his customary call from Maclaren telling him where he would be speaking next.

That was just fine Herbert thought as he downed another sip of brandy. The admiral would not be speaking for Maclaren or the Sons' of Terra anymore. It was time; French knew to tell the truth: An hour ago he had placed a call to an old friend of his in what they were now calling the Star Fleet Bureau of Personnel. Herbert had heard the snub in the works from his old comrade; that was until he had rushed forward explaining that he had a story to tell. French also wanted to speak to the Security Directorate about Benjamin Loch and his associates. Something was off about them Herbert knew; something even learning English from a teaching machine could not account for. If Herbert were to put words to it he would say that their actions were—alien.

French could not prove anything and he well knew that his belief could be for naught. But the old navy officer knew he had to act on his suspicions—before it was too late. For once since that day in January Herbert French was at peace with himself. Even Kaelin had detected that. It was with warm thoughts of his wife, the woman who had waited for him all those years he had been out in space that he downed the last drink of his brandy and headed to the couple's bedroom where he knew that she would be sleeping. He headed in and started in fear as the young woman Nayyar stood brazenly in French's living room in the company of a tall thin man with piecing eyes.

"I would remain silent unless you want your wife to suffer admiral," Nayyar said quietly. The woman put a cruel twist in her voice at the mention of his title.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked angrily.

"You should know the answer French," the man said in the same unaccented English as Loch had spoken in. "You have seen our generosity. We know that you have been speaking to the wrong people and saying foolish things. Now you shall experience our wrath."

Herbert looked around desperately. He realized that many in the Sons' were capable of murder but until now never thought that would apply to him. French realized that he was starting to tremble when he steeled himself for the worst. Herbert had been in space too many years to know when the odds were against him such as they were now. The couple's house was out in the Canadian prairie. There were no nearby neighbors to hear and come to his aid. The officer drew himself up and looked his potential executioners in their eyes.

"I ask that you spare Kaelin," He said without fear or pleading in his voice. "She knows nothing of my work for you or what I was going to say."

"We should kill them both!" Nayyar spat out viciously. "We should not leave anything to chance centurion."

The thin man looked back at French then at his venomous companion. "We can afford to be magnanimous Kanya," he said to Nayyar. H then turned back to French. Herbert hated that he could not read the man or get a sense of his intentions. "Granted admiral this business need only be between us three."

"Thank you," French said hoping indeed that his wife would be mercifully spared. For one last minute of his life Herbert French was a sturdy navy officer again. "Your day is coming. I'm not the greatest example of humanity that there is—those fine men and woman are out in space now," French smiled with a sense of abandonment as he added: "You will be seeing them soon enough. You see your error is that you don't know who we are. You don't know one damn thing about humans. You or your masters thought we would be an easy target. You'll find out different--,"

The dart left Nayyar's left hand in an unseen blur. French grabbed at his neck as he felt a momentary sting. Herbert's vision became fuzzy. He felt a shock up his left arm that turned into a numbness that reached into his chest. Herbert tried to breathe; found that he couldn't then realized that he was on the floor. He was vaguely aware that his body was jerking then darkness overcame him.

The two looked down at the body of the former admiral. They spoke in an alien language:

"We have made a thorough study of your physiology Kanya," the centurion said. "Still I am always amazed at how fast the drugs work."

"Their physiology you mean," Nayyar argued forcefully. "We have no relationship to them!"

"Come now Kanya," the centurion said, "these are your makers—or their ancestors were."

"Homo Sapien is soon to become obsolete," Nayyar said. "When we have helped you achieve victory we will rule over our weak," the woman curled her lip in bitterness as she continued: "Our weak parents. We will improve the lot then and remove those who are sick and degenerate."

"We shall grant you that Nayyar," the centurion said.

"So you plan to spare the woman," Nayyar said in a change of subject.

The centurion looked at the Indian. "Of course not, the humans have an expression: Loose ends. Please see to the woman."

Nayyar smiled. "This home is old. I can set it alight to make it look like an accident."

"I trust in you Kanya," the centurion said over his shoulder as he wrapped his travel cape about his shoulders and headed out of the door. Nayyar meanwhile made her way to the bedroom of the recently widowed Herbert French's wife.

T'Z'Pai Province, Vulcan, Aug 2157

Somehow they had managed to make it to T'Les home; Lieutenant Tarang Gupta and his current partner in his amateurish espionage adventure, T'Pol. Security patrols were everywhere which not interfered with Gupta and T'Pol's plans but also apparently earned the security forces the scrutiny of everyday Vulcans. Gupta had wanted to ask T'Pol what was happening. Were this earth the Indian would have concluded that it was something history books referred to as a 'crackdown'; meaning Gupta remembered a suppressing of the population, usually by an oppressive government. Still they had made it to T' Z' Pai Province without incident. A little touch up of Gupta's rounded brows into something more angular had along with a hooded travel cloak had made the intelligence officer passable as a Vulcan.

T'Les was no where to be found: T'Pol had become worried that she had not heard from her mother despite Koss' visit to the woman's home. That and the knowledge that T'Les was a Syrranite and members of that group were being rounded up. Gupta could tell that the woman was concerned. He could also tell that she was pondering Koss' decision to end their marriage agreement. The human wondered what was on the Vulcan woman's mind. He smiled inwardly: He remembered his father saying much the same thing about his mother. Perhaps the two races had more in common than either was willing to admit.

"There is no sign of forced entry," Gupta said in Vulcan. "Of course I am not an investigator," he said then mumbled: "Nor am I a secret agent."

"You have been adequate in that role Tarang," T'Pol said. He had forgotten about Vulcan hearing. "But I tend to agree. I believe that my mother left here of her own accord." she said as they left T'Les' room. "Several items of clothing and her travel bag are gone along with a holophoto of her and my father."

"You may be correct then" Gupta answered. "The question becomes; where did your mother go to?"

"Come with me please," T'Pol beckoned as the couple left T'Les room for another room of the house. Gupta could tell that this room had not seen use in many years. He also gleaned from the art and what he assumed were plaques of sorts that this chamber had a masculine quality to it.

"Your father's," Gupta struggled to find the word; could not and then resorted to English: "Study?"

"Yes and the word is somewhat similar," T'Pol supplied. "Vulcan males maintain a safe area for their personal effects. I wish to see if my mother left anything in there for me."

Gupta was about to ask why that particular place when T'Pol explained. Her father had left a message for T'Pol in that secret place in his study. It was meant to be passed on to T'Pol when she entered adulthood. T'Pol's father had died prior to that yet T'Les felt that it was important that T'Pol read the message. T'Pol guessed that if her mother would leave any clue as to where she had gone that answer would be there in that hiding place. Tarang held back as the Vulcan woman removed a tile in the wall of her father's study. She reached in the darkened space and seconds after a small door, just big enough to accommodate a terran cat, opened across the room.

"Let us see if anything is here," T'Pol said as she walked to the opening and reached in. She withdrew a data wafer and a folded piece of paper. Gupta remained silent as T'Pol unfolded the paper and looked at it.

"May I ask?" he inquired gently.

"It seems that my mother departed in anticipation of being arrested," T'Pol answered at last. "She left this wafer which contains clues to her whereabouts."

"We should view its---," Tarang said when a noise echoed in the hallway outside. Gupta reached beneath his cloak for his pistol when two figures burst into the room. Gupta could not prevent T'Pol from getting tackled and knocked across the room. He was a little taken aback by the fierceness of the attack. It all seemed un-Vulcan like he thought as a Vulcan male with his face covered by some sort of frightful mask swung something at him.

Gupta barely dodged out of the way of the oddly made bladed-ended club. He noticed T'Pol sprawled in a corner. Gupta tripped as he went backwards. He found the Colt and brought it up. Gupta didn't want to shoot but he jarred his elbow on a desk as he fell back: The plasma burst was instantaneous. It also saved the lieutenant's life as his killer's to be abdomen exploded in green gore. Gupta rolled away. So did his plasma pistol which went clattering across the cool stone floor. Tarang rolled to a crouched position to see the other Vulcan remove the angular mask that covered only his mouth and nose. Gupta was shocked as he regained his feet.

The other Vulcan was snarling at him in rage. Tarang had caught a piece of Vulcan anger radiating from Koss. He had felt something tenderer from T'Pol. But the expression on the security man's face was something else indeed. Gupta recalled confronting a school bully once. The boy's face was twisted with rage and he sputtered and drooled. That is what the Vulcan was doing now. The security officer yelled at Tarang in a language not Vulcan, nor English. The Vulcan brought up the odd looking weapon: A wicked looking blade on one end a skull breaking club on the other. Tarang barely managed to duck the club. The end contacted the stone wall sending pieces of masonry flying every which way. Gupta sprang up and managed a low kick to wear he knew Vulcan and human males had something in common. The lieutenant gulped as the man merely smiled at him and brought the club up for another dreadful stroke. Then it hit him: The Vulcan had smiled; cruel though the grin was it was a smile nonetheless.

Gupta made ready for a blow he thought that he could not avoid when he saw a blur. A hand descended on the man's shoulder. The security man tensed then collapsed in a heap. T'Pol stood behind where the Vulcan had collapsed. A trickle of green ran down her right temple. Gupta went to his rescuer and gently took her face in his hands.

"All you alright?" he asked as he examined her head wound.

"My overall physical state is quite good," T'Pol answered in a typically Vulcan fashion. "I was however concerned for your wellbeing."

"I am," Gupta wiped at her blood with the sleeve of his cloak, "quite well. Thank you for whatever you did there."

The two looked at one another. Gupta's face was only a few centimeters from the Vulcan's. Gupta had been concerned about what had happened between T'Pol and Koss. Rather than being enthused over the prospect of T'Pol being available he had instead worried about his involvement over what had happened. Had he, as Koss had accused him, been responsible for the end of their union? Whatever else he wished the Vulcan woman happiness—whatever that meant for a Vulcan. He looked in her eyes—and kissed her.

"What was that?" he asked as he drew back for a second. He meant the thing that she had done to disable Gupta's attacker. Her lips pursued his. She kissed him back before answering:

"It is a method we are taught to disable a person through nonviolence," she replied.

The two backed away from one another. Gupta felt embarrassed and something else as well. But he recovered enough of his wits to realize that the two of them had to move along. If these Vulcans found them it probably would not be too long before others did as well. He told T'Pol of his thoughts.

"I agree Tarang," she answered. "But we must have a destination. We should look at the wafer now."

He agreed as he followed her into the common area. T'Pol inserted the thin square into a slot. A three dimensional map resolved itself on the viewer followed by T'Les's image. She spoke in the typically unemotional Vulcan way but Tarang could tell that she was concerned; he might even have thought scared.

"I am hopeful that you may see this, my daughter," The recorded image of T'Les said. "You know that I have returned to the teachings of Surak. They call us a sect—Syrranites to cover up the truth that has so long been suppressed." T'Pol's mother hesitated. Gupta almost expected a sigh but of course T'Les did not do that. "We have strayed T'Pol. It is not an article of faith as you have heard. Vulcan logic is much more than that. We risk returning to that which we were. Vulcans speak of our violent past but none can know. We have too long lived in peace: But that is because of Surak and not in spite of him." T'Les looked directly into the recording device before continuing. "I have provided a map of my location T'Pol. Come to me if you need to—I am," T'Les looked down in a most human-like gesture, "concerned about you my daughter." The image of T'Les reached forward to turn off the recording device. The image vanished to be followed by an image of a topographical map.

Gupta groaned inwardly when he saw that their destination would take them back out into The Forge: Into the heart of one of Vulcan's most inhospitable regions. Tarang was still putting weight back on from their last journey. Thoughts of the impending trip were soon pushed aside by something else:

"He smiled," Gupta said abruptly meaning his attacker. The events of the evening finally caught up with the naval officer. Gupta had never imagined a Vulcan smiling save one. But Tarang shelved that pleasant thought for later. He explained further at T'Pol's look of curiosity. "You didn't see it. After I shot his comrade," Tarang gulped. Despite being a military man the death of the Vulcan security force man had been his first act of violence. He continued. "First he was furious, and then when he was ready to kill me he smiled."

"You must be mistaken Tarang," T'Pol said. Gupta knew that the Vulcan woman could not have seen the look on the security man's face. "No, I wouldn't mistake something like that. Is there some sect of emotional Vulcan?"

T'Pol replied by telling Gupta of the V'tosh ka'tur. Tarang was amazed to hear that such a group of obviously renegade Vulcans existed. Few of the V'Tosh ka'tur lived on the Vulcan homeworld anymore T'Pol explained. A small number of them indeed had shown a propensity for violence but the incidents of that were few as T'Pol said that the emotional beings stayed cloistered among themselves.

"There has never been a recorded incident of an organized attack such as this one," T'Pol concluded.

"How long does the neck," Tarang searched for a word then converted it to Vulcan in his head as he resumed; "pinch last?"

"We should be leaving soon," T'Pol answered.

"For the middle of The Forge again?" he asked. Gupta was not enthused with the thought of another journey through the desert. He was also out of sorts with the notion of what he was doing. Somehow he was sure that Capt. Soames had not dispatched him to find someone's wayward mother. On the other hand T'Les was affiliated with the Syrranite movement and given Syrran's information about a possible connection between the Vulcan High Command and the Romulan Empire, it was logical to investigate that movement.

The other option was conducting espionage against the High Command itself. Gupta had no idea how he could go about doing that. The lieutenant was not a spy of any sort he thought bitterly. He supposed he could find some kind of an explanation to move his Pan-Pacific offices to the capital. Then what the naval officer wondered? Gupta had been reading accounts of actual spies: Real agents set up operations and cultivated contacts; sometimes the process took years. Gupta believed that his assignment here was not supposed to last for years. He had nothing but intuition to go on. But so far that singularly human ability had helped him to make it through this mission. Right now that intuition was telling him to find out more about the Syrranite movement; maybe even help it along. He said as much to T'Pol as the two of them gathered the supplies they would need for another desert journey.

"You are speaking of fundamentally altering my culture for your own ends," T'Pol said.

"Syrran was more concerned about the changes that would come about if your people allied themselves with the Romulans," Gupta said. Tarang had been sensing a certain agitation from T'Pol when it came to Syrran. He asked her about it as they hefted their heavy packs over their backs and left the house of T'Les.

"I am not—agitated," T'Pol said. Her tone was unemotional on the surface; however Tarang could sense an increased amount of tension. He gave T'Pol a very human look of doubt.

The two walked through the small province until they found suitable, discreet transportation to small city close to where they would enter The Forge again. Gupta had thought he had struck a nerve concerning the leader of the Vulcan sect when she responded:

"He chose to speak to you rather than me before he was taken into custody. I have been thinking about that action: Although Syrran indicated a certain amount of xenophobia concerning humans it was you he chose to speak to."

"I wouldn't call it xenophobia T'Pol," Gupta said, "but doesn't it seem likely that I was the nearest person?"

"Possible although I believe that there is another reason," T'Pol waited awhile before she resumed with her explanation. "Syrran may not have trusted you but you humans are a known quantity. He showed no trust for me. Indeed he was right about the reason I went to the pool—it was to see you. He is right; my mother is right—we have strayed as a people; from those of us who were stationed on other worlds to the High Command. To feel the disdain of another Vulcan because that Vulcan doubts the other's integrity; it is not pleasant."

It was the first time that Gupta had heard T'Pol refer to feelings and emotions. He was aware that Vulcans had them. Certainly T'Pol had not kissed him because it was the logical thing to do. The sense of mistrust directed against one would disturb a human Gupta knew. He imagined that it would be much worse for a Vulcan when members of that race proclaimed their desire to live by a strict code.

"I am sure that you exaggerated things," Gupta said solicitously. "I mean it is not as if you are acting as one of these V'tosh Ka'tur."

"Really?" she asked with surprising candor. "I have caused the end of my marriage—a Vulcan custom dating back thousands of years. I am looking for my mother when the logical thing would be to inquire of the authorities as to her whereabouts. I am attracted to an alien male when my logic tells me that such a relationship would be fraught with problems." T'Pol ticked off reasons: "It is likely that I will outlive you by another human lifetime. How would our respective parents view our association? What of offspring? It has only been hypothesized that humans and Vulcans can interbreed."

"Well that is, that is a," Gupta sputtered in Hindi until T'Pol stopped, looked around and grabbed his arm. She released him quickly after he fell silent.

"Others may hear you," T'Pol cautioned as she looked around the public common area.

People were starting to fill the thoroughfares as the evening temperatures cooled Gupta saw. The two made their way to an air freighter that had offered jump seats to travelers. They had not even been asked for identification. But then Tarang thought, why would they have been asked that? There was no logic in someone providing a false name to book passage as had he and T'Pol done. Gupta led the way as the two boarded the freighter. There were few other travelers that night so the captain sat them down in the crew rest area. Tarang was tired. They had journeyed in a roundabout fashion from

Ri Fainu City. The trip had lasted well over two days. Neither Gupta nor T'Pol had slept much in that time. Still the Indian was restless as he sat himself down in the comfortable seat.

"I'm sorry T'Pol," Gupta said in English. He resumed in Vulcan. "I feel that I created the circumstances that have led to this for you."

"You are not responsible Tarang," T'Pol said. She sat ramrod straight whereas Gupta was slouched in his seat. "I have been struggling with our ways since my arrival on earth. We see that your people retained their emotions and yet you climbed out of the ashes of old wars. We could not do so without the extreme imposition of logic to save us. Some feel that we have given up too much."

"The V'tosh Ka'tur," Gupta said with some finality.

"No Tarang," T'Pol said. "They hearken to the old ways. Some of us have begun to wonder if we can keep our emotions in check while still," She paused for so long that Gupta thought that there was something wrong. He started to ask her what it could be when she finished: "Enjoying them." She continued on. "But now I wonder when the High Command may be allying themselves with the Romulans. Perhaps we have gone too far and it is not the time to discard logic."

"I see," Gupta said. "I am sorry for what has happened then," he said in English, careless of who might overhear though they were alone in the cabin. The cabin lights dimmed as the craft took to the skies.

He felt her hand in his. "Do not be sorry Tarang. I said our people have lost their way. I have made my choice."

UES Daedelus, Nebula 1411, Aug 2157

"Popeye," Lisa Somers said using the ancient flyer's description for heavy fog.

"Agreed number one," Captain Michael Cromwell replied. He was not happy: His ship's speed was limited to the detection range of ancient magnometric and sublight radar. They had been in the nebula for more than a day now with no results; save for one: "Astrophysics is quite pleased though commander. Doctors Paulson and Nagama have practically forgotten their rooming squabble since our entry into the nebula."

Somers groaned in agreement. The entire command crew was familiar with the two doctors who seemed to be at odds over everything lately. Cromwell still had a sour image of being woken during his off time to sort out Greg Paulson's annoying habit of throwing his dirty laundry on Nagama's side of the cabin. Michael would be glad when Daedelus was returned to a military crew. Even scientists with commissions like Dieulafoy were eminently more agreeable than some of their civilian guests. Cromwell knew that these were special circumstances. The day a starship ever started cruising space with civilians aboard would mark the end of the navy he thought.

"We should separate them sir," Somers said.

"Oh no number one," Cromwell said with a wicked grin on his lips. "You will never ascend to command," he said in a mock formal tone, "until you understand discipline. Mr. Paulson and Nagama will remain roommates until the end of our cruise."

"Almost makes me wish we still used water to wash with sir," Somers said. "That way we could ration water and watch the dirty laundry build up!"

"I have revised my opinion of you commander," Cromwell said playfully. "I shall enter an outstanding in your next evaluation under personnel."

The bridge crew, overhearing the banter laughed. They were all tired and bored. The day duty shift was nearing its end and they had been probing the electromagnetic maelstrom to no avail. Even the magnificent vista of the charged gas clouds had lost their appeal after the endless hours.

"Mass contact," Chief Peter Custis said cautiously. It was not the first time that the magnometric sensors had alerted the bridge crew that day. The random areas of electromagnetic energy had created several false returns. Closer approaches to where radar could work would reveal nothing.

"Feed the coordinates to the helm," Somers said as Cromwell nodded his approval: They had danced this waltz several times since their entry into the nebula. "Maneuver to the target Sam," Somers said to Ensign Sam Ward.

"Aye, sir," Ward replied in a bored voice. He added: "Altering heading and slowing to five hundred kph."

"Two minutes fourteen seconds till contact," Custis said. The sensor operator made some adjustments to his instruments. A pulsing audible tone played over the bridge speakers shortening in frequency as they got closer to the new contact.

The bridge doors slid open admitting Doctor Schultheiss. After a quick look around, the tall chief medical officer descended to the command area. She greeted Cromwell and Somers and after exchanging small talk she asked: "Another ghost Olly?" she asked meaning their latest discovery.

Cromwell shrugged and grinned. "Want to make another bet out of it?"

"I already owe you a month's pay," Schultheiss answered. "I think that you rigging the game: You have an inside person in astrometrics."

"That would make up for what I owe you from poker Trudy," Cromwell retorted. The doctor had proven to be quite the shark when it came to that game. The bridge crew could barely hear a small groan from Ensign Ward. Cromwell wasn't sure which Ward liked the most: Playing poker or losing, he did a lot of both.

"We haven't had a table lately Olly," Schultheiss said talking about the command staff poker game. "We should have another game after we clear the nebula."

"We need new blood—players," Somers said with an evil grin. "I suppose that you are out Sam?" she asked Ward. The navigator made motions of fishing through pockets and coming up empty as he turned to the first officer with a sheepish grin on his face.

"Herr Crosby has been delinquent as well," Schultheiss said as she gave Cromwell a knowing glance.

Cromwell in turned passed the look onto his first officer. Crosby had been absent from their games since their encounter with the alien ship. That was good as far as Michael was concerned: He had not liked the man since discovering his problem. Trudy had told the captain to be tolerant and that Crosby had a problem. Cromwell regarded the intelligence officer's affliction as the surgeon called it as a character flaw. Michael supposed it was his upbringing; regardless he did not find the man's company either pleasant or welcome for that matter. But he couldn't afford to let personal prejudices cloud his judgment Cromwell knew; might as well turn Daedelus into a pirate ship then he thought.

Cromwell knew that Somers shared his feelings. The two had discussed the Crosby matter ad nauseum. If this mission was not a war time contingency Cromwell would not have hesitated to downgrade Crosby on his performance report and put him ashore. Let the psychologists and counselors deal with his brutal behavior Michael thought. But Trudy had indicated that the counseling sessions were positive—as far as she could tell Cromwell knew. The captain trusted his chief medical officer but even she had conceded that Crosby and Picard's problem was mutual. The electronic tone grew shorter in interval.

"This is it," Trudy said playfully meaning the new echo.

"Double or nothing?" the captain asked. The surgeon nodded.

"Solid radar return!" the chief exclaimed.

Cromwell shot a quick scowl at Schultheiss then smiled. The captain became all business after that. "Helm, slow to two hundred kph," he said as he studied the sensor readings presented on the main viewer. Ward acknowledged Cromwell. "I want to hold fifteen hundred kilometers away." Cromwell switched on the PA system. "Captain to crew: General quarters, sciences prepare to launch a probe." Cromwell thumbed the PA closed for a few seconds then activated it one more time: "Lieutenant Crosby to the bridge."

"Approaching fifteen hundred, captain," Ward declared.

"Very well ensign," Cromwell said to Ward. "Hold fast," he added. "Chief," Cromwell sprang up out of the chair and went over by Custis' station. When the sensor operator answered at the ready Cromwell resumed. "Can you give me better resolution?"

Custis shook his head doubtfully. "At fifteen hundred in this mess…" He made some adjustments to the ship's video cameras.

The rest of the bridge crew looked on as an unfocused kaleidoscope of discharging gas appeared on the screen. The tone from the radar return was pinging away. Cromwell ordered it silenced as a dark image took form in the middle of the screen. Custis resolved it further until the crew could just make out the cabbage-like shape of a Romulan cruiser. Cromwell tensed for a second until he noticed the Romulan's motion: It was rolling slowly end over end.

"Looks like she is dead," Alvin Crosby said quietly. Michael spun around and faced the intelligence officer. Cromwell had not heard the bridge doors part. If anything he thought that Crosby looked haggard.

"Shall I assemble a team sir?" Crosby asked. Crosby impressed Cromwell as an actor at a bad play: He was saying all the right lines and going through the motions but there was no heart. That disturbed the commander of the Daedelus.

"Do that lieutenant," Cromwell said cautiously then added: "But standby for the results of the probe. I do not plan to send anyone over there to die needlessly." But if there was a need for them to die; Cromwell wanted to push the thought aside but he had to deal with it. He looked up form his revelries to see Trudy looking intently at him. Cromwell guessed that she knew what was on his mind. Anyone who had spent as much time in the service of the Stellar Navy as had Schultheiss and he knew that sometimes people were sent out never to return.

Crosby nodded and slunk away to an auxiliary station: Cromwell could think of no better word for it. But Michael put Crosby and his behavior on a back burner as he followed the preparation and launch of the probe. Trudy came over and stood next to him.

"Do you think that you can trust Herr Crosby?" she asked quietly.

Cromwell shot her a baleful glance. Then he realized that her quiet voice and manner had not betrayed what she had said, to the rest of the bridge personnel. He smiled tersely at her. The probe drew near its quarry. Video from the probe showed a burned and blackened hull. Cromwell certainly thought that the Romulan ship looked dead.

"Probe away," Chief Custis reported. The enlisted man flew the robotic investigator closer to the Romulan cruiser. The quiet on the bridge was so complete that Cromwell could hear the tiny whir of the control panel cooling fans. The closest a shuttle or probe had ever gotten to a disabled Romulan war cruiser had been around five hundred kilometers. There were audible sighs of relief and surprise when Daedelus' tiny probe made it past that distance. "Four hundred kilometers," Custis said after a few minutes.

The man was taking it slow Michael saw. The captain approved heartily. Cromwell watched with bated breath as the probe closed to less than one hundred kilometers of the damaged craft.

"Looks like the vessel is heavily damaged," Taln said as the Andorian observed the viewer. "It is too soon to tell but much of the damage looks to have been caused by energy discharges."

"At least we are better prepared," Cromwell noted. He wondered that the Romulans had not been so prepared. But Taln's preparations were derived from the results of joint human-Andorian-Tellarite expeditions into stellar phenomena. They had gathered the information as explorers. Cromwell had a cynical thought that the Romulans rarely explored. That at least could be one explanation for this ship's apparent demise in the nebula.

"Closing to within ten kilometers," the chief reported. Silence fell again until Custis began a countdown when the probe got within one hundred meters.

The chief maneuvered his robotic partner in an orbit around the slowly tumbling Sabinus. There were two primary airlocks and a larger port that had to be a shuttle bay. One of the airlocks looked to be crushed in and battered beyond the capacity to allow for boarding. The shuttle bay door had, upon cursory examination no way to open it manually. Cromwell watched as Custis settled on the last choice.

"Lock on," Custis declared. They had switched back to Daedelus' video pickup as the small probe had gotten closer and finally contacted the pitted hull of the Romulan Sabinus. "Now open up and say ahhh," the chief muttered under his breath. They had maneuvered the probe to what appeared to be the only intact airlock. "Deploying arms," Custis said as he worked the probes mechanical appendages.

"If anyone can open her chief that would be you," Cromwell said in a reassuring voice as the man manipulated a small joystick on his panel. The captain knew that Custis was the best at what he did. Michael had only come to find out the reason for the enlisted man's moodiness. But then they had all lost people they knew in this war. Cromwell tried to imagine his life had the Romulans not appeared: Somehow the image of the bachelor academic was no longer palatable to him.

"Permission to accompany the boarding party?" the doctor asked.

"Granted," Cromwell said. He reflected that he never would have met Trudy had there been no war. He didn't know where he would go with his chief medical officer. Romance was something relatively new to the solitary Cromwell. Hopefully he thought, the two would have time to do that. If either of them were alive in the next few hours Cromwell thought sadly.

He had long been thinking of Trudy's findings concerning the alien DNA. No one knew what a Romulan looked liked and for some niggling reason he wanted to keep the number that would learn about the Birdies very limited at first. So it was that he chose Schultheiss along with Crosby to make the initial exploration of the derelict. Cromwell would go as well after the resolution of the inevitable argument with Somers.

"It would be nice to get a little manual feedback on this thing," Custis said as he studied torque readings coming from the probe's mechanical hand. Cromwell watched as the reading decreased dramatically.

The bridge viewer returned the image of the Romulan's outer airlock hatch rolling open. The bridge crew stared transfixed at the image. Custis shined the probe's searchlight on a worn panel. Cromwell assumed that it was the internal airlock panel such as was on every human and allied ship. The chief scanned in filling the screen with alien script: The Romulan version of panel labeling Cromwell hoped.

"Do you see another manual?" Cromwell asked the chief meaning another manual override. Custis nodded. Cromwell watched a trickle of sweat roll down the chief's temple. "Do you need some room chief?" Cromwell asked.

"No sir," Custis answered. The chief turned the probe slowly until its cameras caught another of the manual valves. "I'm no engineer," Custis said absently; "but that looks like some kind of interlock. Should be able to close the outer hatch and open the inner one right here."

"I concur captain," Taln said as the engineer studied the airlock valve on the screen.

Cromwell came to a decision. It would seem abrupt but he had been thinking about it for some time. "Commander Somers seal the bridge and initiate security protocols." Somers looked confused for a few seconds before she performed the necessary actions. Cromwell nodded to Crosby. "This is really your purview Crosby."

The intelligence officer drew himself up somewhat before saying in a voice that carried over the bridge: "Everyone is hereby notified that anything you see henceforth is classified until we can decide its disposition." Crosby deferred to Houk who had arrived on the bridge early. "That applies to nonhumans under joint Star Fleet regulations."

"What; are you afraid that they are so ugly they can kill by looks?" Houk asked in typical chiding Tellarite fashion. "I thought you humans and blue bloods were the only ones whose looks could kill."

"We only employ Tellarites to kill with their scents," Taln retorted from the engineering station.

"We will combine our efforts," Houk said to the Andorian. "You scare them to death we will take care of the remainder."

"Inner lock opening," Chief Custis advised.

Everyone forgot about their banter as the viewscreen showed the heavy inner lock of the enemy ship opening. The probe's searing light was the only illumination. Dust particles, the debris of an air breathing respiratory system were highlighted by the white light. The probe's light also revealed torn pieces of metal fragments that reflected the light in a myriad of directions. A boot floated by. It was obvious despite the alien configuration and technology that the Sabinus had suffered internal damage at that point. A large piece of torn metal plating lay directly ahead.

"Try to push it aside chief," Cromwell said helpfully. He was not surprised to see the enlisted man already in the process of doing that.

Custis shook his head. "No go sir," he said. "I've been pushing steady with low thrust. I'm afraid to use anymore," the chief said. There was tension in the man's voice.

Cromwell understood the man's caution: If the obstruction suddenly let loose the probe would then fly headlong uncontrolled into whatever lay beyond. Michael considered his options: He would of course keep Custis at his work with the probe. Cromwell would in the meantime prepare to shuttle over to the Romulan ship. He knew that he could not be one hundred percent sure but he suspected that the self destruct mechanism on the Sabinus was disabled. Still a ship as badly beaten as this one was could be fraught with as many dangers as one set to obliterate itself by its master—or masters. Cromwell had to consider that the Romulan command structure could be shared versus the linear command structure adhered to by humans and the aliens they had thus far encountered. He informed Somers of his plans.

"Sir I know you want to go on the boarding party," Somers argued; "but you know the dangers here: Even boarding a Stellar Navy ship where we know the systems under these circumstances would be dangerous."

"I agree captain," Taln said. "If that pirate was disabled by an energy discharge then the conditions that were made inside that ship would still exist. What if it is hit again while you are over there?"

"Astrometrics has plotted the nearest area of discharge at eight thousand kilometers," Cromwell answered thoughtfully. "In fact the Sabinus' drift indicates that it came from that heading," Cromwell added. "So far we have not observed a discharge reaching out more than two thousand kilometers."

Cromwell could see Taln's doubt not on his face but by the twitch and then droop of the blue-skinned alien's antennae. He could not in good conscience of omitted the qualifier from his last statement. The astrometric section's report had also intimated that build ups in energy levels could cause larger discharges that, like terrestrial lightning bolts could strike out at random possibly from even greater distances.

"I am going over there," Cromwell said ahead of any further argument from Somers. "You are a capable officer Lisa. You are more than fit to captain this vessel." Cromwell lightened his tone somewhat as he continued. "Of course I want to explore the wreck; but there are security concerns as well. Chief Custis please continue your exploration with the probe. If you find a way in with that then I'll delay my departure. In the meantime those who I have designated for the boarding party will prepare to leave."

Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, earth Aug 2157

Thorpe liked being back in his own country. Although he had grown up across the continent the accents and customs were not much different than those of the president's native Alberta. Despite the war and the feeling of unity running through men now it still amazed Thorpe that at the end of the day humans still considered their origins as the country they had grown up in. The funeral held an air of tension to it Thorpe thought. Admiral French and his wife had both been native born Canadians and the Sons' of Terra had wasted no time in using the somber event as a platform.

Christophur walked hand in hand with Maggie past the empty caskets. The admiral's was draped appropriately with the blue and white United Earth flag his wife Kaelin's white casket was plain yet tasteful for the occasion. Thorpe paused briefly and said his blessings for the departed admiral. Although the man had been an opponent Thorpe had to acknowledge the man's accomplishments: French had commanded one of the most far reaching expeditions since that of the unfortunate Valiant. Captain French had then went on to organize earth's somewhat piecemeal navy into a consolidated force. That the man had changed over the years Thorpe could reconcile. He himself was not the same man that he had been twenty years ago.

Thorpe looked back at the precession that wound in a semi-circle around the floor of the ancient maritime cathedral. Whereas the old house of worship used to echo with the sounds of prayers for the lake mariners it now echoed with prayers for mariners of a different kind. The local populace was in full force for the hometown hero and his wife. Thorpe could also make out the figures of Todd Glenn and Mark Hawkins. Glenn was by himself as Mrs. Glenn was known for her disdain of public affairs; that made Thorpe wonder how the two ever managed, with Glenn being as polished a politico as Thorpe was. Mark Hawkins looked like what Thorpe had sized him as: A pretender in a sharp looking suit. Christophur recalled seeing pictures of Jocelyn Stiles father. The man had radiated class even when his image was recorded with him wearing battered old coveralls. Hawkins, Thorpe thought had no class to radiate. It would never matter what the man wore as far as Thorpe was concerned.

Thorpe surveyed the rest of the attendees that he knew. Erica Soames looked resplendent in her gold Stellar Navy formal uniform. Commodore James Leonard looked uncomfortable in his dress uniform. Thorpe recalled that Leonard had served on French's staff. The president knew that the two men had differed in tactics but despite that they had formed a friendship. Christophur vaguely recognized an enlisted man with a pretty blonde woman on his arm; where from he did not know. Thorpe was a little disturbed to see that couple apparently gravitating to the Sons' of Terra crowd. Absent was Admiral Forrest who was still in the process of preparing new strategies for reinforced Romulans.

That was one bright spot Thorpe thought. Further analysis of the Kumari's engagement with the Romulan cruisers had shown not only unprepared hulls but also several ships that were apparently uncompleted. Thorpe wondered if the marine strike force had made it through to Romulus after all. The attack force had not been heard from since their rendezvous with the refueling tanker. More people sent out in a needless war Christophur thought bitterly. What did the Romulans want he wondered? No one knew what they looked like or what their psychology was. But one thing the technical experts had determined: The enemy industrial base seemed at least as sophisticated as that of earth and its allies. So the question Thorpe had been considering of late was why? Unlimited resources were available among the stars so what did the Romulans want in this sector?

Admiral Soames and her people had poured over data that indicated that the Romulans had come a great distance to wage this war. That suggested to Thorpe that it could not be a territorial dispute. Mankind had not accidentally blundered into Romulan space the president thought. No one knew the answer but two schools had emerged: One maintained that the Romulans were conquerors or perhaps even genocidal; another had hinted that the Romulan's ultimate purpose was still a mystery and that they had a defined reason for being here. Thorpe was an adherent to the latter theory; especially given the Romulan's actions after the first attacks: They had not pressed home their assault at a time when earth lay relatively defenseless.

Thorpe waited as Canadian Prime Minister Jean Duplessis spoke of his fellow countryman and French's wife. Thorpe admired the elderly Duplessis who had been the first to reorganize his government from a ruling body to an administrative one working with the United Earth government. That had taken them over fifty years after First Contact Thorpe thought: Fifty years to bury the hatreds from World War III. Duplessis was eloquent and somber at the same time. Thorpe was next up. He had a feeling that Glenn would turn the event to his advantage—to the advantage of the Sons' of Terra. The United Earth president was not disappointed in his assessment.

The American president started by offering his sympathy to French's son and daughter. The son clearly followed the portly admiral's physical form whereas the daughter was a tall willowy young lady. Thorpe wondered from whose side of the family Tatiana French Morcroft had inherited her physical form from: He had met the late Mrs. French who had taken after her husband in that area. Christophur went on to extol the admiral's achievements over his long career. He spoke of how French had been in the navy during the pioneering early days when many of the ships never returned. Thorpe waxed on about the admiral's sacrifice of being away from his family. He closed by saying how the loss of French diminished them all; and those were just not words Thorpe thought to himself as he realized how they would be interpreted. Thorpe truly believed that their differences were man's true strength. That was the trouble with the Son's of Terra he thought: They looked back at a time when a few men tried to make sure differences were done away with.

The president stepped down from the small podium to be replaced by President Todd Glenn. Glenn spent a short few minutes making the comments that protocol demanded; then he launched into an attack on the futility of war. Thorpe agreed with that but did not agree as Glenn intimated that this war was based on man's impromptu expansion. The US president seemed to believe that the Romulans would accept a peaceful solution when they were presented with one. That made Thorpe wonder where Glenn had been for the last year. Thorpe was stirred out of his considerations of Todd Glenn's education and common sense when he realized that the US leader was indirectly chalking French's demise up to Thorpe:

"This world administration has already once demonstrated it recklessness in its protection of a war criminal. Can we not seriously consider that same government might resort to u lawful means to remove people that disagree with it?"

And that was quite enough Christophur thought. He needed to intervene in this travesty. The French's children looked around uncomfortably. Thorpe was trying to think of a reason to shut Glenn down when to his surprise Bernard French stood up from his seat near the altar. The younger version of the admiral looked around nervously. Glenn fell silent.

"My father called me the night that he died," French said. It was apparent to Thorpe that the man did not have his father's gift for public speaking. Todd Glenn started to interject a nicety to regain control when French continued nervously: "I'm—I'm sorry President Glenn. I don't know how my father died except in a fire. But I do know--," His eyes darted around. "I do know that my father made some mistakes."

"It is okay Bernard--," Glenn started.

"No!" the young man interrupted loudly. "He told me before he died; he wanted me to know that the Stellar Navy and--." He looked at Thorpe. "And that President Thorpe is doing the right thing. The Romulans are out to kill us or conquer us—I don't know which. He told me how he regretted almost surrendering all those months ago." There was a startled gasp from the crowd. "I didn't know what he meant. But…" he trailed off and resumed his seat. His wife clutched at him and gave him a loving peck on his cheek.

Now it was Glenn, the polished speaker's turn to be embarrassed. "Well, that was a, that was, that was well said." The president said. He concluded his comments and stepped down allowing the minister to conclude the service with the ancient words of faith.

"That could have gone better," Maggie Thorpe whispered. Christophur was appreciative of his wife's social skills. She knew the hazard of random public comments. Thorpe looked at the vidcaster crews. He had no trouble putting on a somber face: Between the French's' deaths and Glenn's display the United Earth president had much to be sad about.

McCoy felt like a dog his great aunt had once owned. The woman had always dressed the pugnacious creature in all manner of tightly woven knitted sweaters: That was how the NCO felt now. Added to that was Eileen Thomas hanging on his arm; something he would have normally enjoyed. But coupled with the new Stellar Navy formal uniform tunic, the affectionate hold only made matters worse. McCoy was surprised to be in this company: The United Earth president as well as the President of the old United States.

It gave Frank a pause to reflect on where he had been during his naval career. So much of it had been routine until the last few years. He supposed that was true for most naval people these days. The war had changed everything. He shot a quick knowing glance toward Admiral Soames. He found that she was looking at him as well. McCoy could guess why: He bet that the admiral wondered where his loyalties lay. Frank wished to God that Soames knew because lately even he was not so sure. McCoy looked at Eileen. She was pretty and Frank knew erotic underneath. Thomas had all the attributes that McCoy's first wife had not. Their relationship had awakened things in Frank that he had forgotten about in the years since the divorce. Then Frank thought there was the Son's of Terra.

"I could almost believe that Thorpe planned that whole spectacle," Eileen leaned in and whispered to him. She left a nibble on his ear as she pulled away.

"I bet," was all that McCoy could think to reply. These were the times when his loyalties were without question. The whole speech made by Glenn was a spectacle McCoy thought. To say things like that during a funereal was completely without taste Frank thought in disgust. He noticed that the admiral had looked away. Perhaps she had seen something in him.

"Of course it was Frank," Eileen said. "The admiral was one of our best spokesmen. He did much for the cause. Thorpe probably had this whole thing planned."

"I don't know baby," Frank answered. "I don't think that is the way Thorpe operates." Not much of a defense Frank thought but maybe that would penetrate that veil of cynicism that Thomas and many of the more committed Sons' had.

And talk about operating Frank thought. That was what had been bothering him: Micah Brack. Besides the mysteries that the man seemed to come equipped with there were his methods. Some part of McCoy still rebelled against Brack's cavalier attitude towards killing. Birdies or not on some level McCoy still believed in honor and fair play; even though deep down he knew those fine qualities might not be enough.

"Frank, are you alright?" Eileen asked. There was real concern in her voice. At his answering nod she continued. "You know this won't last much longer." Thomas looked around conspiratorially before resuming in the quietest of whispers. "We will be fixing Thorpe in a few months." He started to ask more when Eileen's lips covered his. "Not now," she whispered in reply to his unspoken questions. "But just to let you know you are going to be asked onto the planning cell." She nuzzled his ear again. "October," was all she said with an innocent smile on her lips.

UES Daedelus, Nebula 1411, Aug 2157

"Just us three on this crossing," Captain Michael Cromwell declared.

"The chief wasn't successful I take it?" Doctor Gertrude Schultheiss asked with a sigh. It was evident to Cromwell that his surgeon already knew the answer to her question.

"That hatch was it," Lieutenant Alvin Crosby said quietly. "The probe can't push in. A team can—either we push away the obstruction or burn our way through."

"We should take Taln with us," Trudy said.

"If what the captain suspects, is even remotely true," Crosby started. It was the first time that any of the three had discussed openly the question that had been on Cromwell's mind. They were alone in the ready room as they put on the bulky spacesuits they would need.

"There may be something to this progenitor thing of Marcel's," Schultheiss said. She continued. "But what are the chances that the Romulans are related to the Vulcans; that they are some form of humanoid air breather—I accept that; surveillance has shown as much. But if they are some sort of Vulcan relative why not reveal that?"

"There could be any number of reasons," Cromwell said. "The Vulcans fought wars among themselves several thousand years ago. Perhaps the Romulans fear reawakening the Vulcan's martial prowess."

"Fat chance of the Pointies fighting anything," Crosby answered soberly. "They abandoned us quick enough."

"Yes and why did they did do that?" Cromwell asked pointedly.

"What do you mean Olly?" Trudy asked.

"Think about it," the captain answered quietly. "The Vulcans have always honored their commitments; save this one time. What was it that made them do that?" he asked. Cromwell plunged ahead before anyone could answer. "The Vulcans have the ships that in concert with ours and the allies could easily have defeated the Romulans. Yet they relented."

"They didn't want to get involved," Crosby said as he looked inward. The trio clumped through a heavy airlock door to the shuttle bay. "Intelligence burnt enough midnight oil up to light St. Louis up trying to figure that one sir," the lieutenant said in reference to the Vulcan's reasons for staying neutral.

"What if our logical friends had quite specific reasons for staying quiet?" Cromwell asked.

"I never pictured you the political type Olly," Trudy said as the three of them boarded the shuttle.

"I tease about my name Trudy," Cromwell said seriously as he seated himself in the pilot's seat of the Sinjan class shuttle. "But truthfully my mum and dad used to tell me that we could," Cromwell drew himself up as he quoted from memory: "Trace our great heritage from Boudicca."

Crosby looked puzzled; finally it was Schultheiss who said: "You mean the Celtic princess? I thought she was a myth."

"Oh no Trudy," Cromwell answered jovially after he requested clearance to depart. "Siegfried was a myth but Boudicca was quite real."

"So you are basing your political ideas on your lineage?" the doctor asked with a grin.

"Actually I was basing them on political science courses administered under the gentle tutelage of Flight Officer Pertwee from my Royal Flying Academy days." Cromwell answered seriously.

"Closing sir," Crosby warned.

"Roger," Cromwell replied. Michael relished the return to the womb feel as he cut the shuttle's internal gravity field and proceeded to swing the ship into a matching motion. Soon the Sabinus which had started out tumbling end over end seemed stationary before them; though all three shuttle occupants knew that they too were now tumbling about as far as an outside observer was concerned.

"Deploying hatch seal," Crosby said as Cromwell turned the Sinjan on its side matching the shuttle's airlock to the position of the Sabinus' entry port.

"Here we go," Trudy said quietly as the captain maneuvered the craft into contact with their quarry.

"Once more into the breach," Cromwell recited the old bard.

"Contact," Crosby said; "the Eagle has landed." The sound of metal on the soft seal was heard through the thin hull of the shuttle.

Cromwell smiled in spite of himself. This was how Crosby used to be before the extent of his problems was revealed. Michael forced himself not to think about those things as he finished the business of mating the Stellar Navy shuttle to the stricken Romulan craft.

"Swing visors," Cromwell said dutifully. He contacted Daedelus to ensure them that all was well as he unstrapped and floated out of his seat. Cromwell took up one of the plasma rifles that each of the two men had. The doctor had declined a weapon to Cromwell's disappointment. Still he had to try again: "Sure you won't have one Trudy?" he asked over the suit commlink as he extended the butt of a rifle to his CMO.

"Thanks but no thanks Olly," Schultheiss answered in reply to the offer. "I fear that I will be repairing damage from those types of things."

"Not if we see them first," Crosby declared. The intelligence officer turned to Cromwell. "I'm in agreement with Commander Somers sir. But you are here anyway. At least let me go first."

"And leave you have all the fun!" the captain retorted. "Come along now; I do appreciate the offer lieutenant but it is equally likely that the last person in the queue could be shot—if there is anyone—or thing alive over there."

"Wait a minute," Schultheiss said. The men could see her grin through her faceplate. The doctor was going to be the last out.

"Sure you won't have a rifle doctor?" Crosby asked.

Trudy laughed and refused the offer again. Michael only heard part of the conversation as the three squeezed in the Sinjan's small converted airlock. The captain cycled the craft's atmospheric controls. He could feel his suit stiffen as the air pressure decreased. Cromwell hit the control rolling open the outer lock. The group fell silent as their helmet lights played over the wreck's interior passageway. Daedelus' probe hung before the obstruction. Cromwell waved into the video pickup as he propelled himself against the sheet of torn metal. Crosby floated up next to him.

"Looks like a push would have done it sir," Crosby said as he positioned himself to work in zero gravity.

"We'll see," Cromwell answered as the two men pushed the offending piece of Romulan ship out of the way. Their lights showed a corridor curving off into the distance. Michael turned around in time to see Trudy grab the weightless boot.

"Degrees in medicine and exobiology," the doctor started, "and it is going to come down to studying alien foot fungus!" Schultheiss followed those words with some others in German. Both men recognized cursing even if they didn't understand the words.

"Come now you should be able to get some interesting samples out of there," Cromwell said amid a gentle chuckle.

"Well there is no appendage in the boot," Schultheiss answered as she peered into the footwear. "But there should be skin and such." The doctor continued in a speculative voice; "unless this boot is out of ships' stores."

"We'll turn up more I'm sure Trudy," Cromwell said reassuringly as he back flipped and pushed himself cautiously down the corridor.

Crosby was getting sick of the captain's and the doctor's bantering. Everyone knew that the two were drawn to one another; though what Cromwell saw in the tall surgeon Crosby could not guess. This was the culmination of their mission. Alvin was anxious to find out the answers that they had been dispatched to find out here. No it wasn't that Crosby knew: This whole thing reminded the lieutenant of an old out building on his father's property.

The elder Crosby sometimes would lock Alvin in the dusty cobwebbed filled structure. It was a dark place. The young Alvin would sit huddled in the dark listening to the creaking sounds until he finally started screaming for his father to let him out. Crosby had not thought of that in years. He had danced around the subject in his conversations with Schultheiss. But now this alien hulk brought those terrible memories back to him. There were no cobwebs here and the vacuum of space prevented any creaking noises from being heard. But still it reminded Alvin of that old house.

"Seems to be a branch here," Cromwell said as they neared the end of the passageway. The trio had passed several hatches embossed with alien lettering on each door. They had not tried any of them: Cromwell had briefed and Crosby agreed that this first look should be a surface scan of sorts. They could return later with personnel and equipment to investigate the other areas.

"It does not look any different either way," the doctor remarked.

"This left branch ends down there," Cromwell said pointing his helmet light to the end of the corridor not more than twenty meters away. "The right one keeps on going," he added as he swung around to illuminate that passage.

"I'll take a quick look to the left sir," Crosby said. He was sweating and beginning to feel nauseous. This ship—it was getting to him. He gulped fighting down his gorge. The sooner this preliminary scouting expedition was over the better.

"Approved Crosby," Cromwell answered. Alvin barely missed the captain's attempt to look at Crosby's face. He didn't think that Cromwell would like what he saw there.

Alvin pushed off of a bulkhead and sailed slowly down the center of the corridor. Nothing he thought: More sealed hatches. Crosby hauled up quickly as he passed a dark recessed space that he had at first taken as another hatch. Nothing he thought as he spun around lazily; another sealed doorway at the end of a ten meter stretch. This might be worth further investigation though Crosby reasoned. The hatch at the end of the corridor had large conspicuous letters upon it; much more so than any of the others. Could this be engineering he wondered? It didn't seem right from his knowledge of alien engineering techniques. That area should be closer to the warp nacelles Crosby thought. But then again who knew what building methods the Birdies employed. Perhaps this was a weapons storage area or for all Alvin knew it might be the ship's gymnasium. This was it. He spun around slowly to link back up with the rest of the team.

The corpse must have been in the shadow of the bulkhead. The alien's dead face swam before Crosby's faceplate. The eyes of the dead Romulan were bulged out frozen horrors. The creature must have died of suffocation Crosby thought with what was left of the rationale part of his mind: The corpse's hands were wrapped around its neck. It was an alien Crosby thought; no it was a Romulan, then it became his father. The corpse smiled at him cruelly. Falling down at the job again Alvy, it asked.

"Crosby, Crosby," Cromwell's voice intruded into his nightmare. Crosby gagged and retched into his helmet. He cart wheeled and pushed himself violently away. "Get him!" he heard Cromwell order as he flailed through the blackened corridors in a panic. He felt strong arms grab him. They were tumbling uncontrollably through the corridor back towards the shuttle. Crosby's head rang as his helmet hit a wall.

"Adjust his mixture!" he heard Schultheiss exclaim. "He is hyperventilating!"

Alvin's breathing came slowly under control. He choked on a piece of vomit but started to breathe normally. The corpse was in bad shape from the decompression yet Crosby had not failed to miss one thing: The creature had pointed ears.

Taskforce 18, UES Beagle, outbound from Wolf 359, Aug 2157

"Looks good Ed," Jocelyn Stiles said as she reviewed the ordnance roster. The Taskforce was reloaded after their successful attacks on the Birdies. Stiles had left the taskforce behind to defend Wolf save for her Beagle and the Panther and the carrier Truman. Stiles had also taken the Andorian heavy cruiser Ventizen with her.

"Any contacts Ensign Bose?" the commodore asked her sensor officer.

"None sir," Nandalal Bose replied.

"Nothin' out here except for us Denobulan traders," Captain Edward Minford said.

"I just hope that they take the bait," Stiles said quietly.

"You've been right about the Birdies so far," Minford said.

"This new buildup," Stiles started. She was worried. No one knew what Romulan industrial capability was. Now all those seemingly useless classes that the Air Force Academy had taught came back to her. Most of the wars man and their allies had fought among themselves had evolved into destroying two things in an attempt to win: Enemy industry and their will to fight.

There were too man unknowns Jocelyn thought angrily. Had the luckless Devon Foster and his marines made a dint at Romulus? Was the Birdies will to fight still there? Stiles didn't know the answer to those questions but she did know one thing: She wanted to teach them fear. The leave with Trip had been wonderful—for a short time. Then Stiles thought that they were still out there; the Romulans. That thought had burned away any happiness that she had enjoyed. Jocelyn had departed from Tucker coolly. A part of her mind felt remorse: Trip would wonder what was wrong. But there was a war to fight and Birdies to kill. There would be time after she thought.

"They are going to make a move somewhere," Minford said thoughtfully.

"Sensor contact," Ensign Bose exclaimed. The ensign spat out the information: "One-eleven mark four-four—distance 2.3 AU's. Four ships cruising at warp 2.7."

"And speaking of making a move," Minford said quietly. "They are making for the decoy."

"Exactly as I hoped they would," Stiles replied. She fairly bounded out of the command chair. "Execute omega three, captain," she instructed Minford. The older man replied by calling the other members of the small flotilla.

"They are proceeding according to plan," Minford said. "The Truman is moving to the fall back coordinates."

"Helm set an intercept course and prepare to engage at warp 3.3," Stiles instructed Lt. Dani Helstrom. The petite Star Fleet Academy graduate looked like she should still be in High School but her string of commendations from actions aboard the old Sovereign said different.

"Course laid in sir," Helstrom replied crisply.

Stiles still had a tough time believing that Helstrom had reentered a partially decompressed area to rescue three of her crewmates; but that was the official record.

"With subspace sensors they will see us in about two more minutes, commodore," Minford said.

"Let's not keep them in the dark then," Stiles answered. "Lt. Helstrom: engage," Jocelyn ordered the navigator.

"We will enter their estimated sensor range in fourteen seconds sir," Bose said as he stooped over the hood of his sensor display.

"Their distance to the decoy?" the commodore asked.

"Coming out of warp now," Bose said referring to their intended quarry. "Power signatures resolving now: Three Cabbages and a Chowder," the ensign said using the terran slang for the Romulan ships. "They are closing to within ten thousand kilometers of the decoy."

Stiles crossed her arms over her chest as she stared intently at the viewscreen. The decoy was a Mons Olympus tanker set for decommissioning. The old UES Kamet had gone toe to toe with three Romulan cruisers. The Kamet had escaped after disabling one of the Sabinus class cruisers; but at a cost of significant damage to the tanker. The Kamet was declared too badly damaged for anything but the scrap yard. Her hull and electronics were to become part of a new Conqueror class cruiser. That was until Jocelyn Stiles had gotten hold of the doomed vessel.

"They see us sir," Bose declared. Stiles knew that it was a guess but so far intelligence had confirmed that the Romulan subspace sensors were a first evolution of subspace sensors for the Birdies.

"Prepare to drop out of warp," Stiles ordered as she studied the distance between her ships and the decoy. When she felt that the position and time was right she gave the order sending her small group of warships back into normal space. The Star Fleet ships coasted along on impulse. The Romulan vessels altered their heading as well Stiles noticed. Good, she thought.

"They will have us in plasma cannon range in two minutes and--," Bose fell silent then continued in a more strident tone. "Extra contacts!" he exclaimed; "from astern and both flanks."

"Keep us in an arc Dani," Stiles told Lieutenant Helstrom. "Take us slowly away from the first group but let the others close."

"If this isn't exactly right," Anjin started. His antennae were standing straight up.

"I know Anjin," Stiles said. "But the Birdies aren't dummies. We've been lucky because we've been playing hard against them. But it is time for a few more surprises. Start to maneuver away!" Stiles directed this last to lieutenant Helstrom.

The helmsman responded. Stiles had Bose present the sensor display on the main viewer. She had read a brief article in _Popular Science_ that predicted that one day subspace sensors would be able to recreate images from light years away with crystal clarity. Jocelyn recalled sadly her father's words telling her that anything was possible. For now though Stiles reflected that what they were viewing was what they had to use.

That image showed the power signatures of the original four Romulan vessels and the new arrivals that Stiles was now seeing. Ten more Romulan ships, six Chowders and four Cabbages moved to envelope her small group of Star Fleet ships. Stiles realized that the Birdies must smell a trap. She hoped to keep them guessing for awhile longer.

"Order the Panther to start venting drive plasma," Stiles said as she sat back down. She was nervous and Jocelyn knew that must not show to her crew.

Minutes later Bose spoke up from his sensor station: "They are still inbound on an intercept course; range fifteen thousand kilometers."

Stiles was silent as she studied the viewer. The Romulans had ignored the Kamet choosing to vector around it in an attempt to catch her small group of warships. The result was that the Romulan ships had ended up grouped in a loose sphere around the Kamet's position. Stiles figured a rough average that put the Romulans within nine thousand kilometers of the Kamet. The Star Fleet group was just drawing away from the tanker at twelve thousand kilometers.

"Ed, are we tight?" the commodore asked her first officer.

"Hull plating is polarized," Minford reported. He cocked his head as he listened into his earpiece for the status of the remainder of Stiles' ships. "All ships report ready."

"Good," Stiles said as she calmly flipped a switch on her armchair control panel. She waited less than a second. The sensor display showed a large intense energy buildup where the Kamet had been. The graph below the new phenomena went off scale high for several seconds.

Jocelyn reflected on how the warheads that had once sat upon American and Persian missiles had instead of being used to destroy one another had instead been joined together to fight a common enemy of man. Chief Gary Callender from the armory had wired the one-hundred megaton warheads inside of the Kamet to go off in a quick series of cascading closely times detonations. The result had produced what amounted to an equivalent explosion of six hundred megatons.

Stiles felt a burning sense of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach as the signatures of six of their fourteen attackers vanished. Jocelyn could tell from the readings that at least two more of the Romulan cruisers were badly disabled. Bose confirmed as much.

"Move to attack!" Stiles snapped.

Seen from a distance the Andorian heavy cruiser Ventizen and the Stellar Navy destroyer Panther looked normal; with the exception that they seemed to be splitting apart. Pieces of apparent debris sloughed off of both vessels as the space between the Star Fleet ships and the Romulan vessels filled with Narwhal anti-ship missiles. The Romulan equivalent left the tubes of their respective ships. Closer examination of the Panther and Ventizen revealed Stellar Navy Minotaurs separating from each warship. The debris snapped around and accelerated away toward the oncoming Romulan attackers. Four Minotaurs, two that had been attached to the hull of the Panther and two more that had been sealed to the Ventizen launched Amazons as they made their way to their intended targets. The lasers of the small fighters destroyed several inbound Romulan missiles.

A single Romulan cruiser managed to hit the Ventizen a glancing blow with its plasma cannon before the Sabinus itself was destroyed by two Amazon missiles. The Andorian cruiser rolled slowly as electrostatic discharges ran down its hull. The Andorian shrugged it off and fired a round of four Chelaqui missiles. Only one of them got through but it was enough to destroy a Romulan Chowder. A loan Romulan Sabinus elongated away into subspace while its three surviving mates fought the oncoming ships of Jocelyn Stiles.

"I wonder if that is their commander?" Captain Ed Minford asked about the escaping Sabinus cruiser. The bridge crew watched as the last three Romulan warships fell to a concerted barrage of Amazon, Narwhal and Chelaqui missiles. Several shuttles a few Eightballs managed to be belched forth from Romulan launch bays. But those craft fell to blistering laser and rail gun fire.

"Assess our damage and get us out of here," Stiles snapped. The sensor readings vanished one by one. Telltale spikes of residual energy discharge were all that was left of the Romulan ships. Jocelyn wasn't going to stay around: They had been lucky. This also confirmed for her a growing fear that the Birdies were gathering their forces to try to render another knockout blow.

"This war is still on the edge Ed," Stiles told the older man. His growling sigh was all the reply that she got. Stiles wondered where the Romulan's hammerstroke would fall. As much as she wanted to press an offensive war the ball was now in the Birdies court. Flybys of the captured colonies had not even gotten close. They were there Stiles knew, along with a lot of reinforcements.

The Forge, Vulcan Aug 2157

The inscriptions on the ancient tablet were starting to make sense to Lieutenant Tarang Gupta. It was not that Gupta had suddenly acquired a gift for ancient Vulcan glyphs such that he could interpret the Ka'Al' Zin. It was rather that he had gone at the task of reading the ancient alien script with a dogged human determination. The human did not manage a miraculous translation but he had fathomed out that the writings were some sort of formal statement; also that strangely enough Surak had inscribed words that used emotionally loaded terms. It made Tarang wonder if Syrran could not interpret words that had fallen out of general use with modern Vulcans whereas Gupta, an emotional human could see the meaning.

The intelligence officer turned secret agent was awake now. The freighter had been underway for less than an hour and the events that had occurred at the home of T'Pol's mother had caught up with Gupta. He had nodded off as the freighter had taken to the hot desert night air. He had not been asleep long before a troubling dream had awoken him. He had, much to T'Pol's distress unwrapped the relic to look at it again. Gupta had examined the Ka'Al' Zin so many times that he had begun to have dreams of the flowing ornate, script. This last dream had been one of those.

"You know, in all of this time I've wondered about how the various blocks of writing fit together," Gupta said quietly as he examined the triangular slab of metal. "There doesn't seem to be a logical sequence; surprising for Vulcans but more surprising still is the lack of any coherent pattern."

"Vulcans of that time were learning to come to terms with their emotions and passions," T'Pol answered. "It would not be surprising that their ancient writings might have been muddled."

"I disagree," Gupta replied in a tone full of speculation. He explained: "It is almost as if one strung together the chapters of a book in random order."

"And now you suddenly have an answer because of a dream?" T'Pol asked. Gupta could detect the skepticism in her otherwise unemotional tone.

"I know that your experts have looked for a pattern to the organization," Gupta said carefully. He looked embarrassed as he continued. "In my dream the ground shook and pitched up. I started to fall then all of a sudden I was flying over the desert. When I looked below at the buckling land it formed a kind of map." He suddenly laughed as he realized how ridicules his idea and his method of arrival at it must have seemed to the Vulcan. His examination of the relic did not immediately produce any such map as he had seen in his dream. Of course Gupta thought; it was a dream, why should it have produced some sort of revelation he thought.

"Silly of me," Gupta said as he replaced the object where he had been carrying it under his traveling cloak. He put the uncomfortable baggage back and fished out his hand held computer. "This won't have near the capacity of a larger computer but I think I'll try setting up a program to rearrange the word groups into different three dimensional configurations."

"I believe that I can do that far quicker than you can," T'Pol said. She reached out to take Gupta's small computer. Tarang watched as her fingers fairly flew over the small keypad. "You have remained silent concerning my comments of earlier." She said as she peered intently into the small video screen.

He was not surprised that she asked. Gupta had been both pleasantly surprised and riddled with guilt all at the same time. "A lot has been going on T'Pol," he said at last. "I have mixed emotions about all of this."

"As have I," T'Pol replied. She continued to type away. Gupta realized that as far as the Vulcan was concerned she had confided something to the earthman. It was now time for him to reveal his heart to her. At least that was Gupta's human interpretation of events.

He took a deep breath before starting in English; "as far as I know there are no modern Vulcan words for what I--,"

The freighter's master took that moment to intrude into the spacious passenger cabin. The old Vulcan looked to Tarang to be on the high side of his one-hundreds. Gupta started to pull the hood of his cloak up to hide his conspicuously rounded ears; then thought better of it. Suspicious actions might arouse the old Vulcan's suspicions; as it was the pilot cast a knowing glance towards Tarang. T'Pol put the hand held computer aside.

"I have been ordered to keep my craft sealed upon our arrival," the captain said. The Vulcan explained further: "The High Command has warned of a dangerous human in the company of a renegade Vulcan woman. They suspect the pair are aboard this freighter. They will of course take you both into custody there," Gupta felt a sinking sensation as the Vulcan looked at him and T'Pol. It was several minutes before the freighter captain said anything further:

"I question the logic of the High Command's recent activities. Certainly I have known Syrranites and they seemed to me to present no danger to anyone. Of course the evidence of my personal acquaintances is purely anecdotal when viewing the situation in its entirety. But now I am confronted with two seemingly dangerous passengers. Yet neither seems dangerous nor particularly threatening for that matter."

"I will of course accede to the wishes of our government, as is only logical," the captain said flatly. He looked at them both then added: "The auxiliary gyro-stabilizer is malfunctioning. I will set down short of our next port to make the necessary repairs. It is most unfortunate that neither of you were manifested. How could relatives learn your whereabouts were something to happen to either of you?" he asked in a tone that was almost reproachful.

"After we set down I will leave the main entryway open so that you may partake of the night air," the captain said as he turned away from them to make his way back to his control area. He stopped abruptly and opened the door a small storage area. "There are water packs and emergency rations in here. Ingenious of the designers but of course they were Vulcans." He shut the lid and proceeded back to his control room.

"Sir isn't that a violation of your orders?" an astonished Tarang asked.

"My orders mention nothing about landing short of my destination to conduct repairs human," the freighter captain turned and replied with typical Vulcan calmness. "Good evening to you both," he turned one final time and left the two travelers alone.

"Even if we exit after he lands the High Command will soon be on our trail," Gupta said when they were alone again.

"The edge of The Forge is quite rugged," T'Pol said. "This freighter is skirting the edge of the Virath Mountain range; a system of mountains known for their deep crevasses and frequent electrical storms.

"Sounds like a good place to get lost in," Gupta said agreeably. "Also it sounds as if the High Command is not sure which transport we are on—perhaps even if we took a transport out. That means we should have a slight lead," he concluded. "How far do you reckon the sanctuary will be?"

"It depends on where the captain lands at," T'Pol replied. It was at that moment that they felt the airship's descent. "But given our time in transit and the estimated speed of this vessel we will be anywhere from two to three days from our destination."

The two relaxed in their seats although Gupta was anything but at ease over the thought of their impending journey. Was he helping T'Pol to find her mother or trying to institute a change in Vulcan civilization? This mission had become so murky that the Indian feared that he was losing perspective. At the bottom of it all was the niggling feeling that a seasoned agent would know exactly what to do whereas Gupta, a rank amateur was fumbling at best he thought. T'Pol had resumed the programming of Gupta's computer.

"I have completed the program," T'Pol said at last. She looked at Gupta as she handed the intelligence officer his computer. "Your device is very basic. I should have thought to bring a Vulcan mobile computer. It will take some time for the program to examine all of the permutations."

"We humans do tend to be very basic," Gupta answered with a smile.

"Something that I shall work to change on you," T'Pol said. Gupta looked closely at her trying to get past her Vulcan inscrutability.

"I was," the Vulcan paused for several seconds before continuing, "Not being serious Tarang."

Gupta smiled. He had never considered that a Vulcan could tease. He was about to reply when the captain's voice came over the cabin speaker informing the two of a broadcast. The old video screen in the passenger cabin illuminated. Gupta and T'Pol were soon observing the serene visage of Minister V'Las. The minister's lips moved soundlessly until the audio portion of the broadcast came out of the passenger compartment's tiny speakers:

"—find ourselves in perilous times. War rages around our homeworld and our colonies. Vulcan has proudly continued our tradition of peace despite what is going on. But we are greatly disturbed by the discovery that Andorian and human operatives are acting in concert with Vulcan dissidents to disrupt our peaceful society. The ministry has charged the High Command with the maintenance of both internal and external security. I have made several recommendations toward that end."

"All aliens on Vulcan who are members of the alliance between Earth, Denobula, Tellar and Andoria are now declared enemies of the state and will be subject to arrest." V'Las paused his deadpan delivery and then added: "Along with members of the Vulcan dissident group identified as Syrranites and any Vulcans who see fit to aid them."

V'Las reached out his arms onto the desktop behind which he spoke from and intertwined his hands. He continued in a calm unemotional delivery typical of a Vulcan: "I have ordered several of our squadrons to the border between Andorian and Vulcan space. Those ships will not enter Andorian space at this time. But we warn Andoria to restrain their gross behavior against our people."

The unspoken threat underlying the minister's last statement did not escape either Gupta's or T'Pol's attention. They looked at one another with concern. Gupta had not been briefed about any Andorian action on Vulcan. Tarang knew that Admiral Soames would have informed him of any such actions accomplished by Andorians—were she aware of any. Gupta was also aware of the import of stationing Vulcan ships on the potentially explosive Vulcan-Andorian border. V'Las concluded his announcement with words of consolation. It was all very logical in a twisted sort of manner Gupta thought bitterly.

"Even if they don't fire a shot their presence will draw off Andorian cruisers," Gupta said meaning the Vulcan warships. "The conflict between Andoria and your people was settled!" he exclaimed. "I simply cannot accept that Andoria is involved in anything against your world."

"Nor do I," T'Pol answered hastily. "These arrests trouble me as they do our captain. I have explained before that there is a small amount of crime on Vulcan; usually performed by mentally ill members of our society. The rate is extremely small. These arrests are not logical. Syrranites do not seem to be mentally ill—my mother is not mentally ill."

"Our captain seems to agree," Gupta said. They both felt the air freighter touch down softly. "I wonder if he is not alone in his opinion."

"Obviously not," T'Pol answered as they both stood and shouldered their travel packs and canteens. "But something like this has never occurred here before. The government has always conducted itself in a…"

"Logical manner," Tarang said finishing T'Pol's statement.

Gupta felt the hot desert night intrude into the cabin as the passenger door opened. This new development was serious he realized. He looked out into the distance to see a see an electrical flash illuminate a whirling wall of sand. Tarang realized that the storm was many kilometers off; still they would have to hurry to cover. The couple scrambled down the freighter's ladder to the desert floor below. They stumbled through the small sandstorm that the freighter had created from its landing and headed towards a rocky ravine. The lights from the freighter's landing lights helped them see for awhile; but soon they strayed out of the illuminated area into a clear desert night lit only by starlight.


	13. Chapter 13

Talhava, Capital City of Andor, earth year Aug 2157

The trio of Star Fleet officers made their way from the icy canal to the shelter of a public house. Sutton liked the sound of that. The Fearless' operations officer was looking forward to Andorian whiskey mixed in a coffee like drink and heated. Truthfully the Florida native would have liked anything warm inside of him right then. His companions Lieutenant Commander Shato and Lieutenant Talas both Andorian Imperial Guardsmen attached to the new Star Fleet were in equal agreement with him about getting indoors.

The three of them had spent this their last day of shore leave touring the city through its network of frozen interconnected waterways. Sutton had been thrilled by the sight of the city's crystalline towers. They had gone from there to the fiercely glowing steam spouts put out by Talhava's geothermal power system. Shato, a native of a small city on the other side of Andoria had almost had to be dragged away from the power generation system by Talas and Jeff. Jeff remembered the engineer telling him that his homeland was powered mostly by fusion reactors since it was nestled in a relatively calm geologic area.

They entered the warm public house, or tavern as Jeff thought of it. It was, as in many like earth establishments dimly lit inside. The slightly off-colored lighting made for eyes other than human added to the surreal atmosphere that Jeff perceived. He heard the Andorian term meaning 'pink-skin' uttered softly in some corners. But Sutton was not fearful as several other humans; freighter crewmen from the look of them were in the alien bar as well. There seemed to be somewhat of an uproar. Sutton also heard the derogatory term describing Vulcans being bandied about. Although they did not use the term 'pointie' Andorians instead disparaged another part of Vulcan anatomy.

The Fearless' operations officer had one concern though: Talas. The couple had gotten more than one hostile stare from Andorians. Jeff had to remind himself that prejudice was not restricted entirely to humans. The couple had not been received well by Talas' family. Talas' mother had raised objections about where the couple would live whereas her father had grumbled about what he referred to as unnatural mating practices. The entire experience had brought two things home to Sutton: His own concerns about bringing Talas back to earth to meet his family and just how serious their relationship had become.

What had started out to be what Sutton had hoped was an exotic experience had become something more. Jeff had felt fulfilled as never before. He could not say that he did not want what had happened; Shato had warned him several times that Andorian women arrived at a time in their lives when they would pick a mate. Jeff realized that he could have broken the whole thing off earlier. But he had not wanted to do that. The casual atmosphere that Commodore Oulette liked to foster with his people had allowed the shipboard romance to move forward. The commodore had only lately become concerned as Talas had told Jeff that their commander had asked if she was able to maintain her objectivity.

Sutton put those thoughts out of his mind as the trio seated themselves at a table near a group of terran freighter crewmen. Drinks arrived before any of them had a chance to order. One of the human civilian crewmen nodded towards them. Sutton was pleased with his drink but would have preferred something more temperate. Nonetheless it was not long before the blue Andorian ale sent streamers of warmth out from his stomach. The Star Fleet crewmen raised their glasses to their unnamed benefactor. The man approached their table along with two of his comrades.

"It is the least I can do," the stranger said as the Star Fleet personnel beckoned the civilians to be seated. "Andorian ale may be in short supply pretty soon—drink up!" he exclaimed as he hefted his glass to his lips.

They all drank. Jeff started to ask the man to explain his comment about the ale when the civilian introduced himself along with his friends. Alfonso Cartarez was master of the freighter Monterrey Sky. His companions were his engineer Tara Lepley and his loadmaster Morris 'Skip' Williamson. Carterez was a broad plump man on the better side of his fifties Sutton judged. Lepley was a striking middle aged woman with a mane of short close cropped platinum blonde hair. She seemed somewhat out of place Jeff thought but he also knew that the merchant service was a home for oddballs. Williamson was a solid older dark skinned man who held himself like a navy file. Sutton would have bet that the man was a retired officer or NCO from his bearing.

Talas took the lead as the ranking officer ashore to introduce the Star Fleet officers. Despite the social setting, she still observed Imperial Guard protocol. The freighter crew immediately started asking the Star Fleet officers if the Andorians among them intended to remain on the Fearless. That line of questioning puzzled Sutton as much as the ale comment had. Finally he asked Carterez about the origin of the questions and comments.

"Where have youse guys been?" Lepley asked in a thick eastern American accent.

Shato started to tell of their journey around the outskirts of the capital when Williamson blurted out: "The Pointies are putting ships on your border."

All three of them; but especially Sutton's Andorian companions burst out with questions. Cartarez took the lead and explained the Vulcan statement that had come via subspace radio earlier that day. Several locals joined the trio loudly condemning the Vulcans. Sutton was singled out by Andorians who wanted to know what the United Earth's government's position would be. Several of the bar patrons asked whose side the humans would fall on. Sutton was trying to recall his interstellar policy classes from Star Fleet Officer Training School when Cartarez interjected hotly:

"We remember who was there when the Birdie bastards attacked my home! We won't goddamned forget the people who helped us!"

Sutton could only nod in agreement and hope that his image wasn't being recorded. He was not the president or a councilman. He could no more make policy than he could be trusted to take out an appendix Sutton thought to himself. Jeff was a naval officer and engineer; not a politician. He found himself being pressed again when a raucous noise came from outside the tavern. The bar they had chosen sat along a main thoroughfare of the underground city. Everyone in Sutton's group was puzzled until the chanting from outside became distinguishable.

"Shran, Shran, Shran" the noisy crowd was yelling.

Sutton along with his Andorian comrades got up and exited the tavern. General Shran walked down the street cloaked in an ornate regal looking cloak. Several Imperial Guardsmen dressed in full dress uniforms bore standards before them. One flag bore the odd looking 'A' shape that had been in vogue among Stellar Navy personnel after the sacrifice of Shahar Rastan. Jeff had always thought it looked like some sort of rocket or missile. The other standard had on it something that looked like a circle winding outwards over a triangular shape. Sutton gleaned that the other shape was a crest representing Shran.

The new Shahar and his entourage drew closer. The small group neared one of the many heavy stone support arches that held up the roof of the underground thoroughfare. The throng of aliens was cheering loudly such that Sutton felt the reverberations of their cries through his chest. Jeff took up the cry as well: He recalled like many of his fellow terrans the Andorian general's timely arrival over earth during the battle against the Romulans. Shran and his group were about fifteen meters away. The Shahar looked at the knot of humans and seemed as far as Jeff was concerned to have made eye contact with Sutton personally. The regal group was less than ten meters away now. Sutton and Talas were pushed out to the front of the crowd hand in hand.

The explosion hit Sutton with a feeling of being hit by a tremendous force on every exposed portion of his body. A split second later he felt an intense wave of heat from the blast. There was an explosion of blue across the street where the roof support mated with the stone floor. For a second Jeff had an image of a child's finger paints when he saw the blue; until he thought of what it was from. Sutton looked up to see pieces of the roof of the underground thoroughfare falling. He realized that Shran, who was still standing was about to be buried by a crushing cave in. Everything moved at a slow pace. Sutton seemed to have five minutes to consider the fact that everyone still standing was rooted in place; except for him. He started a dash toward Shran. Sutton realized it was only five meters or so and yet he thought that it took him a full minute to cross that distance. The human dimly realized that he had knocked Andoria's new ruler by title aside when a crushing blow hit his shoulders; everything went dark for him.

The smell of antiseptic was strong in the air. Sutton realized without opening his eyes that he was in the Fearless' sickbay. Doctor Ernest Snow was bent over the lieutenant commander peering intently into his eyes. A few seconds later Sutton found himself following the track of a light put before his eyes.

"Good thing your head is so hard Sutton," the doctor remarked caustically. The surgeon turned away to someone out of Jeff's field of view. "He should stay here for a day for observation then you can have him back sir."

"Very well," Commodore 'Grizzly'Oulette answered. The Canadian swam into Jeff's view.

"What about," Sutton started weakly.

"You saved Shahar Shran's life Jeff," Oulette said completing Sutton's question. "The rest of our personnel who were with you are all safe and well. It seems that only you chose to headbutt a large piece of stonework." Jeff nodded. His voice seemed to die in his throat. Doctor Snow handed him a water bottle. Sutton took a grateful pull on its nipple as Oulette continued. "Talas is on the way down. I could not restrain her without employing security."

Sutton smiled despite the numb feel to his face. He had warm comforting thoughts when he considered the Fearless' first officer. The cool water had wetted his throat enough so that he felt that he could speak.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

The commodore related the events of the explosion and its aftermath. Stellar Navy and Imperial Guardsmen ordinance experts had concurred that only Shran's last minute choice of routing had saved the new leader's life: The bomb had been planted in haste. Oulette remarked how a little more careful placement would have thoroughly brought down the roof, crushing Shran and all below in the resulting cave in.

"We have been granted an extended stay here Jeff," Oulette concluded. "I believe that Shran intends for you to be rewarded—hell of a way to ingratiate yourself with your possible in-laws by the way."

"No suspects?" Jeff asked not really expecting an answer.

The commodore turned and started to walk away as Lieutenant Talas entered. It occurred to Sutton that for the first time since meeting Oulette the commodore was looking old. Oulette said over his shoulder as he started to leave: "The casing is an alloy in common use for mining operations—on Vulcan. Good day Jeffrey."

UES Agincourt, Taskforce 17 deployed in the Tellar system, Aug 2157

Leonard Zimmermann sat back and relaxed in the captain's chair: His chair now after all of these years he thought. It was not that he had lusted after command. The captain knew that he would not have traded his time with Grizzly Oulette for anything. But the Agincourt was his ship. Zimmermann hoped that he had impressed the same relaxed sense of discipline on this crew as Oulette had done aboard the Fearless. He was happy that so many of his crew had found their individual niches. Leonard was not alone in his worries that many new recruits into the Stellar Navy might find something they don't like. Patriotic fervor could only go so far Zimmermann thought. When the realities of naval service caught up with the newly minted spacers many of them became personnel problems.

Many of those luckless individuals were moved along to planetside or freighter assignments. Zimmermann felt no animosity towards them. Earth had been a beehive of activity after the beginning Romulan strikes against humanity; with young and old hot to enlist to somehow personally engage the Birdies. Seasoned officers knew despite earth's former relative period of peace of that space combat was far from some knightly battle of one soldier against another. Zimmermann had seen the seemingly random impersonal nature of this war first hand. Lasers and missiles had no sense of honor, regret or mercy Leonard knew. Zimmermann was holding a spirited discussion about the new naval personnel with his security officer at that very moment.

Lt. Thaddeus Matejko was a short barrel-chested man who came across to Leonard as a man who had been in the Stellar Navy all of his life when in reality Tad, as the red-jersied lieutenant liked to be called had only been commissioned a year before the attack on Salem-One. Zimmermann listened half bemused to the Irishman whose parents had originated in Warsaw. That was until Matejko came to a story about a newly commissioned Stellar Navy officer, one of those who had been rushed through the academy. The story concerned the befuddled young ensign's mistake of allowing several freighters past the security cordon. Zimmermann was joined in the discussion by his first officer Commander Tristan Conway.

"So he kept trying to recycle the IFF," Matejko explained wryly, "when he should have went to the secondary."

"That is horrible; we should have the ensign flogged immediately!" Zimmermann exclaimed in a mock melodramatic tone. Actually he was thinking that any new ensign might have made a similar mistake. Leonard saw Conway's sly grin; the sarcasm had been lost on Matejko however who was vehemently nodding in agreement to Zimmermann's suggestion of corporal punishment. A thought occurred to the commander of the Agincourt: "Have we ordered those ships quarantined?" he asked in reference to the freighters whose identities had not been confirmed during the friend or foe identification process.

"I sent out a dispatch to the Dauntless concerning that very thing sir," Tristan answered. The short native of the British Isles was older than Zimmermann. He also shared Leonard's follicle challenge. Nearing retirement as third in command of the old Sovereign, Conway had stayed on when the Bureau of Personnel had asked. He continued at Zimmermann's nod. "Commodore Zeigler has not responded."

"Very well," Zimmermann answered. Inwardly Leonard sighed: Helmut Zeigler was from the old school of find out who to blame first and fix the problem second. Zimmermann was glad once again that he had served with Oulette: A commander who realized that problems were a part of any profession and the key was to solve the puzzles and not hang people that were trying to do their jobs. "We really should have those freighters checked Tristan," he said. "Start the process now please."

"In lieu of the commodore's orders?" his first officer asked with a grin on his face. Conway mirrored Zimmermann's relaxed manner of command.

Zimmermann nodded. He would have to protect the ensign; Barclay was the man's name if Zimmermann recalled correctly. That wouldn't be too difficult as engineering had discovered some sort of computer problem in the primary core. His engineer Lieutenant Commander Jacqueline Hughes was still working the malfunction.

Leonard shook his head as he said: "And Barclay was really asking the freighter skippers who won the World Cup?"

"Either that or what earth capitals went with what country," Matejko answered with a grin. Zimmermann noted that his security officer had lightened up somewhat.

"Contacts!" the sensor operator exclaimed. Chief Tanya Lindstrom had her face pressed to the hooded cover of her sensor display. The older blonde enlisted woman was a matronly figure of a woman who had come back to the navy after the outbreak of the war. She continued at Zimmermann's request: "Resolving into two groups now—one is on a z-minus approach and the other one is coming in along the galactic plane."

"Message from the flagship sir," Ensign Thomas Bateman announced. The West Point graduate put the communication traffic over the bridge speakers:

"All ships of the taskforce: We are tracking a movement of one-hundred and ninety seven ships between the two groups. Tellarite defense forces have been notified—all ships should proceed to position delta-three."

"So it is a guess where our Romulan friends will come from," Conway declared dryly.

Leonard nodded. The navy taskforce was working along with the Tellarite defense force home squadrons. Besides Zeigler's taskforce there were three squadrons of ground based Minotaur attack craft positioned throughout the system. The Stellar Navy units augmented a force of some thirty-six Tellarite vessels. Tellar and its one habital moon Zandor were also defended by Merculite rocket batteries and Hercules launch platforms. The defenders had charted several likely positions that gave their ships a perch from which to attack from. The position known as delta implied to Zimmermann that the Romulan attackers were perhaps maybe making a rush for Zandor, Tellar's moon and secondary industrial area.

"The Ike has deployed her Minnies," Conway stated.

"Helm, take us to position delta," Zimmermann ordered. "Warp factor 3.1—engage," he added.

They had technical superiority over the Birdies, Zimmermann knew. Their ships might be outnumbered by a better than three-to-one margin but between their weaponry and the defense platforms it would be a tough fight for the Romulans; a losing one as well Leonard hoped. Their hiding positions had the additional benefit of being located in areas of ionizing radiation: Nothing for allied sensors to see in or through but it was hoped that Romulan sensors would be obscured or even blind when trying to look into those areas.

"Bridge, engineering," Lt. Cdmr. Hughes throaty voice sounded over the bridge PA. Zimmermann acknowledged her call hoping all the while that there was not a problem with his ship. This was not the time for a maintenance issue Leonard groused. Hughes continued: "Sir we've nailed down the IFF problem. It appears that some sort of virus was introduced into the system. The computer logs show it entering on a carrier wave from a freighter."

"The Birdies are fourteen minutes out sir," Lindstrom announced.

Zimmermann acknowledged the sensor chief quietly. He was deeply disturbed as to why a freighter would put a computer virus into the system. Zimmermann asked the engineer for information: Hughes informed him that the freighter had been the Coraopolis. The commander of the Agincourt took his chin in his right hand as he reviewed a library file on the freighter. Nothing out of the ordinary Leonard thought: It could well be a virus that had nested itself in the freighter's computer unbeknownst to its crew. He watched as the time wound down all the while a burning feeling grew in the pit of Zimmermann's stomach.

"Flag signals the taskforce to assume a staggered formation," Bateman relayed from his seat at the communication console.

"Acknowledge the order," Zimmermann replied then he said to Chief Lindstrom: "Scan for the position of the Coraopolis chief."

"Trouble sir?" his first officer asked.

"I don't know," Zimmermann answered. "It is probably nothing—a case of jitters."

"Sir I can't find the freighter!" Lindstrom exclaimed. "Romulan ships emerging from warp," she added.

"Flag orders all ships to alter heading for Zandor," Bateman said as he listened intently into his earpiece. He sat straight up abruptly apparently when he heard something disturbing. The communications officer shared his news. "The Tellarite orbital defense network around Zandor just went off line. There is a lot of confusing traffic on the Tellarite bands."

"Approaching Zandor sir," The Andorian helmsman Tavar reported crisply.

"I'm reading a nuclear detonation near the equator sir," Lindstrom said. Zimmermann asked for more specific information all the while thinking that he knew the answer. He was not disappointed in his assessment as Lindstrom replied: "The monitoring station on Gravno Island is gone sir."

"Take us out of warp!" Zimmermann exclaimed. He turned to Conway. "That freighter—they got in and hit the base that controlled the defense platforms. I'll bet my ass that the platforms are infected with some sort of virus as well." Zimmermann toggled his armchair comm panel opening up a channel to engineering. "Jacquie can you run an operational check on the defense satellites?"

"Birdie ships are launching fighters," Bateman reported.

"Confirmed," Lindstrom added. The older woman visibly wilted as she added: "There are over four hundred fighters inbound!"

"Okay people look sharp," Zimmermann said in a combination stern and calming tone. The Romulan Aeons were no match for the Minotaurs; and with allied ships being protected with polarized hull plating the damage the little fighters could work was not as bad as it had once been. Zimmermann noticed the PA light in his armrest control panel blinking at him. He toggled it on.

"Bridge engineering, we have pinged the defense platforms," Hughes paused before continuing: "Over two thirds of them are offline."

Zimmermann lightly pounded his fist on his armrest; getting angry would not solve the problem at hand. This battle had just gone from evenly matched to a pitched defense against a greater foe. He ordered Hughes to work with the other taskforce engineers to get the platforms operational again then turned his attention to the battle. Zimmermann noted the deployment of three squadrons of Tellarite fighters. The Tellarites were good ship builders but their fighter craft lacked both firepower and agility.

"Guns target the anticipated track of their plasma cannon fire," Zimmermann ordered in response to Lindstrom's report of the decreasing distance between the opposing forces. "We'll need to get enough metal between them and us to win this thing," he said to Conway.

"Firing solution obtained, Spiders and Narwhals armed," Lieutenant Paul Davies reported from the gunnery position. "Lasers are tracking," he finished.

"Coordinate the initial salvo with the rest of the Taskforce," Zimmermann said in anticipation of Zeigler's orders. "Then fire to support Minnies five and nine," he concluded.

"Flag reports weapons free," Bateson reported. "We are cleared to fire."

Zimmermann nodded to Conway who had seated himself at an auxiliary station. The normally quiet first officer gave the order to fire in a boisterous commanding voice. Zimmermann ordered immediate position changes to try to break the lock of incoming Romulan missiles. It was a new Star Fleet tactic but Zimmermann suspected that the maneuvering was equivalent to a turtle trying to escape an ancient chemical slug weapon.

"Firing and away!" the gunnery officer roared.

The small tight knot of allied ships was illuminated by a spate of nuclear explosions between themselves and their adversaries. Romulan plasma cannon fire added its own type of fiery light to the hellish scene. Squadrons of Romulan Aeons flew through the subsiding energies of the warhead explosions. Many of their numbers fell to the pulse laser fire of oncoming Minotaurs. The Minotaurs in turn rushed past their spherical adversaries towards the Romulan capital ships.

More Romulan plasma cannon fire was intercepted by missile and rail gun fire. Some of the superheated plasma got through though. A Tellarite destroyer was cut in two by the venomous cannon fire. The primary hull containing the crew section spun lazily for several seconds before another cannon shot obliterated it. The Dauntless maneuvered slowly through the fringe of the aftermath of an exploding Romulan antiship missile. Six Aeons fought their way through concentrated Star Fleet laser fire. Two of the nimble spheres were cut neatly into glowing pieces before exploding. Three more of the Romulan fighters fell to Spider area defense missiles.

The remaining Aeon flew wildly until it neared the Dauntless. There it launched two small projectiles before turning to evade defensive laser fire. The Romulan flew in a corkscrewing path until they contacted the Dauntless' port warp nacelle blowing off the cylindrical pod. The offensive Aeon itself nearly escaped until it was blown to pieces by a round of Tellarite rail gun fire. The Dauntless sailed on leaving a trail of glowing hot plasma. Romulan plasma cannon fire missed the Pioneer class vessel; but it did not miss the leaking plasma. The explosive combination wound its way back towards the Dauntless which suddenly turned into a small white hot sun.

The Powhaton class Columbine made a headlong rush towards the line of Romulan ships supported by Minotaurs from the Midway. The one hundred and forty-six meter long craft fired a quick series of Narwhals. The ship's smaller escorts filled the space ahead of the Star Fleet ships with missiles. Two Romulan Sabinus class cruisers became chunks of superheated wreckage. The Columbine was suddenly supported by an Andorian heavy cruiser which had just warped in. Three more Sabinus class and a Veronus were destroyed. The victorious Columbine lined up for another run when three plasma beams struck the ship simultaneously. The Star fleet vessel was utterly destroyed.

Twelve Romulan Aeons fought their way through the Star Fleet capital ships. They were swallowed up by the bulk of Zandor when suddenly ten of the twelve were shredded. Laser fire from awakening defense satellites was followed by Merculite rocket and rail gun fire. The surviving Aeons raced toward the surface of Zandor. Their spherical hulls glowed cherry red until they neared the surface where they exploded. The twin atomic blasts flattened the small city below. More squadrons of Aeons neared the moon.

"The Ike has been destroyed!" Lieutenant Bateson spat out. He had just finished emptying the contents of a fire extinguisher into an instrument panel.

"Engineering," Captain Leonard Zimmermann said to the bridge pickup. When Hughes acknowledged he continued. "Good job on getting those platforms back up!"

"You can thank Ensign Barclay sir," Hughes replied then added in a cautionary tone: "Just keep us away from that plasma cannon fire sir. The port hull polarization feeds were cutoff in that last Eightball run!"

Zimmermann acknowledged the engineer. He quickly ordered Tavar to try to keep their weak port half turned away from the main Romulan attack. Pointless Zimmermann thought as the main attack swirled all around him.

"That makes you the taskforce commander," Conway said thoughtfully to Zimmermann.

Leonard nodded and instructed Bateson to send out the appropriate codes transferring command. The captain had anticipated the dreadful call after Bateson had reported the severing of the command feed from Captain Karmakar's ship. Zimmermann had been the third ranking officer of the taskforce. Had been Leonard thought bitterly.

"More surface attacks against Zandor sir," Lindstrom reported.

Zimmermann nodded towards the chief. He appreciated the fact that the designers of the Tannhausers had decided to retain the streamlined bridge layout. Chief Lindstrom was stationed in an alcove to Zimmermann's right where captain and technician could see one another.

"Raise the Andorian vessel Lieutenant Bateson," Zimmermann instructed the communications officer. The Andorians had pulled out after the announcement from the Vulcans. Their ships were bound for the Vulcan-Andorian border now Zimmermann thought bitterly. So it was that the new commander of Taskforce 17 was puzzled at the arrival of the Andorian cruiser.

"Tell the Minnies to arc around from the rear Tristan," Zimmermann said to Conway as the communications officer set up a link with the Andorian cruiser. "We'll fall back to the defense platforms and throw up some metal from there. Send out orders accordingly Tristan."

Conway started relaying orders to the surviving ships of the Star Fleet taskforce. Bateson meanwhile had established communications with the Andorian cruiser. Zimmermann ordered a visual display with the welcomed newcomer. He was surprised to see a thin, slight human dressed in a gold Stellar Navy jersey sitting back in a throne-like command chair.

The man blurted out something in what Zimmermann recognized as Andorian and then smiled and continued in English: "Captain Gordon Albright of the Kumari at your service sir; mind if we join the party?"

"Sir!" the sensor chief blurted out, "Birdie capital ships are pulling back."

"Seems like you've scared them away Albright," Zimmermann said with a sly grin pasted on his lips. He recalled reading a dispatch about a human captain being appointed to an Imperial Guard vessel.

"That works sir as I'm making my way to the border," Albright replied.

"Relay to all ships number one," Zimmermann said as he diverted his attention to managing the battle. "Continue mop up of the remaining enemy ships," he instructed. Zimmermann listened as his ships reported the Romulan withdrawal. The Birdies had snookered them he was beginning to realize. Zimmermann turned his attention back to Albright.

"That would be ill-advised captain," Zimmermann said in a voice steeped full of caution. Zimmermann was no diplomat but he guessed that a human captain on an Andorian vessel that might challenge a Vulcan ship was a recipe for disaster. He voiced his concerns with Albright: "I can't speak for Forrest but I can't believe that he would allow you to do that. You are a Stellar Navy officer no matter what they are calling us these days."

"I agree," Albright replied tersely. "That is why I feel that it would be best if I resigned my commission with the Stellar Navy."

Suffolk, England, near the site of the old American airbase, Sep 2157

"They have a new commander," Brack said in a casual voice.

"That was our assessment as well," Ensign Frank McCoy replied. The intelligence officer was still smarting over the forced promotion. Soames had did it more because of the workload in McCoy's section rather than Frank's clandestine affairs.

"They lost less than a dozen ships over Zandor but it was enough to force the Tellarites to withdraw some of their ships back to their own territory," McCoy spat out.

"They were throwing away their people except that now the bodies are reduced to atoms rather than laying in the fields for the carrion birds," Brack said quietly. McCoy saw that faraway look in the industrialist's eyes. It caused hackles to run down Frank's back when the mysterious billionaire became like that.

"But it is all just a guess," McCoy said. "Sort of like what we are doing here," he added.

Here was the blasted site where the old Royal Air Force Mildenhall base used to sit. McCoy had almost given up finding the origin of the aircar that the duo had encountered in Trenton when McCoy casually remarked how he too had read a story about an older couple living on the Jersey shore who had written a letter to the local news service about rude aircar drivers. Brack had read a similar story in his research that story had come out of the United Kingdom. The two men had discovered similar timing for both encounters.

Micah had immediately suggested that McCoy snoop into Eileen Thomas' affairs. McCoy had moved in with the woman and had ready access to most of her working files. It was not long before McCoy had discovered a record of communications between the planning cell and an office located where the old air force base had once been. The two men had proceeded without delay then. They had arrived in England and booked rooms near the old Bird in Hand pub.

Frank grew frustrated rather quickly until one of the augments that they had ran into in New Jersey had walked into the pub last night in the company of a striking and deadly looking woman of possibly Pan-Indian descent. Frank had even gone as far as to try to strike up a conversation with the pair. He had been greeted with an icy and venomous stare.

Micah's lab had confirmed that the DNA from the bottle had come from the saliva of a genetically altered human being. Soames had become highly agitated upon learning the news. Frank guessed that the admiral could not tell Thorpe without revealing her own illegal activities. McCoy could tell that Soames was frustrated that earth's legitimate security agencies knew nothing about the enemy presence on earth except that possible Birdie agents were there.

"Our augment friends are here Frank," Brack said. "I'm guessing that old hangar could be a chemical processing facility."

McCoy nodded. The men had scouted out the base earlier that day. They had over flown the facility with a rented aircar. October was still a month away but Frank had an increasingly alarming feeling that time was running out. He had been put in charge of the Sons' of Terra organization arm. So far McCoy had managed through several intermediaries to round up slightly over twenty-thousand protesters for October. He had not been told when in October however and that was troubling. He told Brack of his concerns as the two meandered through the urban countryside.

"They have managed to isolate earth again," Brack said quietly. "What with the Andorians moving ships to defend their borders and now the Tellarite withdrawal it puts you somewhat into the same position you were before the war," Brack said in a pensive voice.

"You almost sound as if you aren't affected," McCoy remarked. Brack was right. Intelligence had come to the same conclusion. The Andorians still provided ships for the war effort against the Birdies but they had reduced that number now; so had the Tellarites.

"Of course I am affected Frank," Brack answered hastily. "It is just an old habit of mine to examine issues from a detached position," Micah explained. "It is only logical when one is my age," Brack added in that strange voice that he sometimes used.

"Here we are," McCoy said as he brushed a branch away from so he could better see the large cubical building. Frank glanced over to see Brack rack the slide of his pistol. McCoy sighed softly. He withdrew his heavy Colt and examined the settings on the plasma pistol.

"Don't hesitate if you have to kill, McCoy," Brack told him pointedly. "The augments can move at a speed you can't imagine. You will only have one chance. They don't want to talk to you. They aren't going to try to woo you with their good intentions. You are a lower life form to them Frank—never forget that. They won't do any of the soul searching that you are doing now."

"How can you know that Micah?" the intelligence officer asked. "They were; they were made by us. Surely some part of goodness and mercy is there in them."

"I was th--," Brack hissed in reply. "I have read history Frank," he said at last.

McCoy realized that there was no point in arguing further. He replaced his Colt and took out the small electromagnetic scanner and started it on its task. The night lit up when McCoy made an adjustment to his glasses. The hangar was guarded by a tight network of lasers. A large cargo model aircar sat near a small door in the building. McCoy was thinking that they would never get into that when three people emerged from a side door in the hangar. The trio made their way to the car. The two from Trenton along with the dark-skinned woman were there Frank observed. McCoy watched his scanner display change as the laser network went down. Seconds later the three augments entered the car. The vehicle's artificial gravity kicked in raising the car. The car went rocketing off as the laser network came back up.

"Bingo," McCoy whispered triumphantly. He reviewed the scanner's reading where he discovered a trace showing the waveform of the signal that had deactivated the security web.

"Let's not assume the hangar is empty now," Brack warned.

Frank nodded. They had put remote sensors and video equipment around the building earlier that day except for the three augmented humans they had seen no one else enter or exit the structure. Still McCoy felt buoyed: They had burglarized both the Oklahoma and Trenton facilities of their adversaries with little incident in either place. Frank felt a pang of guilt that he was reveling in his ability to perform an illegal activity.

"I'll see what I can do to get rid of that laser web," McCoy said as he adjusted his scanner from a passive receive function to one of an active transmit role. He looked up to see the interlaced network of red lines disappear.

"Let's see what is behind door number three," Brack said as they scrambled out from the brush towards the hangar.

"There is only this one door and a fire exit," McCoy said in a bewildered voice. Then it occurred to Frank that Brack's last statement was yet another of the puzzling utterances that the man liked to use. The ponderous main hangar doors had marks showing where they had been welded shut rendering them useless.

"Of course," Brack said. The two scrambled up to the door. Brack knelt took out a small tool kit and soon made short work of the ancient mechanical lock.

"I suppose you learned that on the way to building a financial empire?" McCoy asked cynically in reference to Brack's skill of picking locks.

"Sometimes the boardroom doors would be locked," Micah replied wryly as he turned the door handle and pushed the door open. "And it takes forever to get a locksmith these days—another lost art."

Brack entered first. McCoy followed him. The smell of age was overlaid by the antiseptic smell of chemicals. McCoy's night vision glasses allowed him to make out the shape of several tall cylindrical metal tanks standing in rows. Two longer, bulky storage tanks ran along the floor; feeder lines ran from these two storage vessels to the standing tanks. A darkened area off to Frank's right showed what he thought was offices. The two crept further in.

McCoy thought that their footfalls could be heard all the way back to the Bird in Hand as Brack led McCoy to the first of the horizontal tanks. Frank recalled Brack's lecture on the making of nerve gas. The intelligence officer guessed that this first vessel contained one of the catalysts for the deadly mixture. Micah had told him that particular formula could have only one purpose and that their adversaries could only obtain it in small quantities. They moved to the second tank. A gauge showed that to be empty. The duo slunk past a man-sized hatch; probably an entrance to clean the interior McCoy thought. Brack halted.

"We'll blow the whole thing," he whispered to McCoy. The industrialist's mouth was right next to McCoy's right ear. "Set the timers for five minutes," he added.

They had discussed doing that earlier. McCoy had been hesitant but Brack had mentioned that they needed to see who came to the site of the explosion. So far, besides Chondra they really did not know how many Romulans were on earth—or if the enemy was Romulans and not some intermediary of that race; Brack had indicated that he thought it was time to put pressure onto their enemy. The two split up.

McCoy had a whole pouch full of fist-sized explosive packets. The polythermite derivative contained in each packet not only had enough explosive power to destroy the hangar but also could generate the heat necessary to render the volatile chemicals in the hangar useless. He went about placing the devices in likely spots. Likely as far as Frank was concerned; none of his Stellar Navy training or college classes had mentioned demolition and arson techniques. The two circled around the ghoulish chemical factory when a flash came out of the office area.

Frank ducked in time as the warning sizzle of the laser beam burned a line against the tank framework where he had been standing. He squirmed headlong around the corner striking his forehead against a metal plate as another burst of light filled the darkness. McCoy felt something warm and wet on his left temple. His head exploded in blinding agony where he had struck it followed by a wave of nausea. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the Colt despite his physical condition. He was vaguely aware of a series of rapid loud cracks: That was Brack returning fire he realized.

McCoy rolled up in time to see someone enter the darkness of the hangar. He was glad that his eyes had assimilated to the darkness as his night vision glasses were gone after he had cracked his skull. Frank shot at the silhouette only to see the figure move with nightmarish speed; always managing to stay ahead of his aim. A laser beam hit part of the tank frame sending a shower of sparks onto McCoy. Frank fired again toward the office. They were caught in a crossfire McCoy realized.

The ensign scrambled toward cover all the while firing wildly behind him. The newcomer who had come in the door fired a laser at Frank. McCoy narrowly missed being burned in half. There was a scream and a red flash as the person firing from the office went up in that characteristic plasma flash. McCoy did not know if his fire had killed the Birdie agent or if it was Brack's ancient pistol that had done the deed. He didn't have long to think about it when someone took the dead agent's place in the frame of the office door. McCoy fired before his adversary could size him up in the sights of his or her laser. He ran into Brack under the tank's cleaning access hatch.

"This isn't good!" he blurted out to Brack.

"There are two moving in from the other side," Micah said calmly. Frank did a double take: Brack sounded like he was talking about the placement of dinner guests.

Four hot beams burned around the duo. Frank yelped in pain as a chuck of molten metal landed on his right arm. Frank reached around the corner and fired two quick shots from his weapon. He spun around to see Brack undogging the tank hatch. Brack opened the heavy hatch then ducked over a corner and fired three shots from his pistol. There was a loud grunt from the darkness. More lasers burned away at McCoy and Brack.

"What the hell are you doing?" McCoy asked as Brack seized his arm. Brack gestured into the tank.

"Keep firing then follow me!" his companion exclaimed.

A confused McCoy blazed away with his Colt until the charging indicator blinked. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that this whole structure was soon going to explode. How long had it been he wondered? McCoy had planted his last charge two minutes ago or was it an hour ago? No they had set the charges for five minutes McCoy thought. McCoy put another charge in his weapon. He fired a few more shots into the confusing web of crisscrossing laser fire. He felt something tug on his arm. McCoy realized that it was Brack. He watched in amazement as Micah squirmed into the hatch. Laser fire blinded him as McCoy stood erect. They were outgunned. He wriggled in where Brack had gone.

"Close the door!" Brack snapped.

McCoy reached up and swung the heavy metal door closed. A laser shot hit close enough to his wrist that he was burned. He yelled in pain and let go of the heavy door and let gravity finish the job of sealing them in. The smell of a chemical disinfectant assaulted McCoy's sinuses. He gasped and coughed as he breathed the mixture. McCoy worried briefly what the chemicals would do to his lungs then realized that shortly he would no longer be using his respiratory system.

"Thirty-three seconds," Brack coughed and said roughly as he fumbled into his pouch.

"Can we ride out the explosion in here?" McCoy asked as he wheezed and choked. But the intelligence officer already knew that the polythermite would effectively destroy everything including these tanks.

"I have it covered," Brack sputtered out dryly.

McCoy glanced at his wrist chronometer. He was going to die. The tank seemed to split into flying fragments of white hot metal. McCoy waited to feel his body first torn to shreds then burned. Everything turned a glowing blue around McCoy. Was this the light that he had heard so much about in reference to the afterlife? The light changed and the tank resolved around Frank. Except that he was not in the chemical storage tank now.

A tall black man with a goatee of salt and pepper hair looked intently at McCoy. Frank glanced over at Micah who was looking at his arms as if he was checking that everything was still there. McCoy looked at the black man whose lips held a knowing whimsical grin. McCoy wondered if the man was Jesus. Maybe he should have paid more attention to his Baptist aunt he thought nervously. McCoy became aware that the figure was speaking. The voice of the bearded person came boomed out over McCoy. Why would Jesus be behind a transparent shield McCoy wondered?

"Are you gentlemen alright?" the man asked. He was eyeing McCoy's bleeding head. Frank absently removed a kerchief from his pocket and plastered it against his wound.

"Very good Emery," Brack answered happily. McCoy glanced over to see the billionaire patting his abdomen. "The original equipment seems to be all here," Brack said happily.

"Wha—what happened?" McCoy asked. He coughed as his lungs finished expelling the noxious chemicals from the tank's interior. He was shaking. Brack explained to the confused McCoy why he was no longer in England but was now in Nevada. "So…so I was…was rendered into my…my atoms and scattered all over the place to be…to be a…reassembled here?"

"The first human trials!" the man named Emery exclaimed.

Brack grinned and nodded. McCoy was vaguely aware that the industrialist was going to say something. Frank had not been so angry since a fight with a childhood bully. Without consciously thinking about it his arm shot out. Brack moved like a snake but was not quick enough to avoid McCoy's punch.

"You son of a bitch!" an angry McCoy cried as Brack hit the floor of the strange chamber.

Brack rolled up with the reflexes of a seasoned fighter. "Relax Frank!" he exclaimed as he stood up eyeing McCoy warily. "Would you like to go back to the tank?" Brack asked.

McCoy shook his head violently as his shaking started to subside. He took a tentative step and nearly fell off of the platform that he was on. Brack moved to help him.

"I'm fine!" he said angrily while shaking off Brack's help. "I'll go places on my own goddamned feet," he added.

"Let's find out how we did then," Brack said as he stepped off of the dais.

San Francisco, earth, Sep 2157

Soames looked out over the serene parade grounds of the Star Fleet Academy. The allied commanders who were deployed to earth had chosen to set up a planning area here. Most of the buildings were still under construction. The class of 56' had received their commissions beneath the canvass of a large tent. Parts of this room were still under construction. The large wreath encircling the earth; the symbol of the United Earth government was now gone. Someone had replaced the old flag with the odd rocket looking symbol that had been the crest of Shahar Rastan. Soames supposed that would be replaced with Stellar Navy regalia after the war; or perhaps the Romulan raptor she thought. She shivered inside despite the warmth of the day.

Soames snapped to attention as Christophur Thorpe entered the room in the company of the Tellarite ambassador Halaav and the Andorian ambassador Ketra. She looked expectantly at Admiral Maxwell Forrest who was standing next to her. Forrest returned her gaze briefly. Soames knew that she was supposed to have met him yesterday but Frank's news about the destruction of the Mildenhall facility had consumed that time. Erica guessed that Max was puzzled over her behavior given their last tryst. She would hopefully have the time to deal with that personal issue after this war council.

Tas Shavma stood to Forrest's right. This was the Tellarite general's second trip to earth. He had been conducting the Tellarite portion of the war from his flagship since the Romulan attack on earth. The Tellarite was clearly perturbed and Soames guessed that the reason was because his presence had been demanded here. He shifted uncomfortably as Thorpe beckoned for everyone in the room to be seated. Thorpe took a seat at the head of the large oval shaped conference table.

"I'll get right to business unless anyone has an issue with that?" the president said.

Tas Shavma started to speak when Thorpe interrupted: "I know your concerns general. Your government is recalling many of your forces."

"There seems little to speak of then!" Tas roared. His English was heavily accented but understandable.

"We must withdraw some more of our ships to guard Tellar," Ambassador Halaav supplied.

"You realize that the strike against Zandor was aimed to do exactly that," Admiral Forrest interjected.

"Of course we do!" the Tellarite ambassador replied. "We are not children. But the government has to accommodate the will of our people. And they are frightened out of their skins over the slaughter on Zandor." The Tellarite looked nervously at his Andorian counterpart as he added: "And other things as well."

Soames had to appreciate Tellarite candor. The situation between the Vulcans and Andorians was weighing on everyone's mind. Erica suspected that the blue-skinned aliens might well be spying on the Vulcans. Her own participation in nefarious activities convinced her that if she was doing illegal espionage and sabotage on behalf of earth it was entirely possible that a renegade Andorian could do the same for his or her people. It was not long before the Andorian woman answered their questions.

"Some members of the Caldonè did indeed authorize activities on Vulcan," Ketra said. She explained further. "Those operatives were withdrawn after the declaration of Vulcan neutrality. They expelled our ambassador and closed off their ports to our merchant ships."

Forrest spoke up suddenly: "What about us?" he asked.

Soames saw Thorpe's nervous look. She met and returned the president's gaze. Thorpe nodded at her. Soames leaned back and wondered if Thorpe would give a diplomatic answer.

"We do have a naval officer on Vulcan," Thorpe confessed. He hastened to add: "At the request of someone in their government."

"Tara is not an agitator sir," Soames spat out in a defensive voice. "I do not understand why the Vulcans are doing this."

"They hide their aggressiveness beneath that mask of logic," Ketra said. "My government has done nothing to earn this reaction from the Point—Vulcans." The ambassador turned to Thorpe. "We must consider a possible Vulcan-Romulan alliance President Thorpe."

The silence in the conference room was broken by Tas Shavma's fist slamming down onto the table top. They all turned to the Tellarite officer.

"Exactly as the pirates would want," Tas roared. He explained in the typically gruff Tellarite manner. "The Vulcans will sit on you ice heads," Tas gestured to Ketra; "meanwhile the pirates will be free to come at either earth or Tellar."

"We must defend our world Thorpe," Halaav said. "We will continue to honor the terms of the alliance but we must recall some of the expeditionary fleet to defend our home."

"Which brings me to the next issue at hand President Thorpe," Ketra said in a formal tone. Soames knew what was coming. She had been analyzing the possibilities for some time now.

"If the Vulcans cross our border will you honor the mutual defense pact?" the blue-skinned woman asked.

Soames could see Thorpe's pained expression as could everyone else in the room. The president took a breath, sighed and replied in the affirmative. Forrest was making notes in an anachronistic paper notebook; Soames spied his scrawling out of the corner of her eye. Erica had gotten to know Max well enough to realize that he was planning for the worst.

"I want a commitment from Andoria that you will not provoke anything ambassador," Thorpe said to Ketra. He continued before she could voice her protests. "I realize that you are the wronged party here. I also realize that there is still some animosity leftover from your last dispute with the Vulcans. Rest assured that we will honor our obligations to your people as you have honored yours to us. But we will not be an instrument of revenge for you."

"My mate has already sent words to the generals to use restraint," Ketra answered slowly. "I pray that the Vulcans do the same."

"If they don't then our forces will be there with yours," Thorpe said with a voice full of resolve.

"Sir I will not intrude into civilian decision making," Forrest started respectfully. "But if you do that sir," he paused and continued in his warning tone. "You have to prepare to hit them hard the first time. I don't know why they are entering the fray now. But we have to assume the worst."

Thorpe was so long in answering that Soames was about to rise to check on his health. At last he answered: "If you are talking about orbital bombardment admiral," he paused and shook his head. "I resist that idea."

"You cannot engage the Pointie fleet and the pirates under your current circumstances and expect to win human," the Shavma told Thorpe. "Your puny ships are no match for theirs."

"Shran and the Imperial staff have reached the same conclusion Mister President," Ketra said. "The Vulcan war machine must be crushed on their world while their fleet engages us."

"We can fight our way through sir," Forrest said. Soames knew Max well enough to realize that he was anguishing over his advice. "We have sent ships into the Vulcan system long enough to have a good idea of their defenses. It would be a bloody fight but we could do it."

"There have to be alternatives," Thorpe pleaded. "What about our officer on Vulcan Erica?" the president asked.

Soames shook her head. Gupta's last message had been a confused hodgepodge of information. Much of it sounded like Tarang was spending his time digging up ancient artifacts. The lieutenant had indicated the possibility of Romulan operatives on the desert planet. But as far as Soames could tell, Gupta had done nothing to deal with that situation. She explained as much to the president.

"Sir," Forrest said grimly, "we cannot fight the Romulan fleets and take on the Vulcans as well. We can't knock out the Birdies in a single deathblow," he paused and concluded, "but we can finish off the Vulcans if we have to."

"If we don't?" the president asked pointedly.

"Tas Shavma said it better than me," Forrest began. "But, worst case scenario: The Vulcans neutralize the Andorian fleets. That allows the Romulans to concentrate their forces for an all out attack on earth or Tellar." Forrest concluded quietly, "if we support the Andorians you will have opened the door for the Vulcans to attack us next. We either finish them while they are busy with the Imperial Guard and our ships or sit things out and wait to be next. All the while we face the Birdie threat."

"Draw up plans for all contingencies admiral," Thorpe said at last. Soames thought that she hadn't seen Thorpe so pale looking since the early days of the war. "Can you place some of our vessels in a position that will allow them to come to the aid of the Andorians while not actually sitting on their border?" Thorpe asked.

Admiral Soames listened as Max replied that he could do that. Wise thinking Erica thought: Thorpe was keeping his options open. She knew that Thorpe was pursuing diplomatic courses with the Vulcans but she guessed that he was hitting dead ends. The meeting soon came down to discussing actual numbers. Forrest scribbled vigorously. Star Fleet would be spread pretty thin Erica realized. The presidential briefing ended. Soames was filtering out alongside of Forrest when Thorpe bade her stay behind.

"I have sent messages to Vulcan several times now," Thorpe said. He was looking at the ornate regal crest of Rastan. Thorpe had his back to Erica and his hands folded behind him.

"No reply I take it sir?" she answered smartly.

"None at all for the most part," Thorpe answered. His disgust was evident. "We have managed a low level dialogue through a Denobulan delegation but I have little hope for that." Thorpe continued in a thoughtful tone. "They've been around us for ninety years and yet we know so little about them. None of this makes sense."

"We've analyzed everything that we possibly can," Soames said. "This V'Las seems to be running the show as it were. There is nothing remarkable about his career—as far as we can tell."

"Soval seemed sympathetic to us," Thorpe said. He turned and faced her. "Try to impress on young Gupta that he may well be our one hope in this hour."

"If I can get in touch with him I shall do as you ask sir," she replied. When she had dispatched Gupta she had no idea that the young man would be put into a situation this volatile. She wished they could have sent someone more seasoned; then she ruminated that how could there be anyone possessing the proper training for such an improper set of circumstances.

UES Daedelus, holding in Nebula 1411, Sep 2157

"What is the verdict Trudy?" Captain Michael Cromwell asked his chief medical officer. The two were alone in Schultheiss' sickbay. Cromwell had ordered the two bodies that they had discovered to be sequestered away from the rest of the crew until a determination could be made.

"The bodies aboard the Cabbage have similar DNA to the body that we discovered on 61 Virginis," the doctor replied thoughtfully. Schultheiss eyed Cromwell. Michael thought that he knew what was on her mind.

"I've been thinking about this since our discussion of a few weeks ago," Cromwell said slowly. He explained further. "Suppose these Romulans turn out to be relatives of the Vulcans. What do you think would happen?" He meant the political and military situation back home and the doctor knew that he realized.

"It would depend if our logical friends knew that from the beginning," Schultheiss answered. She sat back at her desk chair. Cromwell looked at her from his seat across the desk as she continued. "But whatever they knew might become irrelevant. The other races would fill in their own blanks. Certainly the Andorians would be inflamed. The anti alien movement—these Sons' of Terra would surely use the information."

"I do not believe the Vulcans know—in general," Cromwell said. He took a sip of coffee. "I suppose that is the last of this?" he asked as he held the cup before her. She nodded in reply. Michael took another sip of the beverage before resuming. "So that leads us to the question: Why did the Romulans attack?" He did not wait for her answer instead he supplied his own.

"From the very beginning intelligence has suspected that the Romulan strategy was to use our seized colonies as jumping off points," Cromwell explained. "Crosby once told me it is as if the Romulans put a dagger in the heart of our systems. They could move to finish us, attack Andor or Tellar—or Vulcan."

"None of the other races have indicated that they had dealings with the Romulans," Cromwell said. "And now we find out that there is a possibility that our enemies are relatives of the Vulcans. I wonder what the odds are that the Romulans wanted to stage a family reunion of sorts?" he asked.

"And when the other races find out that they spent the blood of their young defending the Pointies while they have sit back and did nothing," Schultheiss declared grimly. "They will turn on the Vulcans." She shivered despite the warmness of the small office. "So what are your plans Olly?" she asked.

"We have yet to confirm our hypothesis of course," Cromwell answered. "Picard tells me that she has restored some of their database. She has opened up audio log recordings—no video. Crosby is aboard with Taln. The engineer tells me that he has restored partial power to the craft." Schultheiss interjected her concerns that the Sabinus was still vulnerable to the nebula's plasmonic discharges. "Taln and his people have rerouted enough of their power conduits to act as insulators as he did for Daedelus."

"So we sit on this secret for how long?" the doctor asked. Cromwell knew that it must rankle the physician to have had to lie about their discovery. As far as the rest of the crew knew; the bodies that they had discovered were those of Vulcans who must have been prisoners of the Romulans. The crew quarters of the Sabinus were for the most part depressurized so they had not been intruded upon. Crosby had made a sweep of personal effects from the quarters where there was atmosphere.

"At least until we get back," Cromwell downed the last of his coffee with a wistful sense of desire. It would be the last of the strong black drink he would have for awhile. "We have a date with Mister Crosby aboard the Cabbage," he added as he stood up.

"I am glad that there is atmosphere now," Schultheiss said. She threw on her utility jacket and the two left together for one of Daedelus' shuttle bays. "There are going to be many questions from the crew Olly," she added quietly.

"The few crew photos that we have found suggest that our hypothesis is sound," Cromwell answered carefully. "It will be hard to sit on this secret for too long. Still I want one-hundred percent confirmation. The future of our section of the galaxy could well be decided by what we do here."

"I understand your need for caution here," Trudy replied. She sighed then added: "But you know that it will only a matter of time before things are out in the open."

Cromwell nodded; now that they were out in the public corridors of Daedelus he changed the subject. "I'll miss our coffees for the next few months," Cromwell said as the two of them walked together.

"No reason why we cannot get together," Trudy answered. "There are other things besides coffee Olly," she added with a grin.

"I," he hesitated as the two of them entered the upper level of shuttle bay two and descended the ladder to deck and waiting craft below. "I am not good with these things doctor—Trudy."

"Say what is in your heart Olly," the doctor said. She bent her lanky frame to enter the hatch of the Sinjin class shuttle. Cromwell was seated in the pilot's seat and was busy cinching up his restraints.

"When we get back I hope," he hesitated again feeling anything he had to say was inadequate. He was surprised when she leaned over and kissed his lips before she assumed the copilot's seat.

"We need not wait till we get back," Schultheiss said.

He was at a loss for words. Cromwell busied himself with a quick preflight check. Finally he turned and asked simply: "Ready doctor?" He grinned at her. Cromwell was a little distressed that Trudy had gotten to him this way. She seemed to enjoy his suffering he thought. So pay back was only fair he mused.

Now it was her turn to feel uncomfortable. She nodded as she put her long-fingered hands on the control board. He reminded her to call for clearance and to initiate depressurization protocol. Schultheiss nodded absently as the bay doors parted revealing the explosive kaleidoscope of colors beyond.

"Once around the park doctor!" the captain exclaimed. Trudy had mentioned her desire to try her hand at flying during one of the couple's frequent meetings of late.

Cromwell watched in silence as the doctor engaged the craft's artificial gravity then nudged the Sinjan out with a short blast of thrusters. A little slow he thought; but she was being careful. He remembered a younger version of himself nearly taking part of a bulkhead off during his first shuttle launch. Cromwell watched as Trudy looked for the signal from the beacon that Taln had placed on the Sabinus. The pointers gave a three dimensional representation of the course that the doctor must follow. Cromwell watched nervously as she lined the Sinjan up on the proper heading.

"Just like taking an appendix out eh?" Cromwell asked with a grin on her face.

"I never should have agreed to this Olly," Schultheiss said in a distracted voice. She glanced quickly at him. "Perhaps you would like to operate next time something comes up Herr Kapitan?" she asked playfully.

"Me?" he asked in a shocked voice. "I am afraid of blood and gore madam," he said then added in a warning voice: "Time for some opposite thrust now doctor." He watched as Schultheiss slowed the Stellar Navy shuttle. The cavernous bay of the Sabinus lay open before them. Cromwell reached up and turned on the landing lights when he saw Trudy scanning the panel for them.

Cromwell gripped his armrest and smiled at the doctor. This was where many perspective pilots had accidents the captain knew. He watched as she slowed the Sinjan. Not too much Trudy, he thought. Don't stall us out here doctor he said to himself. Cromwell tensed up as the small craft passed the heavy framework of the alien bay doors. He smiled as the doctor settled the ship down on the floor of the bay.

"I do not believe that I breathed until now," Schultheiss said as she mopped the sweat off of her forehead.

"You did very good for your first ride doctor," Cromwell said as he threw off his straps and got up. He leaned over and returned her kiss. "Don't forget to unstrap doctor," he added as he watched her struggle to get up.

She stuck out her tongue at him. Cromwell merely smiled in return. He checked the external instruments looking to see if the bay was pressurized. He pushed a stud and watched as the shuttle's hatch rolled up. He beckoned Trudy to follow him. Lieutenant Alvin Crosby stood waiting for the couple.

"Anything new?" the captain asked the intelligence officer.

"Puzzling," Crosby answered after some thought. "I'll have to show you sir," Schultheiss stepped down onto the bay deck behind Cromwell. "Doctor," Crosby added in greeting.

Crosby led the two to what seemed like one of the many crew compartments that they had seen. He explained how this cabin, much bigger than most of the rest, contained a sophisticated audio and video monitoring system. A large semi-circular desk sat in the middle of the chamber. Several small monitor screens sat atop the desk.

"Taln has discovered that there are feeds to nearly every area of the ship," Crosby said then added hastily; "including the crew quarters."

"One had better not do anything untoward in their cabin," Michael said dryly.

"Some sort of a," Schultheiss paused while she searched for the right term.

"Political officer, doctor," Crosby said completing her thought. "There is one exception," Crosby added as he motioned for the two to follow him.

They wound their way through the tight corridors of the Sabinus. Cromwell looked about in amazement. Taln had told him that he had restored some warp capability. It seemed incredible to Michael but he had to think that the scorch marks on the interior passageways were only superficial damage. Michael reminded himself that the heart of any starship was its engineering spaces; and this particular ship's heart was not in bad shape from what the Andorian had reported. Finally they arrived at another spacious crew cabin; or at least more room than those of what Cromwell assumed belonged to rank and file crew members.

"This room is larger," Crosby remarked. "And it has an outer area which may be an office of sorts—not sure," he added. The lieutenant guided the two to a small cubicle area in the wall near the floor. He pointed and explained:

"One of Taln's people discovered this while trying to trace some power leads." He held up an ancient looking bound book. "This was concealed in there," he said handing the book to Cromwell.

Michael opened the book and leafed through it. The entries had been done by hand: A strong fluid hand Cromwell thought. He sensed that this was a document written by the Romulan captain. Call it a captain's bond he thought. But that led Cromwell to a question: The Romulan technology that they had encountered so far indicated that their enemy probably used electronic storage means as earth and he allies did. So why a hand-written book he wondered? One hidden away from prying eyes too Cromwell noted.

"Has Miss Picard made progress on their language?" he asked Crosby.

"I'm not sure," Crosby replied as his face reddened. Michael noted the man's discomfort.

"Are you alright Herr Crosby?" the doctor asked as she looked intently at him.

"Yes," Crosby replied promptly. "It is just that I have not spoken with Mariel for awhile," he added sadly.

"Very well," Cromwell said at last. "I'll see that she gets this," he said as he took a last look through the book.

"A private log Olly?" the doctor asked. "I wonder what the captain had to conceal?" she asked.

"A political officer, possibly," Crosby said. It could be that last room was the captain's quarters. Maybe their captains maintained individual surveillance on their crewmembers."

"Could I see that?" a voice inquired. They all turned to see Mariel Picard enter. Cromwell thought that the form fitting utility uniform did the woman justice. Still he noted her appearance in an academic manner. Cromwell thought more of Trudy when it came to that department lately. Cromwell handed the woman the book.

"Are you making progress miss?" the captain asked.

"Between me and Marcel I have succeeded in making some progress," Picard replied as she leafed through the book. Cromwell noted Crosby's distress at the mention of the archeologist. That bit of gossip had filtered through the corridors of Daedelus.

"Very well tell me when you--," Cromwell started.

"It is the captain's log," Picard interjected. "I am sorry sir." At Cromwell's beckoning she continued. "Commander actually; their captain's are referred to as commanders." Picard's cheeks glowed red as she saw the looks of the three officers. "There were many clues and believe it or not Taln was the key to much of our work deciphering their written language."

"Engineering is a common language," Cromwell murmured softly more to himself than the others.

"A fusion reactor is a fusion reactor," Crosby added.

"I am not up on that," Picard said with some reservation as she eyed Crosby warily. "But we have found something--," Picard stopped as she examined a passage in the book. "This is odd. The log entries that we obtained off of the computer were ship's business of course. This is not that."

"At least that must mean that this is the captain's cabin," Schultheiss said.

"There seems to be something about a conflict between Commander D'Vesris and," Picard's face scrunched up in consternation. She shook her head at last. "I believe it is another rank but the name is Rarmala. He seems to have been," she shook her head again; "something in an organization called the T'Shay—no, Tal Shaya—wait Tal Shiar; that is it."

"What is that?" they all asked the French woman simultaneously.

"I do not know," Picard answered thoughtfully not looking at them instead leafing through the book as she spoke. "D'Vesris seems to have been in opposition to Rarmala's placement on his ship. Something about 'this was always so not, this was always not so!" she snapped.

"Does it mention why they were here?" the captain asked hastily. Michael apologized to Picard then: He realized that she was doing her best and that interpreting the Romulan language in a week was quite an achievement. He smiled inwardly as he realized that Mariel was so absorbed in the book that she did not even hear him.

"I believe that I can answer that question," Taln said. Cromwell still had a problem with the Andorian's choice of human bad habits: Taln sent out a puff of venomous blue cigar smoke as he explained:

"The pirates are not stupid," the engineer started. "They failed to insulate on purpose. I believe that they were trying to tap some of the energy off of one of those plasma discharges."

"Why would anyone do that?" Crosby asked the question that was on Cromwell's mind as well.

"I believe that they were looking for enough energy to collapse a packet of matter," the Andorian answered.

"Collapse it into what?" Cromwell asked.

"Into a black hole," the Andorian replied then sent out a smoke ring.

"Okay very impressive smoke tricks Taln, but can you explain what you just said," Cromwell asked with a grin on his lips. Sometimes the captain mused aliens should stay aliens he thought.

"I believe that they were trying to create an artificial singularity," Taln answered; "A black hole that they could use to generate power."

"That would easily be comparable to matter antimatter," Cromwell declared.

"Yes but it is dream for now," the Andorian answered. "We tried the same thing once and the pirates don't even have our level of technology."

"I recall that!" Crosby exclaimed. "There was an explosion on one of your moons—that was over ten years ago."

"An implosion lieutenant," the Andorian answered sadly. "The base was sucked into the singularity along with all the personnel there. I believe had the Romulans succeeded then this vessel would have been pulled into the very singularity that they were creating. In any event they never got to fond out: The first discharge bridged the insulation that they had done. They charge went through the ship and killed the majority of the crew I'm guessing."

"Can you get this ship moving?" the captain asked pointedly. He watched as the Andorian's antennae stood erect then dropped somewhat.

"Give me another week sir and I can give you warp two," the blue skinned alien replied with a fierce look upon his face.

"What is the plan sir?" Crosby asked.

Cromwell answered after a considerable pause: "I plan to put Somers in charge of a prize crew. We will take this vessel back with us for further study."

"That will take months at warp two Oll—captain," Schultheiss said tersely.

"I know about the food situation doctor," Cromwell answered. "You said that some of the Romulan supplies could be resequenced for our use?" he asked Schultheiss.

"It should extend the food supply about another month sir," Schultheiss answered.

"There is Ross 128 that we scanned on a flyby," Cromwell said. "There was a Minshara class world there. We will land there and scout for food or anything that can be resequenced as such." This last, he added with a voice full of resolve.

"Let's see the rest of this craft then," Michael said after he was greeted by a chorus of 'aye sir'. He only hoped his scheme would work. Cromwell had greatly overextended Daedelus. The ship had the fuel for the return; but even with the protein resequencers their food supply had run short. The captain knew that he was taking a dreadful gamble. But the stakes were high. Earth was in a battle for its freedom; maybe its very existence as far as anyone knew. The lives of Cromwell and his command were secondary he thought. His only regret if the worst happened was that he would not be able to make a life with the doctor. Well he was not dead yet Cromwell mused.


	14. Chapter 14

T'Karath Sanctuary, the Forge, Vulcan, Sep 2157

Lieutenant Tarang Gupta sat transfixed before the viewer. He clicked through images of the layout of the sanctuary again and again. He would pause only long enough to examine the Ka'Al' Zin. He was no archeologist, Gupta knew but he had learned to be adapt to many things as a naval officer. He was pursuing what he did not know. But for some reason Tarang thought that the answer lay before him. The Indian recalled an ancient western text that an old roommate had bade him read:

"Speak friend and enter," Gupta muttered under his breath as he recalled the ancient book. He stared transfixed at the screen as he recited that phrase. The characters were in dire straits when their wizard leader had discovered the way into an abandoned passageway with the help of a small being. Gupta was pursuing a similar discovery: He had hopes that there was a relationship between the word blocks inscribed on the Ka'Al'Zin and the diagram of the sanctuary. So far Gupta was not having any luck.

"I do not believe that speaking to a viewscreen will help you solve your problem Tarang," Gupta nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice of T'Les. The Indian would never be able to get over the Vulcan custom of just entering a private room unannounced.

"T'Les," Gupta said as he stood up respectfully. The Vulcan woman motioned for him to sit down and she assumed a seat in one of the spare chairs in the small cell Gupta had been granted for his stay at the sanctuary.

"You have not taken sleep?" T'Pol's mother asked prompting Gupta to look at the time. He had indeed spent all night examining the archeological artifacts. He nodded sheepishly. "Your determination has an almost," T'Les paused then added; "Vulcan quality to it."

"I," Gupta searched for the right Vulcan word. There was nothing equivalent to 'feel' in the terran sense of emotion. "I think that I am close to making a discovery," he said at last. "Or perhaps not," he concluded somberly.

Gupta noticed that the Vulcan woman seemed distracted. He sensed that she wanted to say things to him but was unsure of how to start. T'Pol, he thought at last; that had to be the subject of T'Les' visit to his cell. He broached the topic himself.

"I am concerned about my daughter," T'Les answered. She stood up; nervously Tarang thought if he could assign an emotion to her. "You are human. A Vulcan marriage involves a high level of commitment."

"Well I a," Gupta began haltingly in Hindi. He stopped at T'Les' reproachful stare.

"It is just that Gupta—Tarang," she said as she seemed to look into his soul. Tarang grew quite uncomfortable. "You need to decide what you want," T'Les said. "We restrain our emotions yet I will acknowledge that we Vulcans can feel joy. It has become a private thing shared in the matrimonial bonds now." She looked at Gupta leaving him the impression of a frog he had to dissect for high school biology. "I wish my daughter to find someone to give her joy. You can imagine human that not knowing your people that you are a great unknown to me."

Tarang shifted his mind from stony artifacts and maps to the other thing that had preoccupied his time. He understood T'Les's misgivings about him. He was not from a different country or even the colony of another planet. Gupta was an alien as far as T'Les was concerned. He imagined how his own parents would feel about T'Pol.

"I can understand T'Les," Gupta replied at last. "We humans have emotions and yet sometimes it is hard for us to express them."

"I am glad that Koss released my daughter," T'Les said to Gupta's utter amazement. She must have noted his look for she asked: "Does that surprise you human?" At his answering nod she resumed. "It should not. Do you think us cold because we restrain our emotions?" Without waiting for a reply she continued. "I care about my daughter. That is why I worry for her future. Koss married into our family to gain position. That is logical and perhaps a bonding would have resulted later—or perhaps not."

"What are you two discussing?" T'Pol asked as she entered Gupta's cramped cell.

"The weather," Gupta lied quickly. He noted T'Les glance at him.

"It will be quite comfortable today my daughter," T'Les proclaimed.

Comfortable if one preferred forty-three centigrade Gupta mused. But actually he realized that was indeed comfortable. He was acclimatizing he knew.

"Do you believe that you have made progress Tarang?" T'Pol asked meaning his attempt to find the Kir'Shara.

Gupta shook his head in frustration. T'Pol did not pursue the issue further rather she took up a discussion with T'Les. The two were discussing the problems they were having with the water recycling system. Everyone staying at T'Karath was assigned a duty towards the upkeep of the facility. Gupta was no exception although he would have preferred something more tasteful than waste management. He listened as the two discussed their plans to route around the destroyed sector of the sanctuary.

"That area no longer shows up on diagrams of the sanctuary?" the lieutenant asked. Was he on to something he wondered or were the ghosts of lost sleep showing him phantoms? He rubbed at his eyes that he realized must surely be bloodshot.

"That area was closed after quake damage rendered it unsafe," T'Les said. "There are of course ancient diagrams.

Gupta was already searching the library computer for older diagrams of T'Karath. When he found a suitable file he converted it over and fed it through the program that T'Pol had created for him many nights ago now. The audio of the desktop computer beeped at him seconds later. The missing section resolved itself, bending ninety degrees to form a new pattern.

"They are not word blocks!" he exclaimed wildly. Gupta explained: "That explains the apparent lack of organization. They are words but the main purpose is a map." Gupta looked over the computer graphic of the relic and compared it to the three-dimensional of the representation of the sanctuary. "Look here," he said pointing out a section on the Ka'Al' Zin. "This section is blank on the diagram of the sanctuary."

"I would have to consult T'Pau," T'Les said. "That area is at the end of the eastern quadrant.

"Let's go," Gupta said as he stood up. He was tired and perhaps speaking out of fatigue; but he had to know if he was right. He led the two women out of the cell.

Gupta wound his way through the narrow passageways of the ancient sanctuary. He had long since adjusted to the heavy dry smell of dust and age that the ancient temple held. The group ran into T'Pau while traversing the narrow confines of the sanctuary passages.

Gupta explained to Syrran's next in command what he thought he had discovered. The dubious look that she returned could only be noticed by another Vulcan or one who had been among them for some time as Tarang had. Still she agreed to indulge the human. The small group soon made their way to a buttressing wall of the ancient structure. Inscriptions that Gupta knew were written while mankind was still in its infancy adorned the wall.

"According to the word groups there is another passage somewhere beyond this wall," Gupta declared weakly. Now that the silent wall confronted him he was beginning to doubt his desperate premise. He looked blankly at the ancient writings. "Speak friend and enter," he muttered.

T'Pau looked at the other Vulcans in obvious confusion over Gupta's activities. She had heard Tarang's mumblings however which caused her to say:

"Early Vulcans rarely used voice activated entry devices. They employed encoded sequences of light instead."

"From the surface of a reflective object perhaps?" he asked speculatively.

Gupta saw a narrow slit in the wall. The fierce sun of the Eridani system was starting to show though the opening. He removed the ancient metallic relic from beneath his cloak. Gupta had discovered that the object did indeed have a highly refractive surface. That implied nothing to the Indian who had been swimming in archeology texts to no avail. Maybe he need only heft the object into the sunlight Gupta thought. He lifted it up into the growing ray of intense light realizing how stupid he must look. Then again Vulcans were logical; they would merely look at him as some wayward child who was having problems solving a simple math problem he thought.

"Nothing is happening," T'Pol said flatly only adding to Gupta's embarrassment. Maybe he should return to his cell for some sleep he thought as he observed the myriad dancing lights reflected off of the object in his hand. He sighed and moved to put the item back in his cloak when one of T'Pau's associates entered the passageway. At the same time a grinding noise and rumble came up from the floor.

"Something has emitted a low frequency radio pulse," the Vulcan Tenerak said without ceremony. "We have localized it to this area," he finished.

Gupta had learned that the T'Karath Sanctuary was sealed against electromagnetic emanations; so it was a matter of concern if a wayward signal were to be sent out. Gupta was sure that T'Pau would have been more inquisitive except it was quite possible that she was preoccupied as the wall opened up before the tightly knit group. A cloud of dust shot out causing all of them to cough and retch briefly.

"Was it strong enough to be detected Tenerak?" the Syrranite leader asked after she cleared her throat.

"It was not," Tenerak replied promptly. The Vulcan returned to his duties after T'Pau advised him to be extra vigilant in monitoring any outside activity. Gupta meanwhile peered into what lay beyond in the ancient tunnel with the aid of a small hand held torch.

"You are coming along in your archeological studies Tarang," T'Pol said. "You may even be an adequate intelligence agent when all of this is over," she added in the typical unemotional Vulcan tone.

"Beginner's luck," Gupta retorted with a grin on his lips. He was wondering if T'Pol's last statement was the Vulcan equivalent of teasing. He hesitated before stepping forward. Gupta's thoughts turned to ideas of ghoulishly exaggerated booby traps that might exist in the dark passage. Then he thought how silly that was: Vulcans would not do such things he thought; would they?

He gulped and said in as confident a voice as he could muster: "Let's go." The group slowly filtered into the tunnel that had not been trodden through in thousand of years. He shined his light onto the floor where the groups' footprints could be seen.

"Where too?" the Syrranite leader asked. She looked around until she noticed the eight crystalline containers lining a section of the curving passage. Gupta was about to reply when T'Pau commanded them all to stop. "Could it be?" she said; more to herself than to those around her.

"The katric arcs of the eight," Gupta said quietly. They all turned to the human. He was glad for the relative darkness of the tunnel as it hid his blush. He rushed to explain. "I learned in my readings of the eight who went out to spread Surak's teachings to the other side."

"It is possible that this not them," T'Pau said. "But the inscriptions are telling. The symbols on the side are indicative of those who sacrificed themselves to bring logic to the others."

"But they were executed before the others went in exile," T'Les protested. "How is it that their katras could have been recovered?" she asked.

"So it is written," T'Pau answered. "Yet Syrran uncovered writings that indicated that one who was labeled a traitor by the aggressors received the katras of those who were sent forth. He escaped his clan to deliver the eight spirits of those who were executed before Surak's death." T'Pau strode over to one of the dusty vessels and stretched her fingers over it. "I ask you all to leave me for a few moments," she commanded.

"According to the word blocks this passage leads to a central nexus," Gupta said. "There is no indications of what is there but perhaps 'X' does indeed mark the spot," he concluded as the trio moved on. Gupta was concerned about leaving T'Pau in the dark until she lit a small lantern. The last he saw of her she was gripping one of the urns; her face entranced.

The tunnel continued around for thirty more meters. Gupta saw a dark space which he at first took for more of side of the passage. It was only when they drew closer that he realized that it was some sort of stone casement built into the wall of the tunnel. Gupta shined his torch on a tall pyramidal object. It stood no higher than forty centimeters Gupta reckoned. Was this the Kir'Shara Tarang wondered as he reached forth to touch the object.

T'Pol leaned in close to Gupta to examine his find for herself. "If this is it, what now?" she asked.

"This object could revive the sentiment of some of those who are unsure," T'Les answered.

"The object?" the lieutenant asked skeptically. Gupta had to admit that he was in over his head but he just failed to see how an object could change a culture.

"It contains teachings of Surak that have never been seen before," T'Les replied. "Were Syrran to show all of Vulcan the lost teachings of Surak it would be the first stone of an avalanche."

Gupta laid his fingers on the tall pyramid. He almost expected to have some telepathic revelation course through his body. But that was silly he mused. No doubt he was somewhat in awe of an object that would be similar on earth to lost writings from Mohammed, Buddha or Shiva. He lifted it up noting that it weighed no more than four or five kilos.

"So these lost words are in the object?" he asked as he held it aloft.

"T'Pau would know best," T'Les answered. Gupta started to suggest that they find T'Pau again when he was jolted to his knees.

"It is a quake," T'Pol said as dust and pieces of rock fell to the tunnel floor.

"That cannot be," T'Les declared. "We have equipment in place and there were no indications that a quake was imminent." She became more resolved as she added: "We must get above ground."

"Agreed!" he exclaimed as he stood up and raced through the passage. The passage shuddered again, slamming Gupta against a wall. He kept his footing but knew that his left side would be sore later; unless he was buried he thought pessimistically.

"T'Pau!" the intelligence officer exclaimed. He was utterly surprised to see the woman embracing one of the urns; her eyes shut and obviously unaware of what was going on around her.

The ground shook again this time causing larger rock to fall from the ceiling. Gupta knew it was time to get to the surface. He grabbed the seemingly oblivious woman around the waist and dragged her along.

"No!" she exclaimed. "I only have two!"

"You can come back madam!" the human exclaimed. Possibly with the aid of an earth moving machine, Gupta thought as he narrowly missed being brained by a skull crushing chunk of rock. He vaguely wondered what two things she had, but he pushed that thought aside as they group exited back into the sanctuary.

The normally searing Vulcan morning was accented by bluish white flashes that Tarang realized were not made by lightning. The intelligence officer had seen a demonstration of Vulcan particle weapons during more agreeable times. A bright flare lit the outside again followed by the sound of an explosive blast that resonated all the way through Gupta's chest. They floor shook violently the tunnel they had just left collapsed spewing a cloud of dust over the group.

"We must get away from here," T'Pau said calmly despite what was going on around her. She pushed away from Gupta's arm. "I am well human," she declared contritely. "Thank you," she added as she coughed from the dust in the air. She beckoned for them to follow. They emerged outside a few seconds later covered in dust.

The buildings that Gupta had thought so unique because of their alien architecture were blasted to rubble for the most part. With the exception of a wall here and there no structure was left standing. A few lucky survivors were heading towards the foot of the mountain. Some were not as fortunate as they were being carried along on makeshift stretchers.

"The bombardment seems to have stopped," Gupta said as he looked skyward. Illogical he realized as the vessels that had rained down this destruction would not be visible to his naked eye. He looked at the stream of refugees. "They meant to kill everybody here. I do not know who it is but I believe that it would be dangerous to go with the group."

"We can go further down in the valley to the east although we will be exposed for sometime," T'Pau said.

"There should be some supplies in the commissary," T'Les said. "We will need some food and water if we are to go through the desert," she said as she entered the ruins of the common dining and provisioning building.

"What is to be our destination?" Gupta asked. Now that it had come to it he was unsure of what they were to do.

"You must free Syrran and ensure that he makes it to Mount Selaya," a strange voice said. Gupta jerked around to see Minister Soval.

"Minister," T'Pol said in greeting.

"I am no longer that," Soval said. He explained. "Minister V'Las has seized power through the High Command. I am a fugitive and would be incarcerated along with Syrran had I stayed in the capital."

"Freeing Syrran would cause his followers to advocate for change," T'Pau interjected. "I assume that you propose that he access the Kir'Shara before Surak's memorial?" she asked.

Soval nodded; the one gesture that the two races had in common Gupta noted. He was curious though as the words of Syrran spoken to him several weeks ago returned to him. The leader of the cult, for so Gupta thought of Syrran's movement, had referred to Soval as a nonbeliever. He asked the former minister about that.

"I am a follower of the teachings of Surak lieutenant," the Vulcan explained. "But the High Command has done much to make Vulcan a power in this quadrant. I thought that we, as the elder race were entitled to that." Soval came as close a Vulcan sigh as Gupta imagined was possible as he continued. "But Surak's hand extends beyond the grave. He said that power would corrupt us and so it has."

Soval turned his back to them as he continued: "This bombardment was ordered by V'Las and carried out by the High Command. Vulcans' have not killed one another in acts such as this for many of your human centuries; until this day. It must not begin again."

"So we have merely to make our way to the capital, break into a jail of sort," Gupta summarized; "free an individual from there and take him and this relic," he brought the Kir'Shara out of his cloak. He noted how Soval turned and looked at the object with a look that Gupta took for Vulcan awe. The Vulcan quickly shrouded his reaction however. "Go to some mountain and all the while the entire police and military forces of this world will be looking for us." He grinned and added in a tone rife with sarcasm that sounded strange when speaking Vulcan: "No problem."

"You have as much as a chance as any of us at this point lieutenant," Soval declared.

"You seem to have adequately filled the role of archeologist Tarang," T'Pol added. "I do not believe you will have any problem in this other area."

"I am too recognizable," Soval said. "I came here in a surface skimmer which you may take," he said referring to one of the small agile anti-gravity surface cars. "In any event you are not alone: There are many ordinary citizens questioning the High Command. Many have not gone to their places of employment today and I have heard over the information services that some of our cruiser squadrons have gone silent."

"A Vulcan insurrection?" the human asked in a dubious voice. He supposed that something had intervened to stop the bombardment here. Gupta was a naval intelligence officer and he knew that orbital fire from Vulcan particle cannons would not normally have left survivors.

"Perhaps," Soval replied thoughtfully. "I do not know if Vulcan's path follows your president's alliance Gupta, or if it is our part to isolate ourselves. It should never be our fate to ally ourselves with the Romulans however—not if this is the price," he added as he surveyed the bombed out ruins. He looked thoughtfully at Gupta and T'Pol as he added: "If the efforts of you two are any indicator though then our two races show much promise working together."

"I expect that I will continue to aide Tarang?" T'Pol asked.

"That is dangerous," T'Les said. Gupta noted her emotional mask falling; even if only for a second.

"I understand your concern," Soval told T'Pol's mother. "But these times are perilous for us all. The disposition of those in custody has yet to be determined."

Gupta was a little taken aback over that statement as apparently the rest of them were. He supposed that the same person who ordered an orbital bombardment would have no problem ordering mass executions. The Indian supposed that if he were caught he might be killed himself; after all some of V'Las' men had already tried to do so. Well he thought with a sense of resolve, nobody had ever told him that a military career was a safe one.

"I too have the information necessary to activate the Kir'Shara," T'Pau said.

"Then why not just do this here?" Gupta asked pointedly.

"Syrran has many supporters among our people," T'Pau explained. Gupta noticed an almost contemptuous look between her and Soval. "Many more than those in the government have been willing to admit to as they took our people on the path of elder race."

"I have indicated that I was wrong," Soval said. He looked down in a very human like gesture. "In any event I acknowledge Syrran's personal charisma," Soval said to T'Pau then turned to Gupta and explained: "And that is why Gupta, Syrran is the best choice and Mount Selaya as one of most sacred regions is the best place. V'Las would not dare anything there."

"I suggest that you we take two routes to confuse the trail," T'Pau said. "I will take a separate route and plan to rendezvous at Surak's temple upon the mountain in," she cocked her head while she thought; "three of your weeks Gupta."

"You should have this madam," the Indian declared as he extended the ancient relic to her. She seemed to think a moment before accepting the object.

"I go to meet allies in the High Command," Soval said. He explained that he hoped to blunt the perilous situation developing between the Vulcans and Andorians.

"I believe that we have enough supplies," "T'Pol said. Soval gave the two a small bag containing Vulcan currency. Although as rare these days on Vulcan as it was on earth actual hard currency still had its uses Gupta thought. It would be harder for the government to trace them through credit exchanges he realized. Maybe he did have a bit of intrepid agent in him he thought.

"The attack has blinded their sensors allowing you time to get away," Soval said as the group headed out of the commissary.

"We'll make for the foot of the Harara Mountains and abandon the vehicle in one of the caves there," T'Pol said.

T'Les surprised Gupta by making his way to him rather than to her daughter. She motioned for the officer to step away from the group. Gupta followed her for a short distance until they were out of earshot of the others.

"Remember our discussion human," She said to him. Gupta could detect the warning even under the unemotional voice. "Take care of her. She is all that I have left now. It is not logical; nonetheless it is what it is."

Tarang nodded to the woman. He turned away from her to leave. Gupta turned back to her one last time. "I love her," he said quietly and turned away.

ShirKahr City, Capital of Vulcan, earth year Sep 2157,

This was supposed to be the ancestral home; that which he had been told about since he was a child. Yet the admiral found the planet uncomfortably hot and dry. He longed for the cool woods of his estate even if it was an empty shell now. The travel cloak seemed a little much in the excessive desert sun but he was a warrior, so he dealt with the heat. The minister's office was ridiculously easy to enter. Government officials at home would be buried beneath layers of iron fisted security the admiral knew. He entered the large double doors: The rear entrance to Minister V'Las' sanctuary.

V'Las stood up as he entered. The operative had been told to expect him but he had not been told who to expect the admiral knew. He pulled back the hood of his cloak and was greeted by a gasp from the supposedly unemotional minister. So this was the seat of Vulcan power the admiral mused.

"Admiral Valdore," V'Las said when he had collected his wits. "I was told to expect an important visitor but I had no idea," V'Las said.

"You may dispense with the honorifics V'Las," Valdore said. He had experienced enough court theatrics during his service to the empire. "The bombardment you ordered today was impetuous and if anything has undermined our position here. Were you in a position where you could be replaced I would execute you now."

"I would remind the admiral that I am here because of the work of General Talex," V'Las said. Valdore noted the minister's return to the cool Vulcan demeanor. He found it insufferable in light of V'Las using the Tal Shiar general's name as a shield. Valdore was here to correct the general's mistakes. So far he had been successful in that he had once again managed to isolate the humans.

"I realize that Talex set up the generational infiltration program," Valdore retorted. "And so it is that I cannot understand how someone who has lived among these people seems to have no understanding of them." Valdore knew that V'Las; abducted from Vulcan as an infant and raised on Romulus had become more Vulcan than Romulan.

"The situation had become untenable," V'Las explained. "The dissidents had to be removed; with their influence gone we can blunt the Syrranite movement."

"Your own cruiser commanders have fired upon one another," Valdore said. He had observed a Vulcan cruiser intercede against the ships firing on the surface earlier that day.

"There are a few captains who have made unwise choices," V'Las replied. "It will not affect the overall plan admiral." Valdore noticed the subtle change in the minister as V'Las added: "General Talex is replacing you in a short time admiral."

That was true Valdore knew. The Tal Shiar's last field commander, Gatila had been relieved after repeated failures against the Triple Alliance. Relieved being what humans referred to as a euphemism. At least Gatila's family had not had to pay the ultimate price as failure to the Praetor sometimes called for. Gatila had taken his own solution to the problem by exiting an airlock minus a spacesuit. That had allowed Valdore, as vice commander of the Imperial Expeditionary Forces the opportunity to strike according to his own theories. His successes had been rewarded by the news of yet another Tal Shiar operative taking command of their forces.

"I will serve whomever the Praetor chooses to lead our forces here," Valdore replied carefully. He had nothing to lose now so he could afford to say things that most would fear to voice. "But you know that the Praetor can not decide to make his own voluntary body functions much less policy decisions." Maybe V'Las had a little Romulan left in him as he glanced around as if looking to see if anyone overheard Valdore's last comment. But V'Las knew the truth as anyone close to the court did: Karzan was a doddering old man who had gone past his useful term as Praetor. Valdore knew that Praetors of old chose to end their lives before they reached this stage.

"Changes are coming Admiral Valdore," V'Las stated formally. This was V'Las' Tal Shiar indoctrination speaking Valdore knew. "The empire must expand. The old ways served us well but it is time to push aside the old and usher in the new." He looked directly at Valdore as he asked: "Who will dare stand against Romulan superiority?"

"The humans for one," Valdore said. The Tal Shiar ruling through Karzan's decrepitude had seriously misjudged that strange race when they had started this war. "The Remans for another," Valdore added. The slave revolt had destroyed much of the new ship yard that had been built since the Stellar Navy suicide raid Valdore knew.

"The Remans are inferiors," V'Las said. "They do not have the intellect to understand that they have been conquered."

"They seem to have spent hundreds of generations not realizing that," Valdore retorted. Valdore wondered how V'Las could be so obtuse: When the Remans still resisted their conquerors after all of this time how could he have expected humans, Tellarites and Andorians to shrink before the empire.

A tone sounded form V'Las desk. The minister indicated that all was well as he opened the main doors of his chamber. A tall being entered; he pulled back the hood of his cloak.

"Minister Karzai," V'Las said in greeting. "You of course know Admiral Valdore." The Vulcan minister bowed his slightly to Valdore.

"I am here as requested," Karzai said.

"I wish to know your assessment of the human ship building facility at Utopia Planitia," Valdore asked without further courtesies.

"We left prior to its construction but our operatives in place have been quite helpful," Karzai said. "I have our observations encrypted for you on this data crystal admiral." He handed the small sphere to Valdore then asked: "Is that then the next plan of attack if I might ask admiral?"

"If the general approves of course," Valdore sincerely hoped that his plans would be initiated by Talex. Let the general have the glory even if it was obtained using Valdore's commandeered strategy.

"I am sure that Talex will defer to your talents as a soldier admiral," Karzai said. Valdore had known Karzai when his name had been Tan'lak. Tan'lak had taken the path of intelligence whereas Valdore had pursued a naval career. Valdore grunted in reply.

"I was sorry to hear about Mistress Dalen, Valdore," Karzai said.

Valdore looked down briefly in respect. There was regret too, soldiers were supposed to die in war; that was the way of the warrior. But not those at home he thought mournfully. Valdore was lost in thought so it was that he did not at first hear Karzai's inquiry about Valdore's son.

"He was with the Twelfth Phalanx Guard," the admiral said at last. Valdore noted Karzai's brief look of sympathy. V'Las stared blankly at the two until Karzai explained:

"That unit was on patrol in the Hezin sector when they intercepted what they thought was an alliance freighter." Karzai's voice grew quiet as he resumed. "The earthers had put a large number of nuclear warheads aboard one of their old tankers. The devil Stiles then ambushed the survivors of the attack."

"We should deal with that one through our agents on earth," V'Las said in reference to Jocelyn Stiles. "My condolences for your loss admiral; you have given your life's blood to the empire."

"You will do no such thing," Valdore exclaimed. "I would expect no less from one of our officers were the situation reversed." The two politicians looked at the admiral as he explained further. "While I command you will relent from these covert attacks on the alliance worlds." Valdore looked to Karzai. "I wish you to return to earth and take control of things there while there is still time."

"That is a Tal Shiar matter admiral," V'Las declared.

"Another matter that has been misjudged," Valdore replied hotly. "Listen you fool; I warned from the very beginning that the official assessment of the humans was wrong. We need only have moved slower and established ourselves to isolate Vulcan. Now we are in a struggle that may well finish our civilization."

"Your assessment is incorrect admiral--," V'Las began.

"Do not deluge me with Tal Shiar propaganda V'Las," Valdore interrupted. "Their ships are better than ours; their strategists have proven to be the equal of any that have come out of Norcela. The Tal Shiar marginalized their strengths while magnifying their weaknesses. Now we find ourselves grappling with those strengths."

"All the more reason to disrupt them on their world," V'Las countered.

"You reported that our operatives are achieving much through political means?" Valdore asked Karzai. When the former ambassador replied in the affirmative Valdore continued. "That is as it should be. If our people are exposed while committing an act of destruction on earth we risk galvanizing their people against us. All doubt that has been sewn about this war will have been wasted."

"I see your point Valdore," Karzai said. He turned to V'Las and asked: "I will need discreet transport to earth."

"I see that you are resolved in this matter admiral," V'Las said at last. "I believe that we should wait until General Talex approves such a plan but you command—for now."

Valdore really wanted to kill V'Las. But that would only serve to lead to his execution. The admiral was not afraid to die but he believed that if things went badly it would be Valdore who would have to fight the long retreat. The truth was that Valdore wanted a halt to the sabotage not only for his stated reasons but for one other that he dare not voice: Was the war to go bad for the empire their conduct in fighting it might well dictate the victors' handling of the end of the conflict.

"The cell on Andoria departed," Karzai supplied. Valdore had read the report on that: Apparently the Andorian cell had almost been discovered. "I will do what I can on earth admiral." Karzai got details on a departing freighter from a plainly reluctant V'Las. When that was complete he turned to the Vulcan and Romulan; "jolan tru," Karzai said in farewell to both of them. The Romulan exited out of the back entrance. Valdore turned to V'Las.

"Until your Tal Shiar master arrives you will restrict your crackdown on the Vulcans," the admiral warned. "Concentrate instead on removing this Syrran—without making him a martyr. These are a logical people V'Las; appeal to that. We may use other measures when we are ensconced here."

"I will do as you bid," V'Las said. Valdore left without further comment. He had much on his mind. Karzai stood waiting for him in the anteroom outside of V'Las chambers.

"Much like bygone days my friend," Karzai remarked.

"Those days are gone Tan'lak," Valdore replied. "But it is good to see you again comrade."

"As it is to see you admiral," Tan'lak looked around cautiously. "I swept this chamber personally so all should be well." The former ambassador walked beside Valdore. "Do not be overly demanding on V'Las. He is what he is as a result of a lifetime of Tal Shiar training. He is useful in his present capacity."

"The time will soon come Tan'lak when V'Las and his Tal Shiar cohorts who see what they want rather than what is will have to stand aside to allow the military to fight," Valdore explained. "This war will be won—or lost out there," Valdore said as he looked up briefly.

Stellar Navy carrier Valley Forge, outbound from Wolf 359, Sep 2157

Lieutenant William Walters made his way through the familiar corridors of the Forge. He had not been back long before the carrier was off on convoy protection duty. It was not long before the days had gotten long and monotonous. At least he was sleeping though: Sharon Patelli had insisted that he seek help. He had been talking to the ship's surgeon about things that he had seen. It helped a little. He was still silent about his near dance with his sidearm after his escape from Deneva however. He had not even told Sharon that and the two of them had become quite close during shore leave.

The lieutenant made his way to the pilots' wardroom. Walters had just attended a briefing of the senior staff. He was still in awe of the company of superior officers even though he was a brevetted one himself. Walters had just received the news from Admiral Frank Buchanan that he was going to be promoted to lieutenant commander. Still Walters would look around during briefings such as the one he had just left and wonder what as he thought of them, the real officers were thinking about him. The rational part of his mind told him that they were probably watching how he did his job just as observed them for the same reason.

Walters was passing the access to the hangar bay when he heard Chief O'Brien swearing. There was a fresh group of pilots in the squadron. Walters supposed that he should get to know them: He may well have to write the letter to their survivors talking about how their son or daughter died. Bill shelved that thought though at the sound of the Irish engineer bellowing at his deck crew. He turned and headed into the bay. A Minotaur sat in its launch cradle while a technician and two pilots painted a figure of a scantily clad Andorian woman with a laser pistol in her hands on the side of the craft. Lieutenant Thahn was one of the few old timers as he had come to think of them these days. The Andorian waved.

"She is my ideal mate!" the blue-skinned pilot exclaimed as he touched up the figure's snarling grin.

"Watch what you are doing with that goddamned sonic applicator l-t!" O'Brien bellowed at the Andorian pilot. "Your dream lady will be calling you 'hook' if you are not careful!" the engineer exclaimed and shook his head in mock sadness. "Nothing more dangerous than an officer with power tools in his hands," he muttered. He noticed Walters entering the bay. "I'll make an exception in your case," O'Brien said then added: "Congratulations sir."

"They had all these extra stripes," Walters replied weakly. "I think they were handing them out at the door." He grew more serious then said: "Thanks chief."

O'Brien motioned for Walters to follow him to the engineer's break room. A group of technicians sat in beat up old acceleration couches. They were gathered around a vidcaster. O'Brien stopped to harangue his engineers.

"Why in god's name do you watch that old stuff when there is a real war on?" the chief asked. He looked at the vidcaster. "What is going on in this episode anyway?"

"The captain is leading a fleet to earth to take care of the president," a Tellarite technician answered obviously enthralled by what he was watching.

"You just like the woman Lav," a human engineer spoke up.

"It is that growth around her skull," the Tellarite replied in a pensive voice. "Especially since she changed into a hybrid and grew all of that lovely hair."

"He needs some shore leave chief!" another engineer chimed in raucously.

"He needs to get his ass working," O'Brien said. "This whole crew seems hell bent on getting paid to do nothing. What; do you think you are all politicians or something?" he asked the gaggle of engineers.

O'Brien grumbled some more as he led Walters to his office. When Bill was comfortably seated in front of the engineer's desk O'Brien came to the point.

"No word on the Birdies?" O'Brien asked.

Walters shook his head. O'Brien would of course receive a briefing from the engineering officer. A woman that Walters had to wonder about as she seemed to conduct the Valley Forge's engineering tasks entirely from her office. Bill had become O'Brien's conduit of information on ship's business as Lieutenant Commander McCalister was very sparing in what information she disseminated to her engineers. Walters' brief military career however had been dominated by officers who told their subordinates as much as they could. So it was that he didn't mind sharing information.

"They are locked up tight in the systems they control," Walters replied. He hesitated before continuing: The news had not been good. "The Gorbachev and her Minotaurs were ambushed while conducting a surveillance mission against Deneva." Buchanan agreed with intelligence that a new Birdie commander must be running the show; or at least that their old commander was changing tactics. O'Brien absorbed the information with a shake of his head of grizzled red hair. He reached into a lower desk drawer.

"Want one?" the engineer asked holding up the bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey and some glasses.

Truthfully Walters would rather have said that he was on alert should the squadron have to launch but his new position carried with it the responsibilities of ensuring that other pilots were trained and ready. It would be another week before Lt. Cmdr. Walters came up for the alert rotation. Walters gratefully accepted the drink after he thought of the reports he must write and the administrative minutiae that he would have to deal with.

"How about the pointies?" the engineer asked, after Walters had downed a satisfied sip of the raw whiskey.

"Pretty much what you got over the vid," Walters replied. "If it wasn't for that lack of emotion I'd say they were in the beginning of some kinda civil war." Buchanan and Shorn had come up short on answers as far as the Vulcans were concerned. The only things that were known had been learned from the hastily severed subspace transmissions from the desert world. "President Thorpe sent a message to V'Las." Bill said as it was one of the few concrete facts that he was in possession of concerning the Vulcans.

"I suppose he didn't come back whistling a jig?" the chief asked. O'Brien's brogue became more pronounced as the liquor worked its chemical changes on him.

Bill frowned slightly. "It was the typical pointie answer," Walters replied. He ticked off the details of V'Las' reply: "Vulcan neutrality must be observed; sending hostile agents to Vulcan could be interpreted as an act of war."

That last statement caused the chief to sit up quickly. Walters had experienced much the same reaction himself. Walters knew that the Vulcans coming into the war against Star Fleet would drastically change things. He wondered briefly how his friends back home would react to the news: Probably out calling for more isolation and retreat he thought bitterly. He decided to tell O'Brien what the engineer would have hopefully heard from Lt. Cmdr. McCalister.

"Things sound bad but it seems that orbital bombardment was stopped when another pointie cruiser fired on the two that were hammering the surface," Walters explained. "The Han was patrolling near the Denobulan border when they picked up transmissions from life boats. It turns out that it was the crews from four pointie cruisers. They identified themselves as Syrranites and said they had scuttled their ships rather than engage in fighting."

"These Syrrans are their version of the Sons' of Bitches?" the chief asked using the navy shorthand for the Sons' of Terra.

"Dedicated pacifists supposedly," Walters reiterated what he had heard from Shorn earlier.

"Well at least they took the heat off of the andies," O'Brien remarked.

"Us too--," Walters started when the alert klaxon sounded.

Walters jumped up and put his glass on O'Brien's desk and offered the engineer a quick thanks. He wanted to be in the process of throwing on a spacesuit and thinking about the impending launch checklist instead of responding to the bridge to oversee the launch of the pilots. His pilots Walters had to remind himself again as he thought of the admiral's words to him earlier. Walters scrambled to the bridge quickly shaking off the effects of the fragrant whiskey. Minutes later he was greeted by the smell of the air scrubber's vain attempts to remove the noxious fumes of Admiral Frank Buchanan's cigar smoke.

"Are they birdies?" the admiral asked the sensor operator. The Tellarite's face was pressed to the visor that overlay his sensor screen.

"Some sort of high energy directed weapon," the Tellarite chief answered slowly. He added hastily then: "It is not lasers sir. I believe it is energized particles. The power signature is also not typical of pirate cruisers; more like a mam signature admiral."

"Particle cannons maybe and matter antimatter power," Buchanan said as he chomped down on his cigar. He cursed when he realized that the tobacco had lost its fire.

"Sounds pointie to me sir," Walters interjected.

Captain Srinivasa Ramanujan added his agreement of Walters' assessment. The Indian was clearly curious as to what was going on. He asked the sensor chief to confirm the number of unknown vessels again.

"Four now sir," the Tellarite replied. "Readings show that one was destroyed," he hesitated before adding: "Another is showing energy readings consistent with hits from particle weapons."

"If the pointies are duking it out we might want to be careful about going in there," Walters said. Captain Ramanujan shot him a baleful glance. Bill realized that he had intruded on the man's command territory. Well, Walters thought, he did not have all the fancy schools and polishing of a regular officer.

"I agree Sluggo," Buchanan replied. "I haven't gotten a memo from Forrest yet but you can bet your ass that if the pointies are in a civil war our people might benefit from helping the right side."

"A Vulcan cruiser is more than a match for us sir," Captain Ramanujan said.

More than a match was correct Walters thought. The dart like craft could easily make mincemeat out of the carrier. But then again they had the Powhatons Catskill and Vandalia with them as well as the Torsk class Borei. Walters bit his tongue: He wanted to see what the Vulcans were up too as well but did not want to say anything further.

Walters didn't have to say anything as Buchanan quickly sketched out a plan where the Hornet and Forge would launch their alert fighters and then follow the Valley Forge in with the Borei. The two squadrons of fighters along with the destroyer would put the Forge on an equal footing against the Vulcans should that need arise. Walters stepped to his console and at the behest of Buchanan initiated the alert force launch. Ten minutes later the Star Fleet force arrived at the scene of a battle; Bill peered into the hooded shroud covering his own sensor display. Walters supposed that there were perks to his new position that was roughly equivalent to what used to be called commander air group in the wet navies of old.

Walters watched the energy readings of one cruiser spike then recede. The characteristic indications of warp entry Bill knew. Two cruisers remained. Bill shivered inwardly as he read their power readings. The Vulcans knew how to build ships Walters could see. He was relieved to see the power levels, expressed in numbers beneath each cruiser decrease. He turned his attention to the bridge around him as the 'bastard' ordered communications with the two Vulcan ships.

The act was needless as the communications' officer; an Andorian freshly out of the Imperial Guard training Academy notified Buchanan that one of the Vulcan cruisers was calling them. Seconds later Walters was looking at a Vulcan male. Bill groused that it was hard to tell a pointie by his age unless the Vulcan was either a teen or younger or elderly. For all Bill knew he could be looking at someone his own age; or fives times his age. A wreath of smoke surrounded the Vulcan. Walters could see a thin stream of smoke rolling out of an instrument panel behind the Vulcan.

"Skon," the Vulcan said after a few seconds. He must have noticed the Forge's bridge crew looking at one another for he added: "I speak some of your languages human."

"Admiral Frank Buchanan commanding Star Fleet Taskforce 9 here," Buchanan declared firmly.

"English then" Skon replied thoughtfully. He resumed a few seconds later. "I was third officer of the cruiser Ri'Genza," Skon explained. "Now I find myself in reluctant command," If Walters had never seen a confused Vulcan before he was sure that he was seeing one now.

"Can we render aid?" the admiral asked pointedly.

"We are in control," the Vulcan answered and added; "and we shall remain so." Skon paused before resuming. "Thank you for your offer admiral. It is most gracious in light of the rift that has formed between our two people. We are Syrranites."

"We shall stand off then," Buchanan replied. Skon's statement was not lost on Walters: Apparently these Vulcans were talkative but were not yet ready to extend a friendly hand.

"You have been courteous admiral. Allow me to explain," Skon said. He continued; "it may be that we will stand at the side of the alliance—it may not. For now us Vulcans must solve the present crisis through our own methods. Still your race, as well as those allied with you has been honorable in all of your dealings with my people. Even the Andorians seemed to have changed."

Walters watched as Shorn stood up quickly his antennae erect and twitching. Buchanan gave the Andorian intelligence officer a warning glance. Walters saw that Skon did not miss the exchange: Although Shorn was not included on the bridge pickup Skon must have guessed an Andorian was there.

"I meant no disrespect," Skon said. "I believe that the High Command was as culpable in that conflict as were the Andorians. We endeavor to change our society and we wish to start with the High Command." The Vulcan continued seconds later. "We cannot openly join you at this point Admiral Frank Buchanan. We will however supply you with transponder codes of ships that we know are controlled by the High Command."

"That would be a big help!" the admiral exclaimed. Walters suspected that Buchanan wished that he had gotten more from the Vulcan.

"I shall send those codes now admiral," Skon said. "Surak teaches us the ways of peace yet says that we may fight when there is no other choice. It may yet be that we will join you in your fight against the Romulans admiral. But I cannot speak for all of Vulcan." Skon reached down to what Walters assumed was a control panel and added: "Safe journey admiral." The screen faded to black.

Catoctin Mountain, Maryland in the old United States, Sep 2157

"It is good to meet you Mister McCoy," the man that Ensign Frank McCoy had come to know as Loch. McCoy supposed his work as a Sons' of Terra organizer and recruiter must have been paying dividends. He and Brack had discussed ways to get closer to the top of the organization and now inadvertently here he was; or so he hoped.

He shivered as he thought of the matter transmission device he had been put through. McCoy weakly told Eileen, who was seated next to him at the large round table that the air conditioning was a little much; she had noticed the shiver. McCoy knew that she was concerned about him. He was concerned about himself as well. Lately Frank had begun to wonder if he was still an American southerner or a ghost of that person.

"I think that we have an untapped resource here in Frank," Eileen Thomas said as Frank took Loch's hand. The flesh was cool to the touch Frank noted but that didn't mean anything as Frank had shook many different hands during his lifetime; some had been clammy, some cold, some warm.

"He has proven adequate for the task," the man who had been introduced too McCoy as Perrin said. The individual was a tall blonde, almost Nordic looking man who carried himself with an obvious military bent. Frank noted the man's unconcealed contempt for him and Eileen. At least he deferred to Loch—barely Frank noted.

"Come now, Mister Perrin," Loch said in that peculiar non-accent, "Mister McCoy has helped our cause immensely." Loch released Frank's hand. "We are most pleased with how you have handled the task Frank."

McCoy accepted the praise with what he thought was a good measure of calm. He supposed that the assembled members of the organization took his cool for modesty. He was angrier than anything else: The new recruits didn't seem to have the basic ability to study the issues. But that shouldn't have surprised him Frank thought: His appeals were to emotion rather than thought. Still McCoy supposed he should appreciate the fact that he had received more than a few letters rejecting the organization's creed; usually included were references to McCoy's mother being single at the time of his birth and other observations.

"Thank you sir," McCoy responded pleasantly. "We really have gotten the movement going; word of mouth can be a good advertising tool. I think that we can have a little over fifty thousand people ready to protest for the cause."

"We should make our presence known in San Francisco and Saint Petersburg," Perrin said.

"I've organized several groups in those cities specifically sir," McCoy answered. He was taking a chance here: Both cities were centers of government and commerce for earth. Star Fleet Command had an auxiliary command center set up in the Russian city. The allies also had a logistical control center there as well. San Francisco was an obvious choice to McCoy.

"It seems that you have anticipated us McCoy," Perrin said. The man's tone had become menacing. McCoy wondered if he shot the man with the small composite material pistol that Brack had given him, if Perrin would go up in a torch of plasma fire.

Loch held up his hand and said: "We have made our intentions known before Perrin. It is no wonder that McCoy—Frank was able to anticipate our needs. We wish to demonstrate where the alien influences are the worst."

"There are too many of the parasites at those places," Eileen added as she took McCoy's arm in his. McCoy hated when she referred to aliens like this. "They have displaced good people," Eileen said warming to her topic. "The old Vulcan compound in San Francisco used to be a neighborhood—for humans; that was before they came." McCoy noted her emphasis on 'they'. "President Glenn is moving the American contingent along," Thomas finished.

"A few of my recruits are employed by the communications' web," McCoy said. That had been one of his requested duties: To recruit people with access to earth's vast civilian communications hub. "One seems to have what you requested," Frank said to Loch. Although he had received his orders through Eileen he guessed that either Loch or Glenn was the source.

Perrin asked for details of McCoy's new contact. He could see that some sort of friction existed between Loch and Perrin. Frank mused on how he could use that conflict to his advantage. He supposed that he had some small amount of talent for doing this. Maybe it was just plain cussedness on his part McCoy thought ruefully. McCoy explained the details of his meeting with Marlin Killian.

The man had been with the network for some time. Like many in the military and McCoy assumed the civilian world was the same; Killian had wanted to move up. But like many in the service Killian's talents were dwarfed by his ambition. Frank had quickly surmised that the man had failed in several vital positions based on Killian's stories of how his supervisors and fellow workers were out to get him. Still a steady employment record counted for much: Killian's current position allowed him access to the planetary control network. McCoy doubted that the man was in possession of vital codes but he did claim to have access to the central control room.

The tall, thin forty-something Killian, felt that his life would be far better off without alien interference. The man had explained to Frank after several tequilas that upgrades to the network obtained through cooperation with the Tellarites and Andorians had come too fast in Killian's words. In other words Frank thought too fast for the engineer to keep up with them. Somehow Killian had evolved a theory that the aliens were moving to take over earth by flooding it with what he referred to as illicit technology. McCoy was glad that the liquor had blunted his own reason: He doubted he could have listened to the man's ramblings had he been sober.

"He seems to have what we need," McCoy said in conclusion.

"You of course know where all of this is leading?" Loch asked.

"It is premature to bring these," Perrin nodded towards Frank and Eileen; "people into our plans." McCoy noticed the emphasis that Perrin put on the word 'people'.

"You're right Mister Perrin," McCoy spoke up suddenly. Well, he reflected; his mother had often told him that his mouth would lead him into dangerous situations. Both Loch, who seemed to want to take McCoy and Thomas into his confidence and Perrin who was obviously opposed to the idea, looked sharply at him. McCoy plunged forward. "The fewer people who know what is in the works the better. You know that we are probably being watched," McCoy added this last as all of the members of the Sons' seemed to have a touch of paranoia; at least the human ones did he thought. There was some truth to that as the regular earth security forces were supposed to be vigilant for strange activity. McCoy held little hope for that; Frank recalled the words of his paternal grandfather: Something to the effect that the only sure thing local investigators could find was the quickest route to a baked goods shop. McCoy made sure to keep eye contact with Perrin; something that did not escape Loch's attention.

"I'll decide what information to disseminate Perrin," Loch said in a clearly warning tone to his partner. Both Loch and Perrin looked intently at one another. Finally Perrin seemed to relent.

"Very well," Perrin said looking away. "You know our," he paused and then added: "Associates better than I."

"I do," Loch said while turning back to McCoy. "I must apologize: Mister Perrin has only recently joined the corporation. I am in charge of our operation."

"I'm sorry sir," Frank said apologetically. Actually he was quite pleased that he had created a deeper rift between the two. "I was just being cautious."

"A warranted caution," Loch replied. "You will stand well in our future operations Frank." Loch continued. "In any event as it must be plain to you that we wish to shut down the information networks as a prequel to the protests."

"I suppose that it has come to civil disobedience," Eileen said quietly. She looked guiltily to Frank then at Loch.

"This is a problem?" Loch's partner asked quickly.

"It is for the cause hon," McCoy said suddenly. He knew that Eileen was driven by her beliefs but he knew that she was not a law breaker however wrong he thought her political views were. He was also aware that any hesitation on either his or Eileen's part at this point might prove fatal.

"I thought that some of us might end up being arrested," Thomas started. "But shutting down the network," she said as she grimaced. She looked at McCoy. "I'm glad you are strong for the both of us Frank," she said then her eyes filled with resolve. "With the network shutdown and the cities choked we can really show Thorpe and his cronies that we mean business." She looked at Loch. "I'm sorry, guess when it comes to doing stuff like this I'm a bit of a chicken. But I'm with Frank. I'll do whatever I can for our people." She gripped McCoy's hand tightly.

"Good," Loch said agreeably enough. "We only mean to shake things up as some say. There will be no harm except to draw attention to our cause."

"Any word on a date sir?" the naval officer asked. "Some of the people I've recruited are getting antsy." There was much truth to that: McCoy the political agitator was being bombarded by questions of just when the big day was to be. When many of his 'recruits' were people hired off of the street to begin with; it was hard to find a loyal following.

"We hope to let you know by the last week in September Frank," Loch replied.

The group exchanged minor pleasantries—very minor as Perrin seemed anxious to rush McCoy and Thomas out of the room. Frank put a protective arm around Eileen. She had gotten him close to what could be Romulan agents. But McCoy was learning that this business was for keeps. Now that the meeting was over he became more concerned that Eileen would get out of the compound alive. Despite everything McCoy was in love with the woman.

Frank had one more task to perform. So far he and Micah had been playing a cat and mouse game with the birdie agents. The two would be agents had been successful cats in catching the mice. Brack had told Frank that as long as things proceeded in this fashion they had to look at the very real possibility that the Romulans would be one step ahead of them one day. Brack had told McCoy that they had to find out who the Romulan agents on earth were and where they were at; then they would have to be killed. This trip to the Maryland mountain retreat might afford them the chance that they needed.

"I'm sorry Frank," Thomas said at last as he opened the door on the groundcar for her. "I think we're doing the right thing but the idea of breaking the law scared me—guess it is years of being a good girl!" she smiled and exclaimed. Thomas' face grew serious as she continued. "But that is just it: We've all been too nice while aliens infected good people with their ideas. I guess I'm as much to blame as anyone," she said as the couple stood before the open door. "I didn't say anything about what was going on."

"It was all of us baby," McCoy said as he embraced the woman. "Too many years of being told anyone who disagreed with official policy must be a narrow minded racist will do that. Who wanted to say anything against that kind of peer pressure?" McCoy asked. Frank was reciting the Sons' of Terra party line chapter and verse. The trouble was for once he wanted it to be true; just to make Eileen feel better.

She brushed her lips against and said: "You always try to cheer me up Franklin David McCoy."

"I do my best hon!" he exclaimed with a smile as he patted her backside as she sat down in the passenger seat. She giggled in return: McCoy smiled as he now recognized enough of her traits to know that he was going to have an intensely pleasurable evening with her. "Damn!" he cursed. "I was going to show Tom Vanwinkle my cruise book from the Venture."

"I thought you picked that up after work honey?" Eileen asked.

McCoy had indeed removed the souvenir picture book that detailed his time aboard the old Venture, from what few things remained in his apartment near the Langley facility. He lied to Thomas and said that he thought that he had forgotten to get it as he stepped behind the car and opened the trunk. McCoy made motions of fishing through his few personal belongings that were in the trunk of Thomas' car.

"You really don't need that old place anymore dear," Thomas said to him from the passenger seat. She couldn't see as McCoy opened a specially sealed case. Had anyone but McCoy tried to open it, the case, along with the car would have gone up in an impressive blast. McCoy looked around and threw some apparently empty cans in some bushes. So the Romulans will think that I'm a litterbug he thought as he considered the possibility of video surveillance.

"There it is!" he exclaimed. Frank hoped that no one would inspect his recently discarded trash as he made his way to the driver's side of the car. "You're right Eileen," he said in agreement to her proposal that he should clear out his old apartment: The small efficiency was a hollow sounding place now that it was almost empty. Not that there was much there to begin with McCoy reflected.

"Of course I'm right," Thomas said as he sat himself before the car's controls and took the three-wheeler out under manual control. He felt that she was staring at him and he also knew that she wanted to say something but was having a difficult time of it. Finally she spoke in an almost whisper. "And then our house should become a home Frank."

"It already is Eileen," he replied casually. They were almost at the intersection of the main highway.

"No," she answered flatly, "it is not." McCoy turned to face her after putting the car under local traffic control. McCoy looked at her. He was at a loss for words. Finally after letting him stew for almost a minute she explained. "Helen left you a shell of a life Frank. You deserved better than that. You needed someone to be there for you; someone you could come home to. I know you think that it is too late for you to have a family. But you are wrong Frank." She leaned over and kissed him full on the lips.

McCoy could feel his face flush. Yes; part of him had always wanted that and his heart leapt as he considered that possibility. He did love Eileen; more than any other woman he had ever been with. Then his mind's eye ran a possible future history for him and her: He could not live with Eileen without sooner or later revealing what he had done. Frank knew her well enough to know that she could not abide that knowledge. Frank didn't know what kind of life that would lead too but he surmised that it would not be a good one. Maybe he would've been better off being reduced to atoms never to be reassembled in Erickson's matter energy gizmo he thought bitterly.

He watched the couple leave. Brack breathed a sigh of relief as McCoy and his woman barely missed the athletic Indian woman who was roaming about the mountain compound. Brack took his eye away from the scope of the ancient Remington sniper rifle. Brack looked around the woods. He was for all intents and purposes invisible behind the web of the low-level stealth field. He was also wrapped in camouflage. Brack supposed that his heat signature would be the only thing that made him detectable. The stealth field took care of that he knew.

It was not always so; the other voice in his head interjected. Brack knew better now to not resist the voice. A memory came unbidden to his mind: Brack lay prone in a field of flowers. He had watched as the bright tail on the new German rocket had lifted its destructive cargo skyward on its way to the British Isle. The OSS wanted information on the German rocket program. Roosevelt and Marshal wanted the new weapons for America. Brack was careful to keep the 35mm camera still as the men moved to get in the staff car. He spotted the man through the viewfinder. That was Von Braun he knew.

You wanted to kill him; the voice asked. Brack couldn't deny it. But it had been too late. The V2's were already in production. The scientist's death now could not take back the murder that was. But you thought of it anyway; the voice persisted. Yes he had, Brack replied to the voice as the memory of him moving the camera aside in favor of the sniper rifle filled his mind. You wondered what future horrors the man would build or how his rockets would become more sophisticated. All weapons were perfected to their ultimate ends Brack replied as the here and now blurred. The present returned and the mental wrestling match ended. Weapons are things Micah: They are of themselves neither good nor bad. It is the use to which the beings that create them put them to.

Brack wondered how many minutes he had been with the other as he had come to refer to his mental guest. He was about to check when he saw the aircar sweep in low from the east. The vehicle circled the compound lazily before settling down on the retreat's landing pad. The man that Frank had described as Loch emerged from the main building in the company of a tall blonde man. The pair entered the aircar.

Micah thumbed the trigger of a small release mechanism. It was foolish for McCoy to have gone in there he realized but they were out of options. If Frank would've survived to shoot his way out at least Brack had hoped to cover him. They had been lucky so far in this adventure. Loch and his partner boarded the craft. Brack hoped that they would remain unaware of the low-level dose of radiation they had just received. The subspace radiation would not affect them physically Brack knew. At least not at once he thought grimly. But Loch and his companion were probably not human Brack knew. Would they suffer the cancers in ten years or so that the radiation would inflict on a human being Micah wondered?

Now that the car was tagged though Brack's mission was to make sure that Loch and company did not live for ten more years. The recently discovered byproduct of the warp drive was not easily detectable to those who did not know about it. But once a method of detecting it was discovered, it proved to emit a strong signature for a short period of time; strong enough to be tracked for the few hours that it would last. Brack was gambling that the aircar was the final stage of transportation for their adversaries. They would soon find out he knew. Brack tracked the tough looking Indian woman as she spoke to a young man; another augment Micah wondered? The man got into a groundcar and drove away. He could be tracked too Micah knew.

Then what Micah wondered; as he lined the woman up in the crosshairs of the rifle scope. He knew that the augments had once nearly brought this world to its knees. McCoy was right he knew. The other pressured him to admit the truth to himself. A few of the augments had rebelled against Khan: Their actions had prevented much grief. Could this woman reclaim her humanity he mused as he lightly fingered the trigger? Could she be the next Von Braun perhaps? Brack had been right then—right not to kill the rocket scientist although he had agonized over his decision. Was he right now he wondered?

San Francisco, California, earth, Sep 2157

Captain Jonathan Archer was more than a little peeved at his assignment. But he had no one but himself to blame. Archer was in a unique place to pick the Stellar Navy's future designers. That was why the chief of Star Fleet's new ship design bureau was body shopping at the new Star Fleet Academy. He had spent the previous night perusing the academic records of nearly thirty engineers and physicists. Today was the last round of interviews he thought with no small sense of relief. Just one more candidate to go; he said as much to the training advisor that was sitting through the interview process with him.

The older non commissioned officer had Archer beat by twenty years he guessed. Yet the slim oriental man looked as if he could easily deal with the physically larger captain. The chief rocked back on the legs of his chair and blew out a puff of noxious cigarette smoke. Archer made a motion of fanning at the smoke then smiled. He marveled that the habit of using tobacco still existed in this day and age. He said as much to the chief.

"We cured cancer twenty years ago," the older man replied. "It is a foul nasty habit and not good for my wind—but I enjoy it. I mean is it really worth it to be fighting the Romulans if a man can't even enjoy a cigarette?"

"I suppose there is something to that chief," Archer said. He leaned back in the padded desk chair. "One more to go!" he exclaimed.

"This one is a hardcase sir," the chief explained before Archer could hit the call button to admit his last victim. At Archer's insistence the NCO explained: "He lost his brother early on in this thing; a flight officer on Salem One I believe. He makes good grades and has the heart of a soldier but his attitude isn't the best."

"Good imagination too," Archer proclaimed. The captain had sat up late last night reading the young cadet's thesis on the integration of force fields in a ship's structure. "Okay let's see what we have then," Archer said as he pushed the intercom button. Seconds later a tall lanky youth with a close crop of short black hair came into the office and snapped to attention. Archer exchanged the proper courtesies as demanded by military protocol and then bade the man to be seated. He was instantly struck by a cruel set beneath what would have been best described as a boyish face.

"Okay Cadet Crusher," Archer started. "You've probably heard the rumors by now," Archer remembered how fast rumors went at the old US Air Force Academy. Some officers claimed facetiously that if the innuendos could be bottled then they would have a product that could exceed warp nine.

"Sir with all due respect I want a combat assignment," Crusher answered. "I mean I know new ships are important but there are a lot of smart people who can build them besides me--sir."

"I see," Archer said. "And you are right cadet. But it isn't only about building new ships. Don't you want to be the first one out there to see new things?" he asked. Archer sighed inwardly: He was still waiting on that very thing but he knew that the war had changed everyone's plans.

"Sir I believe that we need people who can blast those new things to hell and back when they turn out to be," the cadet paused as he gathered his words. "Turn out to be something that wants to kill us," Crusher concluded.

"What about after we have ended this conflict?" Archer asked pointedly.

"We'll have to sit on what is left of the birdies sir," Crusher responded. "I've read about these Klingons; sounds to me like they'll try next. I mean how can a warrior race make it into space with that philosophy unless it just kept that kill and conquer everything attitude?"

"Most of what we know about the Klingons is secondhand cadet," Archer asserted. "Besides exploration, don't you believe that it would be wise to go out and meet these people firsthand? I mean, before you kill them cadet. Maybe there wouldn't be any killing if there was understanding."

Crusher grew sullen as he replied: "I don't believe the Romulans understand that sir. They seemed to understand how to kill us though."

"Including your brother from what I understand?" the captain asked. Crusher merely nodded in return. "You know I understand your hostility cadet; although frankly you will have to do something about those feelings. There won't always be an enemy around to fight." Crusher seemed about to reply when Archer held up his hand. He stood up and leaned over the desk. "These times won't last forever. Look at all the things that have come since First Contact.

Everyone remembers Zephram Cochrane's major speeches even if they don't remember them word for word. But you know I remember an interview he once did; right after the first warp flight. My dad told me that Cochrane was drunk when he made it. But that interview said more to me than anything he said afterwards."

Crusher looked up expectantly. It was apparent to Jon that the cadet wanted to present the appearance of someone who didn't give a damn about what Cochrane had said. But Archer had studied Crusher's profile. He knew that the young man must possess a burning curiosity to know the answer; rather it was an engineering problem or an old historical reference.

"The interviewer told Cochrane that she expected that off-world tourism would be one of the major industries created from warp drive," Archer said as he stood erect. "I'll never forget Cochrane looking at the woman like she was a child. He said something to the effect of: 'Don't you get it? This means more than a few euros for some corporation or tax money for greedy governments. War, poverty, disease; they are all going to be gone in fifty years. Men will have the freedom and prosperity to accomplish the things they always dreamed about.'" Archer paused dramatically before adding: "And you know; he was right. All of those things happened cadet—Marcus."

"I suppose you are right—sir," Crusher said quietly. "But…" the cadet trailed off weakly.

"So we got our noses rubbed in it," Archer said. "Nothing good ever comes easily Marcus. The Andorians are a proud and noble people and they reached out to us. So are the Tellarites. We found out along the way that there was strength in our differences. Don't let those differences scare you Marcus. The best is yet to come and it is out there."

Archer sighed and then laughed. "Here it was I was hoping to talk to you about structural integrity fields," Archer said and laughed. "I suppose there is no talking you into changing your mind?" he asked. "Your physics and math courses more than fill the bill for what I am looking for." Archer fell silent. He looked at the stony faced cadet then concluded: "I'm sorry for taking you away from your studies cadet." He held out his hand to Crusher. "Good luck Cadet Crusher."

Crusher rose unsteadily, reached out and shook Archer's hand then saluted and executed an about face. Archer turned to the chief whose face held an impassive look. He looked back at Crusher who was pausing before the door. Finally the cadet turned about slowly.

"Sir—Captain Archer?" the cadet asked quietly. When Archer acknowledged him he continued. "Sir I was wondering if you needed an answer right away?" When Archer replied to the negative Crusher smiled briefly, saluted and left.

"Hell sir I'll sign up to be an engineer and work for you," the chief said. "I haven't heard a speech like that for—hell I've never heard one like it."

"I can use all of the help I can get chief," Archer said as he seated himself again. He watched as the enlisted man struck another cigarette. "Mind me asking what--,"

The chief grinned and laughed. "What brought an old fart like me back into the service?" he asked. At Archer's answering nod he explained. "I was a corpsman in the marines after I got out of high school then finished my stint as a drill instructor. I did my tour then went to school and studied medicine." At Archer's raised eyebrows he continued. "I settled here in San Francisco; married a local girl and took up a practice. I retired a few years ago—well reduced my workload is more like it. When the war broke out there were calls for doctors; most on ships and the frontiers. My age ruled those out; lots of doctors here though."

"But not many training advisors," Archer supplied. Training advisor, Archer knew was the Star Fleet Academy's euphuism for drill sergeant. Those few hand-picked men and women were usually tough as nails and the stuff of cadets' nightmares. The chief nodded in reply.

"I guess you still want to get out there though," Archer said as he tilted his head towards the ceiling.

The chief nodded. "You know it sir!" the older man exclaimed. "Who can forget the first time they seen the stars clear and unwavering in the blackness; or feel the sense of wonder when they set foot on a new planet or see something that no man has ever seen before?" he asked as he gave Archer a knowing look. "It is like a disease. Mariko would catch me looking up at the night sky sometimes. She never understood why but she accepted it."

"I guess," Archer started then stopped as the chief looked at him with a firm look. It hadn't escaped the captain that the chief referred to his wife in the past tense.

"One of the few cancers that can't be cured," the chief replied in answer to Archer's unspoken question. "Mariko went quickly. I am blessed for the time we had together." The enlisted man smiled. "She lives on in our children and grandchildren captain."

"It is great to have kids to remember us," Archer said evasively. The words of Micah Brack spoken so many months ago came back to the designer. Archer had yet to meet that special woman to share his life. The war was driving home to him just how precious a gift that could be.

"Yes it is," the chief said agreeably. "As wonderful as the stars," he added wistfully.

Archer stood up again. "I've had a long day and so have you chief," he said as he stretched.

"I agree," the chief answered. "And it is Sulu, Kado Sulu, captain," the chief said.

"Mind drinking with an officer Chief Sulu?" the captain asked. He rarely drank but the day had been a long and tedious one.

"As long as he is paying captain," Sulu replied with a grin.

UES Daedelus, in Nebula 1411, Sep 2157

The doctor's prescription eased his pain somewhat Captain Michael Cromwell knew. But only somewhat he thought. Trudy along with her staff had painstakingly poured over the foodstuffs that had been discovered on the Taimera; that was the name that had been finally awarded to the salvaged Romulan cruiser Homaten. Homaten had apparently been an important praetor in early Romulan history according to the findings of Picard and Dieulafoy. Taln had related that Taimera was the name given to an Andorian ice freighter that had valiantly rammed a warship during that world's last and final internal struggle. Cromwell had wanted to rechristen her Surprise in honor of a favorite series of books that he had read as a teen. But in the end he had went with the Andorian engineer's choice. The christening celebration was what had led to Cromwell being at less than perfect health at the moment.

The Romulan food supplies had for the most part been resequenced. Schultheiss had declared most of the Romulan food safe for Human, Andorian and Tellarite consumption. She had preserved some of the enemy cuisine for some of the more daring on the crew to try. Results varied with the occasional upset that seemed to be endemic to all the races when their systems tried to digest something exotic. It had led to embarrassing stories of what was being called Romulan chemical attacks, aboard the light cruiser. Then there was the case of blue effervescent liquid that they had discovered. After clearance from Schultheiss' team, Cromwell had authorized the partaking of the blue drink.

Cromwell vaguely remembered the highlights of last night's festivities after the strong flavorful beverage had started to flow: Taln demonstrated several unique bends of his antennae; Bashir had blown cigar smoke out of his ears to the amazement of their Tellarite and Andorian crewmembers whose sinuses were laid out differently. Houk had produced a series of extraordinary body noises; from where Cromwell did not want to think about. The captain's personal favorite event had been a deep kiss from Trudy who had plopped herself down upon his lap. That was last night; the morning had brought a different sensation.

Michael could not recall a worse hangover—ever. His head throbbed with pain that made it feel like his brain was on fire. The agony could not be relieved by either standing, sitting or laying. It hurt when he closed his eyes but the lights hurt his eyes just as badly. Cromwell could not decide if he wanted to retch or just leave things where they were. He was however sure that he wished he were dead. That was until Trudy had shown up with a tiny capsule.

The chief medical officer had hesitated before leaving Cromwell's cabin. Finally she had blurted out a question which had made Michael blush, adding to his physical discomfort. After thinking through the minefield of answers that could result in an unanticipated and unpleasant reaction from Schultheiss, Cromwell had finally settled on the response of: No, had Trudy spent the night in his cabin he certainly would have wanted to remember such an experience. As he had not been slapped or given an angry grimace causing Cromwell to conclude that he must have answered the doctor appropriately. She had then left as red-faced as Michael.

Cromwell was slowing stuffing his foot into the new calf high Stellar Navy boots. He missed the old lace-ups. The cabin intercom sounded at that moment. Michael was glad that the doctor's little treatment had taken hold; otherwise his head may well have exploded from the sound of the chime. Cromwell stumbled over from his bed to the pad built into his cabin wall. He was greeted by a chipper sounding Houk. The captain remembered that Tellarites had a more developed liver than did humans.

"Sir, astrometrics informs me that while tinkering about they managed to discover a better way to scan the nebula," the third officer said. Cromwell had come to know the Tellarite well enough now to know that he would not be calling Michael to casually inform him about a new science discovery. There was something more to it and Cromwell meant to find out what that was. He asked his third officer for more information.

"They have managed to resolve the distortion caused by the nebula," the Tellarite said. "We are scanning a pirate patrol outside of the nebula—six vessels, three cabbages and three chowders."

"Damn!" the captain exclaimed. His head started clearing up even faster than when he had first taken the medication. "I'll be right there." He switched off took a last look in the mirror then exited his cabin for the bridge.

Somers was aboard the Taimera along with most of the members of the crew that she had selected to help her steer the Romulan ship back to allied space. Cromwell had perused her decisions and except for the addition of Lt. Crosby he had approved of all of them. Michael had a bad feeling deep down when it came to the intelligence officer. His brutish behavior seemed to under control Cromwell thought; or at least Picard was not informing he or the doctor of things that were being done to her. It made Cromwell wonder about peoples' choices in life. He would not have chosen the lieutenant except that Lisa had reported that Crosby had an affinity for the Romulan helm controls.

Cromwell was climbing the last steep set of metal stairs to the bridge as he recalled the first flight of Taimera under Crosby's hand. Daedelus' video eyes had tracked and relayed the image of the Romulan ship as it made a slow lazy spiral around the Star Fleet ship finally returning near its original location. Taln had restored the cabbage's thrusters as well as its primitive impulse drive. Michael considered the import of bringing such a prize home. Now as he stepped onto his bridge he doubted that event would happen. The sensor display was pasted onto the bridge's main view screen.

"Report," Cromwell said as he stepped down to relieve the Tellarite.

"They've managed to compensate for the nebula's electromagnetic distortion," Chief Peter Custis explained. "That is when we picked up these," he said as he rolled a glowing pip over six separate compact energy graphs. Cromwell didn't need the energy readouts beneath each small graph to tell what they were: The flight pattern was what had been observed of a typical Romulan patrol. Michael watched as the readings split apart along separate headings.

"Looks like a radar search sweep," Ensign Sam Ward declared from his position at the helm.

"That means that we have some time before they spot us," Cromwell said speculatively. The captain stroked his chin: Picard had reconstructed enough of the ship's log to detail the launch of a shuttle. Apparently a few of the crew had survived. Had it taken this long for rescue forces to be dispatched he wondered? He came to a decision quickly. It was an unpleasant one but he saw no other alternative. He turned to Ensign Chang.

"Raise the Taimera," he said. Seconds later he received the image caught by the hastily installed bridge video feed. Commander Lisa Somers sat comfortably in what Cromwell still considered the abnormally high standing Romulan captain's chair. He explained the reason for his call.

"I can't say I like where this is going boss," Somers said with a frown turning down her handsome face. "I was getting used to this captain bit; kind of feel like some queen on this throne."

"Get a report from your engineer," Cromwell replied. "You need to have your vessel ready for warp in four hours or less." Cromwell was guessing but was this search conducted by the Star Fleet with the same number of ships; that is about the time that would be required.

"Scuttling charges are in place sir," Somers answered. He didn't have to remind her of what he planned if they could not get the ship home with them. "If we do that you at least need to tell me if the birdies really have wings."

That had been the latest rumor circulated around Daedelus: That the proverbial birdies were indeed avian in origin. Although Cromwell appreciated Somers' candor it still stung him that he had not told her the truth. But Cromwell was an adherent to the old adage: The fewer people who knew a secret the longer it remained so. He nodded to his first officer and ordered the connection cut.

He raced through the corridors of Taimera. Crosby was used to the oddly designed angles and construction techniques now. It had taken him awhile and he still didn't want to be in the dark on their captured Romulan cruiser. Taln had removed the relatively mournful sounding Romulan audio alert in favor of a spare taken from Daedelus' stores. Installation of Star Fleet systems had proven to be easier than Taln had at first thought it would be.

Crosby had read the engineer's report concerning the Romulan's centralization of their systems. Control lay mostly in the hands of the Romulan captain with override authority over some systems by the political officer. Luckily that setup was what had allowed them to capture the Taimera at all Crosby had discovered. Taln had reported finding that part of the overload had gone through the cruiser's self-destruct sequence. It was, Alvin thought surprising that it was he and not the engineer who had found that either the commander or the Tal Shiar officer had to constantly recycle the destruct mechanism. If neither officer made a periodic input into the system the cruiser's fusion cooling plant would shut off. Crosby was glad that the captains of Stellar Navy ships did not have such tight-fisted control.

Alvin steeled himself before entering what they had determined was the crews' recreation area. It was now a lab for the technicians who had been crawling over the ship. Crosby had managed to stay one step ahead of those scientists; sweeping areas of the ship and removing anything that led back to the origin of the Romulans. Alvin wasn't sure that he agreed with Cromwell's political perspective on the whole issue but he certainly concurred that it was best to keep the information under wraps. That was his assessment as an intelligence officer. Let the politicos make the final decision but as far as Alvin was concerned if that led to the pointies being roughed up all the better. He breathed deeply as he opened the old manual hatch. They would be in here Crosby knew.

"Alvin," Mariel Picard said in greeting. There was no trace of guilt on her face but Crosby knew. "Must we abandon ship?" she asked. She walked over and hugged him. He returned the embrace: Alvin really did love her.

"We have packed all of our gear," Marcel Dieulafoy said. He did look guilty Crosby thought. The Frenchman moved closer to the couple as Crosby separated himself from Mariel. He realized that Dieulafoy had assumed a protective stance; to protect Mariel. That stung Alvin harder than a quick blow to the head: there were only the three of them in the large room.

"Three more birdie cruisers are looking," Crosby said relating the news that Somers had just passed onto him. "Taln is not sure that he can coax a warp matrix out of the engines. He just needed another day to run tests!" he said fiercely.

"We have less than an hour to get to the shuttles," Crosby said. "The captain is not even sure that Daedelus can make it past the birdies now." Somers had shown Crosby the spherical search pattern that the Romulans were using: Like a spider's web it looked likely to ensnare its prey. Even the advanced Star Fleet cruiser could not hope to stand against those odds once discovered.

"We are ready," Dieulafoy said as he gathered up a heavy metal case by its handles.

The intelligence officer sighed. "Can you leave us alone lieutenant—Marcel?"

The archeologist's face assumed a look of alarm. He started to put down the storage case when Crosby held up a hand: "Just a minute Marcel; that is all. I," Crosby paused. He was coming apart; but somehow he had to hold things together. He knew the answer now. "I promise no harm—no harm," he said softly.

Now it was Picard's turn to be worried. He could see it on her face. But she soon relaxed and turned to Dieulafoy. "It is okay Marcel. I will be fine," she said. The archeologist protested weakly but finally relented. He seized his heavy burden and left slowly casting a watchful eye back to the couple.

Picard crossed her arms over her breasts when the door closed leaving her alone with Crosby. Alvin was silent for a considerable time. He could see Picard start to speak. "Wait, Mariel," he said at last. He stretched out his arms placing his hands on top of her shoulders. Crosby could see her wince. "I know what I've been Mariel. I am a monster. There are—things in my life that you don't know about."

"You are not a monster—," Picard began causing Crosby to shush her quietly.

"I know what I've done Mariel. There is no taking back those things. Sooner or later we have to pay for the things we've done."

"But you have changed," Picard retorted. "You have not beaten—we have not had a disagreement for several weeks. Your counseling is helping."

"Yes there is that," he replied smiling weakly as he did so. "I just wanted you to know that I am truly sorry for what I have done to you Mariel." He bent and kissed her lightly on her lips. "I do love you no matter what."

"And I love you Alvin," she replied as she returned his kiss. She gripped his chin lightly in one of her hands. "We will be happy when we return to earth. We shall be married. I will help you Alvin and stand by your side."

Alvin stepped away from her and put on what he hoped appeared to be a confident face. He needed her to believe his lie; at least for the next few minutes. He asked her if he could help with the equipment. She replied in the negative. Crosby watched as she took a last wistful look around. The two left for the shuttle bay as Lisa Somers' voice came across the alien public address system informing them that the last shuttle would leave in ten minutes.

Crosby and Picard filtered into the bay several minutes later. Somers hustled them along. Crosby guessed that the woman was agonizing over the loss of her prize. She motioned for Picard to board one of the two remaining shuttles. Alvin knew that he was scheduled aboard the last shuttle with Somers. He walked Mariel to the boat. Crosby noted Dieulafoy's look of concern for Picard from where the archeologist stood before the hatch of the boat.

"He really is a good man Mariel," Alvin nodded toward the archeologist. "Goodbye," he paused for several seconds before adding: "I'll see you." He stooped and embraced her kissing her fiercely. He released the startled woman then, waved and turned his back to her. Crosby paced over to his assigned shuttle.

"Goddamnit!" he cursed to Commander Somers who was standing in the shuttle's entrance hatch. "I left some artifacts in the corridor," he said in answer to her look of curiosity.

Somers glanced nervously at her wrist chronometer. "Do you need any help?" she asked. He shook his head. "Then get your ass moving we are out of time mister--go!" she ordered.

"Aye aye sir!" he called over his shoulder as he scrambled toward the bay's personnel entrance. This should go exactly as planned Crosby thought sardonically. He leapt over the hatch structure and hit the close.

Crosby removed his radio from his belt, flipped it open and called Somers. Seconds later an angry Lisa Somers acknowledged him. Crosby pulled the airlock's panel off and quickly rearranged some of the odd looking Romulan circuit panels contained within. He watched as the bay pressurization system panel flashed; indicating that it was depressurizing.

"What the hell are you doing lieutenant?" the Taimera's would be captain asked.

"You need to get aboard the shuttle commander," Crosby replied. "I know you've noticed the bay depressurizing. I can't reverse it. You need to board the shuttle before you suffocate."

"You crazy fool," Somers spat out breathlessly. He watched through a thick bull's eye mounted in the corridor wall as the commander stumbled into her shuttle. "This thing is going to blow in four minutes!"

"Get out of here commander," Crosby said as he flipped the radio shut.

"Shuttles inbound sir," Chief Peter Custis reported.

"Communication from the lead boat sir," Ensign Li Chang reported.

Cromwell wondered if Somers was hatching a plot to retain command of her ship. The captain couldn't exactly blame her. Somers, he thought was a good officer. She would be the next breed of starship commander Cromwell had always thought.

"Put Commander Somers--," he was interrupted by Chief Peter Custis before he could finish his command.

"Sir!" the chief fairly bellowed. "The cabbage is powering up; accelerating away."

"Sound general quarters—and get Somers up on the link!" the captain snapped. "Bloody hell!" he rocked back in the command chair and turned to Lieutenant Masato Nakamura. "Get me a firing solution on Taimera and uncap the safeties on the Narwhals." Cromwell turned back to Custis: "On the main viewer chief," he said meaning the sensor display of what was going on outside of Daedelus.

The voice of Cromwell's first officer flowed out over the bridge speakers detailing Crosby's latest actions. Michael cursed inwardly: He had always had a bad feeling about the man. Too late now; Cromwell thought bitterly. He punched the touchpad on his armrest and called for the chief medical officer to come to the bridge. Unnecessary he mused as the bridge door parted admitting Commander Schultheiss as his voice echoed through Daedelus.

"Try to raise Taimera, Chang," Cromwell said as he turned to Trudy and explained what was happening. He asked her if this was a mental aberration or the other possibility: That Crosby was working with the Romulans.

Trudy let fly with a blistering German curse then continued in English: "Nothing in his professional record would lead me to that conclusion. But I am a doctor not an attorney Herr Kapitan." She added after a few seconds of thought, "nein, it is something to do with his problem—it has to be."

"Time till we recover the shuttles?" the captain asked Commander Houk.

"Bay doors opening now," the Tellarite replied. "I've ordered them to prep for an emergency recovery." Houk studied his board; "three minutes sir."

"Taimera on channel two, sir," Ensign Chang said.

"Birdie patrols are tightening their net sir," Chief Custis declared. Cromwell cursed under his breath as the three-dimensional representation of their stalkers moved to engulf the Star Fleet craft. "Radar range in three minutes thirty-three seconds sir," the chief informed him.

"Put him over speakers," Cromwell said in an even tone meaning Crosby he assumed.

"Take a look at your starboard quarter and the profile their patrol is vectoring in on captain," Crosby's voice was barely discernable through the crackling interference generated between the nebula and the widening distance between the two ships.

"He is nearing one of those areas of plasmonic energy sir," Custis said.

"The Romulans want this ship," Crosby's voice announced amid much hissing and crackling. "I intend to give it to them." Crosby plunged on rather than allow Cromwell any leeway. "Look I'm going to maneuver her close to the discharge area. The physics guys say a burst of energy can ignite one of those discharges. I have a loaded tube ready to fire. We'll knock out two or three of those cruisers and sail through the hole in their net. I'll transfer back…" the communication ended in a deafening burst of static.

"They were fooling with some of the pirate missiles; he could have armed one," Houk supplied in a gruff voice. The Tellarite added: "Seems like the twisted human has thought this thing out."

Cromwell cringed mentally at Houk's description of Crosby. He knew that stories of the intelligence officer were circulating about Daedelus. Leave it too a Tellarite to put a blunt ended perspective on things. Still Crosby's idea was sound Cromwell thought as he examined the view screen.

"Lay in a pursuit course and prepare to engage after the shuttles are safely aboard," Cromwell told Ensign Sam Ward.

"One minute forty-five," the Tellarite said reporting the shuttles' progress.

"Tubes loaded; firing solution fed into the master gunnery computer sir," Lt. Nakamura reported. "I've also started running possible solutions for the birdie inbounds," he added.

"Outstanding!" the captain exclaimed. "If he pulls this off do you think he'll rejoin us?" he asked Schultheiss. The doctor was standing beside the command chair.

Trudy shook her head in reply. "I believe that Alvin does not plan on returning," she said quietly. Cromwell sat back. He didn't like this at all: Their mission was at the mercy of someone who was turning out to be quite unstable; even more so than Cromwell had suspected.

"One minute captain," Houk said. "Shuttles are on final approach for formation docking."

"Power readings are changing sir," Chief Custis interjected. "Birdie ships are altering course; they must have picked up Taimera." The NCO was bent over his scope as he added: "Four ships converging on the cabbage."

"Won't they challenge him Olly?" Trudy asked quietly.

"Crosby said that he accessed some of their codes," Cromwell explained as he rubbed his right thumb in a circle about the fingers of that hand. It occurred to him that he had not exhibited that particular habit since losing the appendage. "But that is like opening a box of Stellar Navy code wafers: Yes they could be used but without examination there is no way to tell if one is implementing them under the right protocol."

"Shuttles under gravity!" the third officer roared. "Bay doors closing."

"Helm engage—full impulse," Cromwell commanded.

"Missile launch detected!" the excitement in Custis' voice was evident. "Tracking away from Taimera--two more cruisers making for Taimera" the chief added.

Cromwell watched as another energy graph appeared in the wake of the high speed blip that represented the missile Crosby had fired. The graph faded for a split second then went off scale. The subspace sensor image became snowy completely obscuring any ships, friendly or otherwise.

"Shockwave!" the Tellarite officer roared as the viewer cleared to show an expanding area of disturbance. "Grab your asses!" he added.

Cromwell wrapped his prosthesis around Schultheiss' waist. The bridge of the light cruiser seemed to pitch up abruptly and then shudder. Cromwell knew it was the artificial gravity computer's attempt to keep up with the motion of the ship without turning Daedelus' occupants to jelly; but it was still distressing after all of these years.

"Custis; give me a scan of that area!" the captain snapped quickly. The shaking had relented allowing Schultheiss to let go. Cromwell found that he was a little hesitant to take his arm away but he realized that decorum demanded that.

"There is an opening—," the chief started. "But there are two inbounds closing the gap. No sign of the original bandits—or Taimera." This last; the chief added in a quietly respectful voice.

"Even at full impulse we'll fall under their radar," Sam Ward stated as he studied his helm readings.

"But if their equipment is as fouled as ours was," Cromwell said. He was speculating he knew. The captain came to a decision. "Continue on course," he said to Ward as he spun in his chair towards his gunnery officer. "Nakamura, target those two inbounds."

Cromwell studied the sensor readings intently. Here is where he would earn his paycheck he thought. He planned to fire so that the Romulan cruisers would just have time to register the incoming missiles before they were destroyed. So far the Romulans had not been able to detect the light cruiser. That, Michael hoped, meant that their systems were being badly interfered with. Cromwell turned some mental gymnastics as the distances between the opposing forces shrunk. All of Cromwell's mathematics classes and yet it came down to his intuitive judgment he thought as he felt that it was time. He relayed the launch order to Nakamura.

"Firing and away!" the gunnery officer exclaimed. Cromwell ordered the tubes to be immediately reloaded. If the birdies got lucky and got off defensive laser or rail gun fire then this fight could turn ugly he realized. Nakamura turned to inform Cromwell of the missile tube status when power readings beneath each enemy craft flared then subsided to background noise.

"The remaining cruiser is gone as well sir," Custis informed Cromwell and the rest of the bridge crew. "Looks like they got hit by a discharge as they were turning away," he said as he lifted his face from the visor of his sensor screen. "Some pieces of wreckage but nothing that could be a life boat captain; we are the only ship in the nebula sir," the chief added quietly.

Cromwell bowed his head as the bridge door parted. He swiveled slowly in his chair already sensing who was here. Michael was not surprised to see Picard; she was in the company of Dieulafoy. Cromwell stood up out of his chair and nervously tugged the Star Fleet jersey down. Bad news didn't improve with age Cromwell knew: He told Picard about Crosby's death. The woman broke down sobbing. Cromwell's heart went out to her but it was as her commanding officer and nothing more. The captain was appreciative of Dieulafoy when the latter moved to comfort the woman.

"See to her doctor," Cromwell said quietly to Schultheiss. He turned to Ensign Ward: "Continue to the edge of the nebula, once clear set a course for allied space and engage at warp 3.5."

They had what they had come for Cromwell knew. Now it was his duty to deliver it back to the alliance. How would the leaders of the various planetary nations receive the news Cromwell wondered? Having the Sabinus would've been a major achievement but they had instead much useful data Michael knew. They had a long voyage and their homecoming was still in doubt. Cromwell weighed the possibilities as he resumed his seat.


	15. Chapter 15

Task Force 18, near Wolf 359, Sep 2157

"Damn Flapper I'm starting to see double!" the pilot exclaimed. Lieutenant Gregg "Frankenstein" Carter was tired. The one hundred ninety-six centimeter, one hundred and five kilogram former chief had jumped at the chance to fly the agile Minotaur in combat. Like many enlisted people he also wanted the chance to be an officer. Now the large officer, who had earned who had earned his call sign through a resemblance to a character from a classic novel that had been translated into many story forms was now regretting his choice.

Chief Juliet "Flapper" Reese looked at her pilot and nodded in agreement. The enlisted woman was a perfect counterpoint to the rather gargantuan Carter; at forty-eight kilograms and just over one hundred and fifty-four centimeters the diminutive Reese looked like a child next to Carter. Gregg knew that Flapper was far from a child in attitude and killer instinct though. It was unfortunate he thought that she had gotten her call sign after an embarrassing incident with a waste disposal mechanism.

"I'll take it through the rendezvous if you want l-t," Reese said. Even in a pressure suit Reese still looked small.

"Thanks," Carter replied. "But I'll do the link up get the hot stuff then you roll us back out," he said in reference to the impending refuel with the Potemkin. "Plan on taking it back out after we are tanked," he added. He was satisfied to hear her acknowledgement.

Rather than be recovered to take on deuterium, Carter's Minotaur would be refueled by a boom extending from the carrier. The setup would allow him to get his Minotaur back into the fight much sooner than would be allowed by a full recovery and turn around. This was the Killer Koala's, as Carter had christened his small fighter, third refuel of a long day.

"When do you think the Iron Maiden will call it quits?" the chief asked.

Carter laughed at the mention of the moniker that had been recently awarded to their taskforce commander. He tended to agree with it although Gregg, like many in the taskforce was proud of their record for most birdie kills and those victories had come from the tactics of Commodore Jocelyn Stiles.

"When every birdie is dead," Carter replied after checking to see that his suit radio was not on the taskforce common frequency. "Or every one of us," he added in a tired voice.

Carter understood the need to regenerate their forces now that the andies and tellars had pulled up stakes. But he was beginning to dislike taking up the slack for their alien allies. The lieutenant was getting an education in just how much their partners had covered. Stiles had briefed the taskforce captains on the need for agile forces. The Minotaurs were the centerpiece of Star Fleet's ability to hit hard and come back fighting.

"She thinks the hammer is going to fall soon," Reese said.

"I agree," Carter said as he guided his ship to a rendezvous with the giant carrier. The vessel was only now resolving itself into a speck on his video display. "I believe her too," Carter added then explained: "Stiles has been right every time so far. The question is where. Intel thinks the birdies have a new commander. This whole business with the Vulcans and andies along with the attack on Tellar's moon: It was pretty damn conniving."

"You mean something like the maiden would do?" the chief asked. Carter could not see her face through the helmet of her pressure suit but he knew that she was grinning. Carter was about to reply when Reese added: "Slow your rate Gregg."

Carter applied thrust against their direction of travel. The Potemkin was visible as an elongated tube now; some of the color was evident at this distance. Gregg watched as glowing dots representing the other Minotaurs of his squadron swam into view on his head's up display.

"Exactly," Carter replied as one of the dots resolved into a set of numbers. "What is two doing over there so soon?" the pilot asked as the lettering on the Potemkin was relayed to he and Reese through the Koala's video pickup. Carter knew that Kevin "Heartless" Thorsen's number two ship should still be leading the revolving combat space patrol.

"I'll raise tanker control and see," Reese replied as she studied the same readout as Gregg had. Carter listened with half a tired ear to the exchange between the navigator directing the refueling operation aboard Potemkin and his copilot. The chatter over the net was confusing at best. "Control advises us to go to two," Reese recited the reply in voice full of confusion.

The engineers had placed four of the refueling booms on the skin of the carrier. An old idea Carter knew; but one that was proving to be an enormous advantage for the Star Fleet ships. Gregg currently had the Killer Koala heading for the number three boom. A sense of dread started to penetrate his fatigue.

"Are we switching booms?" he asked. "Or do they want us to rendezvous with Heartless?" Carter asked. He was confused and was considering the possibilities. A Minotaur could tow another of the fighter craft.

"Damn l-t, take it easy on the thrust," Reese chimed in and then added in answer to Carter's question: "I guess so," she said then added hastily. "Hell I don't know Gregg; let me get confirmation."

"Whose ship is that?" he asked as another small cigar shaped form appeared on Carter's video display. Whoever piloted the craft; it did not belong there. The new Minotaur was directly in the Koala's flight path. "I'm maneuvering to two," he announced suddenly as he applied maneuvering thrust to change his ship's heading. The boom on the side of the massive Star Fleet carrier was clearly visible now.

"I haven't gotten confirm--," the collision warning sounded in their helmets' audio interrupting Reese's reply.

"What the hell!" the pilot shouted as he fired thrusters to attempt to separate himself from whatever was close enough to hit the Minotaur. Gregg felt his suit swell up as the Minotaur's small cabin lost pressurization. He looked beyond where Reese was sitting to see the metal hull of his craft peeled away revealing the blackness of space beyond.

Lights illuminated on Carter's panel. What to do first, the lieutenant asked as he attempted to set a priority on the myriad of system failures the Killer Koala was experiencing. Carter got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realized what the worst problem was. He reached for guarded red switch that would dump the tough little fighter's fusion power plant as he realized that the reaction chamber lay uncovered. Carter didn't have time to realize that he was too late as the Minotaur's hungry power plant; now exposed and out of control consumed Carter, Reese and their ship.

"The other captains are voicing concerns as well," Captain Ed Minford said sternly. He was seated in front of the desk of Jocelyn Stiles along with Chief Mary Vong and the Andorian Lieutenant Anjin. "This was a routine maneuver and there are four people dead."

"The number three ship came in without squawking an ident," Anjin interjected. "There was confusion on the number one ship—Carter decided to change position at the last second. We haven't recovered the box but that much seems evident from the video records."

Commodore Jocelyn Stiles nodded as she absently scrolled through the accident report on her computer terminal. She looked up briefly and said: "I want you to double shift the engineers building the replacement minnies out of stores Ed." She seemed to notice Minford for the first time since the conference had begun. "Have the docs administer something to keep our people sharp. I know that this is a tough time Ed but the birdies aren't going to let up. Do we have replacement pilots yet?"

"Apparently you aren't going to let up either sir," Vong said hotly. She continued before Stiles could reply. "We haven't even had services for the dead yet."

"You pink-skins can mourn the dead when this is over," Anjin spat out. "You spend too much time doing that I believe."

"We don't have ice for blood either!" Vong retorted.

"You won't win this war with sentimentality," Anjin argued back. "The commodore is right. We need to press on and continue training. The pirates have been silent far too long."

"The replacements," Vong put a bitter emphasis on that word as she continued; "are all green. Even with an optimal rotation some of the new ship commanders are going to be inexperienced in that role—dangerously so. Also the navigator running the hot refueling operation is under the care of the surgeon." This last Vong added in a voice full of sadness.

"Continue on with training then," Stiles said. "Bring them up to par. Personnel is your department Mary. Get the replacements in place as soon as you can. I'm not about to sit out here without full strength." Stiles sat back and looked at the accident report presented on her computer screen. "I'm aware of Lieutenant King's condition. I think a new assignment is in order for her. This is no time to coddle someone who is weak."

"We have to conduct the services," Minford said. "When this catches up to the rest of the taskforce there is going to be a lot of hard feelings. We need to leave everyone with a feeling that all of this work will pay off—that it won't all be for nothing."

"Do whatever you have to captain," Stiles replied. "But this is war; just because people have died doesn't mean we are taking a holiday." Stiles stood up suddenly; a scowl on her dusky face. "I would rather them be tired and angry than dead—and yes some more are going to die. We are out here to stop the birdies so that people at home and on the allied worlds don't have to worry about being nuked. In case you have forgotten that captain I'll remind you that you are eligible for retirement. Maybe it is time for you to take that option." She glanced sharply at the chief, "The same goes for you."

"With all due respect--," the enlisted woman started.

"Save your respect for the three hundred thousand some Tellarites who got killed on Zandor," Stiles said. "I want my people ready to fight. Their commander snuck in a commandeered freighter over Zandor. This is not the same birdie we have been fighting. We aren't going to whip this bastard with good intentions."

"Perhaps the commodore should conduct the services," Vong said though pursed lips. She added: "Unless she thinks we needn't bother with memorials at all."

"Let me know when you have scheduled that chief," Stiles said as she sat down. "I'll say the proper words."

"That is alright sir," Vong replied quietly. "I would rather it came from someone who really gave a damn about our people." Stiles looked hotly at her but let the comment pass.

"Whomever you choose," Stiles said at last. "In the meantime prep the replacement Minotaurs for the Potemkin. Tell the captains of the Cyane and Blazer that they will be patrolling without escort in the meantime. They can beat it back to the cap if things go sour."

"Unless they get caught in a pincer," Minford commented dryly.

"There is that," Stiles conceded. "But our sensors are still better than theirs. They will have to stay on their toes and get ready to move if they scan any birdies."

"I'll tell the captains then," Minford said. The older man looked around at the assembled group. "Is that all sir?" he asked.

Stiles nodded. The trio rose and saluted her. Stiles spoke up quickly as they proceeded to exit the Beagle's small captain's office. "Stay behind chief." Vong halted at the command and faced Stiles. The two were soon alone in the office. She looked expectantly at the commodore.

"Mary I'll get right to the point," Stiles began. "I'm serious about what I said. I don't like my orders being questioned—especially out in the open like this." When Vong seemed about to argue Stiles held up her hand. "I appreciate all that you've done for me Mary. But I'm thinking that it is time for you to move along. Smitty is drilling at the Star Fleet Academy; you will join him there."

"I've been in the navy all of my adult life!" Vong cried. "Now there is a war on. I want to do what I can out here. It is my job to look after the crew; officer and enlisted. You are pushing too hard Jo-jo. Someone has to remind you of that. Lt. King was pulling a double duty shift. I know a big part of the accident was her fault but you can't push people like they are machines."

"Up to a point Mary you can push people," Stiles countered. "But you are being over protective of them. I want you to request ground duty." The commodore stood up again. "I would rather that then have to relieve you. Don't make this unpleasant Mary. I do owe you much. But I have a war to fight. I can't let anymore innocents die."

"That might sound good to you Jo-jo," Vong retorted. The anger had died in her leaving only sadness. "But at the end of all of this what kind of person are you going to be? The dead weren't the only ones to lose something. I'll leave—peacefully. You can get a yes-person who will drive these boys and girls till they break. You will probably win this war too. But is losing your humanity going to be worth it Jo-jo?"

Stiles was silent for several seconds. She extended her hand to the enlisted woman. "Good luck Chief Vong--dismissed," she said at last. Vong took her hand reluctantly, shook it and then turned about and left leaving Jocelyn Stiles in silence.

San Francisco, the old United States, Sep 2157

The morning sun shone through the end of the rolling San Francisco Bay fog creating a rainbow that overlaid the ancient bridge. President Christophur Thorpe smiled at the display of nature. He remembered the kind words of his maternal grandmother who had taught a young Christophur to appreciate the small wonders in life. His smile was short lived however as Karl Ebenstark walked into the Bay Office in the company of Representative Mark Andrew Hawkins. It still amazed Thorpe that the man had been elected to a high office. Thorpe supposed that Hawkins' political victory only went to show the phenomena of group think at its worst.

Good day Mister Hawkins," Thorpe said as he stuck out his hand for the perfunctory hand shake. Thorpe thought that he would rather have handled a pit viper. He noted the portly politician's sweaty hand but Christophur reminded himself that really didn't mean anything. A lifetime in politics had taught Thorpe to watch what people do; not what they say.

"And to you sir," Hawkins replied with a jovial smile on his lips. "Me and Maddie have always enjoyed Frisco." Thorpe disliked the familiar name for the city from one who had not grown up here. The president almost missed Hawkins further comment: "Especially now that the alien influences here are not as bad. Those pointies!" he shook his head and exclaimed. Thorpe could not help but notice how the man's jowls shook as he moved his head.

"The Vulcans aided us during a time when earth was laid low by war," Thorpe said. "I tend to think about that rather than what is happening now. I still hold great hope that as one of them might say: Logic will prevail."

"It seems to be lackin' somewhat in their case now sir," Hawkins said. Thorpe motioned for the man to sit down at a small square conference table. Hawkins shot a quick glance toward Ebenstark as he seated himself.

"I prefer my aide to remain," Thorpe said with a friendly easy grin on his lips. "No secrets here amongst we humans!" the president said jokingly as he felt the irony from his appeal to Hawkins' prejudices.

"I 'spose that is acceptable," Hawkins said uneasily. Thorpe noticed the man's attempt to control the situation. It occurred to him how Hawkins could have appealed to the more soft-minded of the electorate.

"I hope so Mister Hawkins," Thorpe replied; "especially as this is my office."

"Call me Mark, sir," the somewhat mollified representative said.

Thorpe smiled inwardly as he felt the man's discomfiture as Ebenstark sat at Thorpe's left. Thorpe took up a carafe and offered Hawkins coffee. Soon all three men were sitting back sipping on their piping hot beverages. Thorpe cleared his throat and started the meeting.

"I appreciate all points of view Mark but it puzzles me why the Sons' of Terra are blocking the final quarter appropriations bill," It steamed the libertarian in Thorpe that amendments to the United Earth Charter that had been enacted to protect the citizens from looting politicians and bureaucrats were now being used against earth's military effort.

"We feel that money should be blocked as it is being spent to involve earth in mebbe another war," Hawkins answered.

"We must honor our commitments to our allies, sir," Thorpe said without emotion. Thorpe expected Hawkins' objection concerning the Tellarites' and Andorians' response during the opening days of the war.

"While it is true that our allies were slow coming to our aide they did that nonetheless," Thorpe answered. "The Andorians should expect no less from us in this time of crisis for them."

"Some of us question the Andorians' so called aide, as well as that of the pig—Tellarites," Hawkins countered.

"Wait a minute," Ebenstark interjected. He had seemed to be content up until this moment. "You cannot change a fact to suit your ends. The Andorians and Tellarites came to earth's defense last year. I have video of it, if you happened to be off world at the time and did not hear of that."

"Your assistant speaks for you sir?" the politician asked Thorpe.

"Karl is a citizen," Thorpe replied, "just as you are sir." Now why don't you act like one Thorpe thought as he maintained his composure. "He is free to speak his mind. We don't have a political class who holds themselves above the law. Do we Mark?"

"Of course not," Hawkins replied. Thorpe felt the man's disdain for Karl. That was why Thorpe had asked Ebenstark to join him for this meeting. Thorpe suspected that Hawkins would prefer a complacent audience to pontificate to. It riled the American to have any disagreement to his positions Christophur thought.

"War funding will go on," Ebenstark said as he produced a large paper pad much like administrators of old had used. "But the funding to finish the Sol detection grid and Mars defense network will be held back. Those systems could have gone operational by next week."

"Those credits could also be used for planetary projects," Hawkins replied. "Too much of earth's resources have went off world lately." Hawkins licked his lips and added: "You know that I've proposed a bill to use our funds to subsidize the vid services."

"Those are taxpayers' funds Mark--Representative," Ebenstark said as he looked up from his pad. "Why should they be used to fund private enterprise; especially one that is in the business of informing the public?" the presidential aide asked.

"Do you have an opinion Mister President?" Hawkins asked, "Or does your handler speak for you?"

"I've received letters from concerned citizens asking why the grid isn't going to be on line in October, Mark," Thorpe replied; ignoring the man's petty insult. "From your own district Mark," he added. "It seems like history repeats itself. You were elected to do the bidding of the people but you seem hell bent on your own agenda sir."

"Frankly those credits wouldn't be needed for that if you hadn't gotten us into this war in the first place, sir," Hawkins said in a voice that held an undercurrent of anger.

"Do you really subscribe to the notion that the president," Ebenstark started; "colluded with an alien power heretofore never seen before and started a war to…" the German trailed off.

"A war to submerge us with these alien creatures," Hawkins replied. He no longer tried to contain his anger. "A war to rob our children of their humanity; the Sons' of Terra are here to protect our children from the likes of you two and your ideas."

"Why do ideas frighten you so?" Thorpe asked the politician simply.

"I'm not—we're not," Hawkins inhaled sharply. "We ain't afraid of you or the monsters!" he sputtered out at last.

"Some coffee?" the president's aide asked in a most polite and formal tone. Ebenstark poured both men and himself another cup without waiting for a reply. Thorpe wanted to laugh out loud at Hawkins' distress. The president had read a great deal about this adversary. Thorpe suspected that Hawkins was a mouth in front of a brain located somewhere else. One thing for sure Thorpe realized: The brain was not with Hawkins. The politician broke out in a sweat when Karl got up; left the room and returned less than a minute later bearing a pot.

"Our next guest enjoys tea," Thorpe said as Karl set out another cup.

"You never told me about another guest!" Hawkins exclaimed. Thorpe noted the slow recovery of Hawkins' outer mask of civility. "But it does not change the outcome sir," He said at last. "We are cutting your strings Mr. President; one by one sir." Hawkins smiled as Thorpe sensed that the man felt that he was regaining control of the situation.

Thorpe and Ebenstark stood up as Bindu Raj Modi entered the room. "Don't you Americans stand when a guest enters?" he asked pointedly as the small Indian representative greeted each of the men. Hawkins hauled himself reluctantly to his feet.

"I've invited the representative of the Pan-Indo Alliance here since we are discussing matters of budget," Thorpe informed Hawkins. Thorpe held out Modi's chair. He was, as always amazed at the quiet dignity and strength the tiny Indian lady projected. No wonder, Thorpe thought, that Modi had almost occupied his seat at one time. Thorpe turned respectfully to Modi after they were all seated. The woman wasted no time in explaining her purpose in the meeting.

"As you know, Pondicherry State has suffered a severe draught. Businesses and charities have helped those people recover as best they could. The Alliance is short on funding for the needed weather modification machines. But they had chosen not to purchase those devices because those citizens understand that there is a war. But we can ignore the problem no longer. I am here to relay the message that the administrator will declare a state of emergency in Pondicherry."

"That is most unfortunate Representative Modi," Thorpe said grimly.

"It doesn't change the outcome President Thorpe," Hawkins interjected. The pudgy American turned to the Indian. "I'm sorry for your country's troubles ma'am. We should all band together as humans to help each other."

"The quarterly budget resolution is being held up sir," Ebenstark said to Thorpe in his crisp voice. "The Charter does however allow you to divert the discretionary funds for an emergency on this world Mister President."

"Where are those funds currently being used Mister Ebenstark?" the Indian asked.

Thorpe watched as Karl took his time examining his pad. Christophur sometimes thought that the wrong man was president: His assistant and friend was a shrewd player when it came to politics. Ebenstark took as much as a full minute Thorpe thought then answered Representative Modi's question. Thorpe was amazed at Hawkins' reaction. He would have to connect the dots for the man he groused.

"That would effectively cancel the Mojave Settlement project for another year," Thorpe said. He watched as Hawkins' eyebrows arched dramatically. Thorpe wasn't going to allow the man any quarter. "That will set them back by as much as a decade really as I understand that many of the companies bankrolling that will fold if they can't start next year." Ebenstark nodded in agreement.

"You son of a--," Hawkins sputtered.

Hawkins' seat, Thorpe knew was currently being petitioned for recall. Thorpe had been following the affair and knew that the number would fall short. But when news of the cancellation of the environmental engineering project got back to Hawkins' district Thorpe suspected that there would be an over abundance of names asking to remove the Southern American representative. Many of the terraforming companies were based in Hawkins' district.

"Look Hawkins," Thorpe began. "I don't know what drives you people and frankly I don't give a damn anymore. Personally I've always believed that the vilest trait man has is the desire to dominate others. Your kind was shown the door early in the twenty-first century. You can continue to block the resolution and you will loose your seat by January. You know with Keller's recall in the European Hegemony that the Sons' will lose their voting block when you are gone." Thorpe turned to Modi. "Can the administrator be persuaded to put off calling for a state of emergency ma'am?"

"Most assuredly sir," Modi said. "Most of our citizens know that there is a war. They are educated enough to know that our alliance with the aliens has brought us peace and prosperity. I believe that they understand that they only aid our enemy by indulging in petty self-absorbed actions."

"I'll need a day to--

"The next vote in Council is an hour away," Thorpe said in a stern voice; interrupting the American. "You'll break the deadlock on the quarterly budget then. This is no longer a negotiation Hawkins."

Thorpe seriously considered calling his physician as he Hawkins' face reddened. Sweat ran down the man's face as a piece of his lank black hair fell over his eyes. Hawkins right eye looked to Thorpe to be watering. The fat representative took a sip of coffee. Thorpe was relieved to see the man calm somewhat.

"You win," Hawkins conceded. Thorpe thought that was the end until Hawkins spoke up again: "We do plan on asking for an investigation into your activities in regard to using the police against our citizens."

"What are you talking about?" the president asked sharply.

Thorpe listened in amazement as Hawkins detailed the setbacks that had been experienced by several of the Sons' of Terra backers. Normally Thorpe would have disregarded the threat as an empty one based on lies; Hawkins had of course not named these backers. But even he had to concede to himself that if true, an inordinate number of companies and people were being affected. Thorpe thought back to a comment made by Admiral Soames many months ago now. He denied Hawkins' accusations; that said the American excused himself none too graciously and left. He thanked Bindu Raj Modi and made small talk with the Indian. Thorpe could not escape Ebenstark's knowing glance however: His friend and aide knew that something was amiss.

ShirKahr, Capital City of Vulcan, earth year Sep, 2157

The near miss still shook Lieutenant Tarang Gupta. The capital was patrolled by High Command ground forces though there had been no violence from the populace. Of course Gupta thought; that would not be logical. Still he and T'Pol had been detained by one of the roving patrols. They had left the couple to their own devices while the officers had checked their undeniably false identities. In typical Vulcan fashion the guards had left them alone; it would be illogical to leave detention Gupta supposed. The two High Command soldiers were unused to illogical humans however. Gupta had merely taken T'Pol's arm and guided her away from the detention area. All the while he was thankful that he had not been asked to pull back his hood.

That should no longer be a problem he hoped. The couple had been intercepted by an older Vulcan couple who, while not Syrranites were nonetheless sympathetic to the movement. They had stayed with the older man and woman for almost an earth week before they had been spirited to a Vulcan healer's home. The healer specialized in repairing the skin of burn victims. P'Lal was a little concerned about Gupta's human physiology and iron based blood but he had nonetheless proceeded with a minor surgery that would make it easier for the human to pass among Vulcans.

"There will be some discomfort human," P'Lal said as he ran his fingertips lightly over Gupta's ears and temples.

"What about his complexion?" T'Pol asked from across the room. "He looks like he is nauseous."

"I have given him an injection to change the color of his pigment," the healer remarked. "It may however last a long time. I have not made a thorough enough study of human anatomy to establish a time frame. It should take effect gradually and be complete by the evening." P'Lal stepped away from Gupta. "I believe all is well with you Gupta."

Tarang ran his hand tentatively along the cartilage of his left ear. It did sting slightly as if from a mild sunburn. The Indian cringed slightly as he noticed the absence of the familiar curve at the top of his ear; instead the outer portion of his sensory organs tapered up to a point. T'Pol walked over holding a mirror out in front of her. The intelligence officer gasped at the person who peered back at him from the mirror.

"These humans are most illogical," P'Lal remarked to T'Pol. He turned to Gupta. "You wished me to perform cosmetic surgery on you in an attempt to make it so that you could pass as one of us. Why then should you be surprised when you do indeed look like one of us?"

"This will get us near where to so-called dissidents are being held," T'Pol said before Gupta could formulate an answer to the healer's question.

"I just never realized how," Gupta searched for a word, "severe the difference would be. This is reversible?" he asked nervously.

Tarang wondered how his family would perceive him if he returned with pointed ears and his eyebrows pulled up as they were. He had heard westerners use the term "going native". Gupta supposed that this surgery might make his parents believe that he had indeed gone native; extremely so. He gawked in the mirror as the healer explained that the surgery was indeed reversible.

"Syrran or the others being held can not just walk out as we did," T'Pol said. "The High Command's detention facility is said to be quite impressive."

"The security forces are beginning sweeps of private residences," P'Lal said.

"I don't understand how all of this has happened," Gupta said. "How has this V'Las managed to impose his will like this? I do not understand the Vulcan government; but I was always led to believe that it had some sort checks and balances system built into it."

"Yes from the Time of Awakening," T'Pol answered. "But when early Vulcan embraced logic and pacifism, the need to monitor the government ceased. Those in office did what was logical. Ministers did not try to enhance their power for personal gain: Why would they?"

"Most citizens do not question the sanctions and limits placed upon their freedom," P'Lal added. "I can only speak for my acquaintances who believe that V'Las and the High Command are acting logically to protect our world from outside aggression."

"The High Command forces," Gupta said as he absently stroked one of his new ears. "I suppose that they are issued identification of some sort?"

"Yes, although it more of a data storage device should a medical need arise," P'Lal said.

"Medical need," T'Pol said as she glanced at Tarang. Gupta thought for a moment then realized what she was thinking. P'Lal merely stared at the two of them.

"They must have a healer who examines and treats the detainees?" Gupta asked.

"Two of my fellows from the Ketteract do just that," P'Lal said.

Gupta questioned the Vulcans. He discovered that the Ketteract was a type of medical association. P'Lal further explained when questioned by the human, that he did not believe that his fellow healers were issued any special identification to enter the detention facility. He also explained that neither of the healers administering to the detainees were Syrranites. Gupta sighed inwardly: They needed a way into the prison. Finally he recalled something from an old novel he had read as a youth. Gupta sketched out his plan to T'Pol and P'Lal.

"If we get in," T'Pol replied putting great emphasis on the "if", "how do we get Syrran out?"

"I have not considered that," Gupta replied. He realized that Vulcan did not allow for sheepishness. He searched his mind for answers. The heroes of spy novels would doubtless come up with some sort of spectacular diversion. He mentioned that to T'Pol.

"I know a Syrranite who helps to maintain the city power grid," P'Lal said in a flat unemotional tone. He looked humanly guilty for a brief second as he added: "I do believe that you are a corrupting influence Gupta."

The couple made their way through the streets of the capital. Gupta watched as nameless Vulcans looked at the armed security force personnel who were stationed at various locations. Except for an occasional raised eyebrow there was little reaction to the enforcers' presence. Gupta felt a little self conscious over his wearing of the medical medallion marking him as a healer. T'Pol was similarly adorned. They paused across from the detention facility.

The building was plain and functional as most Vulcan architecture was Gupta noted. But this place held a formidable look to it. Tarang supposed that he was superimposing his human feelings on an inanimate object. He felt T'Pol touch his hand lightly.

"It is illogical to stare," she said. She motioned towards a small café. The blistering 40 Eridani sun was setting; so that diners were taking seats out of doors of the eatery. The outdoor café had an excellent view of their intended target.

Tarang followed the woman to a seat. The couple sat in silence until a server arrived to take their order. Gupta ordered cold vegetables and Plomeek soup. In spite of his first encounter with it he had developed a taste for the thick greenish food. The couple soon settled down to eating after the server brought their dishes. Gupta ate without comment. He looked up to see the Vulcan woman looking intently at him.

"You have been quiet since this afternoon," T'Pol said. "Do you believe that your plan is in error?"

"No," the naval officer replied after looking around him. "I have been thinking about home."

"Earth seems to be safe from Romulan attack for now," T'Pol replied. "Your family should be well."

"I can only hope," Gupta answered. "But I was thinking of what I would be doing now. Diwali is next month. It is The Festival of Lights," Gupta explained. He went on to tell the woman of the celebration but his explanation turned into pleasant reminiscences of his family.

"You must miss them," T'Pol said.

"I know it is not logical," Gupta answered. He looked down to see that he had eaten less than half of what he had ordered. The Indian suddenly felt a loss of appetite. He had not had many times to sit and think about his home and family. Gupta wondered that he was experiencing those emotions now after all of these months away.

"Vulcans experience loss as well," T'Pol replied. She extended her arm across the table and stuck out her index and middle finger. Gupta had seen other Vulcan couples do the same. He extended his fingers likewise and touched hers. They sat for several minutes like that.

"The power will go off shortly," Gupta said at last. "It is time." They reluctantly separated their digits from one another and rose. Gupta deposited some of the dull, square bronze looking coins on the table. The server took their money and returned some change. Gupta wondered briefly what would happen were he to leave a human tip. He almost smiled until he remembered that he was no longer human looking on the outside. They departed for the grim looking detention building.

The front entrance was unguarded on the outside but rather than the characteristically unlocked doors that were prevalent among Vulcans the duo encountered locked doors. A call box was chest high near the entrance. Gupta reached out tentatively and pushed the stud on the box. A voice that Gupta could not tell rather it was machine or person inquired of their business.

"We are healers dispatched from Minister V'Las' office," Tarang answered. Gupta was still unsure of his accent although he doubted that he had spoken more than ten words in a terran language in the past few months. But this would be the true test of his language skills he realized.

A small slot opened beneath the call box. "Produce your credentials," the voice intoned. There was neither suspicion nor distrust in the disembodied voice.

"We are here on the personal orders of Minister V'Las," Gupta said. He wished he could add emotion behind his voice but knew to do so would give away everything.

There was a long pause. Several minutes passed. Gupta remain standing motionless. How he wished he could shuffle his feet even a little. The intelligence officer was sure that the security forces behind the door knew that something was wrong. He was about to turn to T'Pol and suggest they leave—quickly; when the door slid open. A tall broad-shouldered guard wearing the odd diamond shaped covering over his mouth that he had seen the intruders in T'Les' home wear stood impassively before them.

"I am aware of no such orders," the soldier said. He looked at their pendants marking the two as medical practitioners. "Yet you are here. I will contact the ministry to confirm your identities."

"We are here on Minister V'Las' authority," Gupta said calmly and without emotion. "Still; if you feel the need to contact the minister's office that is logical. The minister is currently in meditation but I do not believe that he will be disturbed."

The guard was silent. His face could have been etched in stone for all it betrayed Gupta thought. Tarang daren't allow the man to think. He asked for the guard's name.

"Very well Tainar," Gupta said. "It is logical, so you should proceed. Our time is precious to us as is the minister's."

Gupta feared that his espionage days were over until Tainar answered: "I believe that I will admit you. It is not logical to disturb the minister during meditation." The large Vulcan stood aside. Gupta thanked him and entered the prison with T'Pol. He was quaking inside as T'Pol made her way to a computer terminal.

"I have ascertained the whereabouts of the detainees we must examine," she said to Gupta after inputting some commands into the touchpad. She casually inquired of the guard as to the location of certain detention areas. Of course it was casual Gupta thought; she was Vulcan. He was on the verge of a fit of giggling when she indicated that they should proceed.

The two made their way through the dry sterile, nondescript hallways. T'Pol briefly looked around then said:

"So your plan was to lie to gain admittance."

"It is called a bluff," Gupta whispered back to her resorting to English to describe the stylized form of false bravado.

"Very interesting," T'Pol answered. "I hope that we do not have to resort to that to get out of here." The two turned a corner then entered a lift. They stood side by side until the lift doors opened again depositing them on the fourth floor of the prison. A robotic cleaning device was making its way down the hall. Gupta stumbled and dropped to one knee. He placed a small canister on the side of the little bot. He stood up calmly and turned a corner with T'Pol. Two more guards stood impassively watching them as they approached.

"We need to see the prisoner known as," T'Pol took out a hand held computer. "Syrran," she finished.

"I have been told to expect you," one of the guards said. "Stay here in the common area while I get the detainee."

Gupta realized that if this took longer than four minutes then they were in trouble. The other guard looked at the two. Despite his exposure to Vulcans Gupta still had a hard time dealing with their blank looks. T'Pol betrayed neither worry nor relief; Gupta would have expected no less.

The two moved apart as the guard returned leading Syrran before him. Gupta thought that two minutes were gone. He wondered if they could find their way back to the lift until he realized that T'Pol with her mental discipline probably had a map of the route ingrained in her mind. Gupta moved before the guard and his charge. Syrran looked none the worse for the wear Tarang thought. He was not surprised that Syrran did not register any indication of emotion at the sight of Gupta.

"This is not who we were to examine," Gupta said as he stared at a blank screen on his own small handheld. He fingered the touchpad bringing up the first picture he could find. "This is who we were told to see," Gupta said as he presented the computer to the guard.

Gupta moved quickly stabbing down with an injector that had been concealed up the sleeve of his cloak. He was sure that he had injected the guard but he ended up on the floor nonetheless. The burly soldier made for Tarang until Syrran pushed him aside. The guard took several stumbling steps then collapsed. Gupta rolled over to see T'Pol standing over the High Command soldier. He tasted a salty tang in his mouth and realized that he had bitten his tongue in the fall.

"I believe this attempt is fruitless off-worlder," Syrran said. He eyed the human's surgical enhancements. "Your appearance has improved—somewhat."

"The lights will go out here in about a minute," Gupta said as they hustled the Syrranite leader to the lift.

"One of your followers laboring on the power grid will create an overload into the power feed of this building," T'Pol explained. "That should render the emergency system useless long enough for us to leave here."

"Other things will happen as well," Gupta said as they boarded the lift. The transportation device dropped suddenly as Gupta had discovered was normal for Vulcan elevators. The lift doors parted as Gupta's stomach caught up to him. An annoying high pitched squeal filled the hallway: Tuned for different ears the fire alarm sounded to Gupta like a cat being slowly crushed to death.

The naval officer was pleased to know that his little incendiary device had worked. They shuffled through the maze of hallways until the lights went out. Gupta stumbled until the emergency lights came back up. At the sound of approaching footfalls he rolled two of the little devices down another hallway. The trio went in the opposite direction as a searing flash blinded them for a second. Gupta could hear the soldiers' quick conversation indicating that they were moving in the direction of the mysterious fires. T'Pol led them onward.

"Put these in please," Tarang said to Syrran as he handed the Vulcan a set of small specially designed earplugs. Syrran accepted them and after a second's hesitation inserted the small ear pieces one at a time while they trotted through the prison corridors. Sparks erupted before Gupta as he heard a warning shout from behind. Without waiting to see who was shooting at him Gupta sent another of the canisters flying. A particle beam made its peculiar low squeal as it hit a support structure before him.

The shooting stopped abruptly. The intelligence officer turned quickly to see three soldiers with their hands pressed against their ears fall to the floor. Gupta said a silent thanks to whatever human weapons' designer had come up with the non lethal sonic stunning device. They arrived at the entranceway to find their path barred by the guard. The Vulcan leveled a particle beam rifle at the three would be escapees. Several tense moments of silence followed.

"Your method of gaining entry here was not logical," the guard said at last as he lowered the rifle. "I follow the teachings of Surak."

"One who does so should not be in the service of the military," Syrran said quietly to the soldier and yet Gupta could hear a stern rebuke.

"My logic fails me Syrran," the soldier answered. "And yet I am here at this moment to help your escape. You will have a difficult time escaping the capital." The soldier dropped the rifle clattering to the floor. "I shall delay your pursuers Syrran. I will take up arms no more though I become an occupant of this place." Gupta watched as the soldier held up his right hand rendering the odd Vulcan greeting that he had observed several times now. "I am Maroz, live long and prosper Syrran." Gupta watched as Syrran returned the split-finger gesture.

"If no one minds I am still taking up arms," Gupta said as he recovered the particle weapon. Maroz eyed him warily. "Sorry Gupta—at your service; violent and animalistic human." Tarang said as he split his fingers painfully and added: "Live long and prosper. Now let's get out of here."

The three escapees ran into the street then slowed to a normal walk. Gupta felt the day's heat radiating out of the street. The Indian remembered hot humid nights in his native India. He looked calmly up and down the street; now was not the time to appear anything but Vulcan. T'Pol mentioned that the thoroughfare seemed somewhat deserted. Tarang wondered if it had something to do with the security in the capital. It would not stay empty long Gupta thought. The intelligence officer looked around. The rifle was uncomfortable under his travel cloak and once again he asked: Who was he planning on shooting?

"We have to get out of the city," T'Pol said. "Minister Soval gave us updated information on the satellite detection grid. We should be able to lose any pursuit in the Great Desert."

"This skimmer should take us out of here," Gupta said indicating one of the Vulcan personal transports that rode against gravity.

"It is the property of others," Syrran and T'Pol said simultaneously. The vehicle was marked by the ministerial agency seal that was responsible for maintaining the planetary infrastructure. Several neatly arranged boxes that Gupta assumed contained tools were in the vehicle's storage section along with pieces of cable of various sorts.

"I merely propose to borrow it," Gupta said as he jumped into the driver's section. Tarang had a fleeting thought that T'Pol's reluctance might have come from their ride through the desert in Soval's speeder. Tarang had found the vehicle's operation exciting to say the least and had put the speedy craft through its paces. Several times he had noted what he thought was a warning glance on T'Pol's face directed toward him. She had seized his arm tightly during a near hairpin turn that Gupta had performed. Gupta wanted to smile as he recalled her explanation of being overcome by the inertia of the vehicle. Tarang beckoned the others to board the craft. He looked nervously as two Vulcans headed towards them; a man and woman stared sharply at the trio as they picked up their pace.

"This is highly unethical," Syrran protested as T'Pol got in the skimmer.

Gupta was growing frustrated leading him to blurt out: "I do not believe so Syrran. I can debate you and prove otherwise."

"I doubt that human," Syrran said as he got in the skimmer behind Gupta and T'Pol. "But I will prove otherwise to--,"

Gupta never heard the end of the Syrranite leader's rebuttal as he gunned the craft forward on its gravity generator provided cushion. Tarang wanted to explore the vehicle's capability but he realized that Vulcan caution was what was called for here. Especially as T'Pol had warned of High Command guards pouring out of the detention center as they rounded a curve out of sight. He slowed the vehicle to a moderate pace; one that Gupta felt was logical given the night's light traffic flow.

"We'll exit at the southern end of the city," T'Pol said. "The surveillance in that region will be negligible until morning."

"That will help us," Gupta replied. "We have to go north to this Mount Selaya." He was about to comment further when two skimmers pulled up besides theirs. Gupta looked around wildly at the High Command forces in each vehicle. Before anything could be said Gupta slammed the small skimmer's hand throttle forward. The pursuers fell behind but not for long.

"This vehicle was constructed to carry heavy items," T'Pol said; "not for speed."

Gupta wondered about what T'Pol's definition of speed was. He was having much difficulty doing the mental conversions between Vulcan units and the human metric system but he guessed that he was speeding along at well over two hundred kilometers an hour. All was sure of was his feel for where the craft's gravity cushion would start to separate in a turn; returning the skimmer to the ground abruptly. The Indian felt a nudge as one of the pursuers' skimmer struck his.

"This speed is not recommended off-worlder," Syrran said from the back of the craft in a tone as casual as if he were advising Gupta of the correct suit of clothes to wear for the day. "Our pursuers are Vulcan and have superior reflexes to your own."

"They've never driven in New Delhi traffic!" the Indian exclaimed. Gupta delayed his turn then threw the skimmer in a tight turn. He wondered why logical beings had never thought of rearview mirrors as he snapped his head around. The second skimmer chasing them was dropping far behind. The other was keeping up with him through the turn although it had dropped back a few meters.

Tarang was about to smile at his skill when he felt his skimmer start to lose cohesion in the turn. The craft careened dangerously near to a group of on lookers. Gupta did not have time to feel relief as he sped by the obviously puzzled looking group of Vulcans. Despite the speed of his craft he was close enough to note individual faces. He regained control of the skimmer. Their nearest shadow was not so lucky.

The skimmer full of High Command forces sailed straight ahead narrowly missing the group of hapless pedestrians. The driver tried in vain to regain control but could not do so. The skimmer hit a low stone wall that had been buffering a piece of outdoor sculpture. With the craft's gravity cushion thus disturbed it spun wildly as it decelerated before hitting the wall of a building. Smoke and sparks poured out of the skimmer's tiny power compartment as the soldiers leapt away from their disabled vehicle. A soldier in the second chase skimmer hefted his rifle.

"What was that?" Gupta shouted as pieces of the gently sloping street erupted in front and to the right of his skimmer. Tarang knew what it was but was surprised nonetheless.

"We are being shot at," T'Pol said calmly.

"Do you think?" he shouted back as he handed the Vulcan woman the particle rifle that he had confiscated.

Gupta saw T'Pol turn around in her seat and sight down the barrel of the firearm. He wondered briefly where she had received that sort of training for that in the Vulcan diplomatic corps. Gupta did not have long to wonder as he caught a glimpse of Syrran seizing the weapon from T'Pol and flinging it out of their skimmer. The pursuer drew closer.

"You may not harm another," Syrran said calmly to T'Pol. "Have you abandoned any semblance of what we are?"

"They seem intent on harming us," T'Pol argued.

Gupta watched as the High Command soldier driving matched his movements: He was losing ground quickly. The thick side of the maintenance skimmer erupted in a flash that caused it to lurch violently away from that side. The shooter was becoming too accurate. The growing size of the chase skimmer was all that was needed to convince the Indian that he would be on the losing end of this chase: Unless.

"Take the controls!" Gupta shouted to T'Pol in English. Gupta didn't wait to see if the Vulcan woman would do what he asked. He figured she would see the logic of them crashing if she did not; especially as the Indian had relinquished the controls. Gupta slithered over his seat into the rear compartment. He looked to his left to see Syrran eyeing the colt that was now visible hanging under the Gupta's disheveled robe.

"Don't worry I'll try not to kill anybody," he yelled as a bolt of particle energy blasted into a wall that the skimmer was dangerously close too.

"Violence is no way to solve an issue," Syrran shouted. Gupta didn't feel like a debate as he lunged over the rear seat into the cargo compartment narrowly missing being shot by their attacker.

The colt's grip felt reassuring but he doubted he could use it to save them even without Syrran's protests: The vehicle following them looked to have some heavy duty armor plating in the front of it. Gupta wondered if the vehicle was not some sort of Vulcan ground attack vehicle left over from that world's engagement with the Andorians. The Indian looked around while trying desperately to come up with an idea. His hand absently settled on a length of coil.

"Do you think this vehicle has more torque?" he shouted back to the two Vulcans. It would have too he thought as he took up the length of utility rope. Gupta was pleased to find that the length had a metal hook attached to the end. He took it up and started uncoiling the line as another bolt jarred their speeder. Tarang was pleased to see that the vehicle chasing them had apparent hand holds on the front of it. Very logical and safe he thought.

Gupta got a feel for the fibrous coil of line. The Indian had once been taken to a demonstration of skill of the art of the ancient American cowboy. The intelligence officer knew that he had not those men and women's skill. But he thought: All he had to do was throw the end of this line at a vehicle no more than ten or so meters away while in a dodging and weaving vehicle himself while the occupant of the chase craft was shooting at him. Simple; he thought with no small sense of irony. He started twirling the end of the cable as a thought that he would have been better off becoming a librarian crossed his mind. The first throw missed.

A feel of static electricity overwhelmed Gupta as the shooter narrowly missed the Indian. Tarang started pulling the line back all the while thinking if it caught on something it would tear hiss arm off. He could smell his singed hair as he aimed and twirled the hook again. He pulled tight as the hook engaged a handhold. He latched the other end to a stanchion on the cargo compartment floor.

"Hard over!" he yelled as the corner of his robe burst into flame. He dived to the cargo compartment floor and rolled the fire out.

Gupta's shoulder was in pain from the burn but he soon forgot about that as he was flung hard against the side of the cargo compartment. T'Pol, Gupta assumed, must have gleaned what the intelligence officer was planning. He pulled himself painfully forward until he could just peer over the lip of the cargo box. The High Command speeder was off at an almost forty-five degree angle. The driver; not anticipating T'Pol's sudden turn to the right had lost ground. The cable whirred through the air and the slack came up tight. Gupta rolled to one side before he was severed into two pieces by the utility cable. He withdrew the colt from its holster.

He looked again to see the offending speeder yanked violently to the right: Its gravimetric cohesion lost it was pulled along by their speeder. T'Pol swung the craft over to the left. The hooked vehicle started to lose control. Gupta realized it was about to hit the ground. He was willing to bet that would crash their speeder as well. Tarang pulled himself to his knees. He took aim at the taut line. The High Command vehicle veered into the brush of a restored habitat area. It was now or never Tarang thought as he blazed away at the cable. The cable end quickly faded from sight as the speeder along with its contingent of High Command troops crashed into the bushes. Gupta crawled back into the rear seat and sit up next to Syrran. There were no more pursuers Gupta noted as he felt the cool air of the desert as the speeder left the city behind.

"I think, except for some brush burns and possible broken bones that we've killed nobody," Gupta gasped out. "I on the other hand am burned and perhaps have a broken shoulder—and I believe that I have soiled myself."

"There is hope for you yet human," Syrran said without inflection.


	16. Chapter 16

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the old United States, earth, Sep 2157

Admiral Erica Soames relaxed on one of the ancient stone benches near the park that was surrounded by the old Rittenhouse Square area. The ancient homes some of them restored; belonged to an era long gone now. Erica ran her fingers over the stonework briefly wondering if the bench was one of those that had survived the near hit on Philadelphia during World War III. Squirrels played their game of hiding their food supply for the upcoming months. Soames found the little rodents' display childishly delightful. She smiled and for a few, brief precious seconds forgot about her world's peril.

She looked up as Ensign Frank McCoy seated himself next to her. He made the perfunctory greetings then sat back. Soames could tell that her officer was anything but relaxed. The two soon fell to discussing their business; not their official business but the unofficial and highly illegal affair that the two were engaged in. He also gave Soames a full report on his dubious partner Brack. Erica had been incensed when she had first discovered McCoy's partnering with the eccentric designer. She had however, grudgingly changed her mind as it seemed from Frank's report that Brack's interests were aligned with their own.

"The radioactive traces lead to an area in Montana," McCoy said in a conversational tone as he eyed the passerby's. "Micah has traced them to one of the old Minuteman launch sites. The area was guarded by at least three augments and others who might be private security."

"The old Snake River Spaceport is there," Soames said in a speculative tone. "Enough Vulcan freighters came in there after First Contact that it became a free passage area." An excellent place for covert intruders to come to earth Soames thought. McCoy nodded at her assessment. "By the way Frank has it ever occurred to you that our Mister Brack is quite; I believe that you Americans say spry, for his age?" Soames asked.

"He is a tough old bird; I'll admit that Ad—Erica," Frank replied. "But you know all of the medical miracles that came down the pike after First Contact. I just assumed that Micah was one of those rich old geezers who were hell bent on holding onto their youth."

"Frank, Brack has been holding onto his youth since at least the twentieth century—perhaps longer, I am unsure yet," Soames said.

The laughter died on McCoy's lips as he noted the admiral's deadpan delivery. Soames was not surprised: She too had doubted the information that she had researched. But too many archived portraits and identification records had been created during the paranoia of the late twentieth and early twenty second centuries. No one could hope to escape detection at some point Soames knew. McCoy asked her for a more detailed explanation.

"I stopped going back after the First World War," Erica explained. "There are photographs and fingerprint records that put Brack at the development of the first commercial jet airliner, the Americans' Apollo Project and," here Erica paused dramatically. "The Chrysalis Project," she finished.

McCoy sat bolt upright. Erica looked around to see if Frank's reaction had been observed by others. She told him in no uncertain terms to calm down as she was relieved to see that no one else had witnessed his surprise. She went on to explain to an unbelieving McCoy how Brack had financed and picked many of the geneticists employed by the project that had ultimately produced Khan Singh and the other augments.

"No damn wonder he feels the way he does about them then," McCoy said.

"After he had helped produce one of that time's greatest nightmares," Soames said concluding McCoy's thoughts.

"I suppose that I'll confront him," McCoy answered in a quiet defeated voice.

Soames had inferred from McCoy's reports on his activities that he and Brack had formed a bond. She was still somewhat skeptical of McCoy's story about being reduced to energy and beamed from England to America. Erica assumed that perhaps Brack had staged some sort of technical wizardry to cover up a more mundane device. The man certainly had a lifetime, several in fact, to come up with unique devices Erica thought.

The admiral nodded. "Now about this place in Montana," she said.

Frank explained to her how the installation was closely guarded. Brack had only managed to see what he had by playing the part of a hapless amateur aviator. Soames promised to gather what information that she could. American military installations still had their own confidential access codes for their databases. That made things hard for her and Todd Allen Glenn's jingoistic fervor did not help she thought bitterly.

"One thing though, the silo is capped," McCoy remarked using the slang for the shutdown process that had been used for launch sites after First Contact.

"So it is unlikely that anything can be launched out of it," Soames said. "Unlikely but not impossible; what are your plans?"

"Get inside and snoop around," McCoy answered. "Don't ask me how: Brack says Erickson's matter zapper isn't any good for it: Something about needing a source scan of the area which I guess he got before he had us yanked out of that tank." McCoy looked thoughtful for a moment. "Micah said he was thinking about another way. He gets strange at times. I mean about the killing and such."

"You do understand if we find these birdies here what needs to done Frank?" Soames wondered sometimes about McCoy. She knew that his conscience bothered him about much of what they were doing. That is why she had picked him to start out with. The old American Praetorian Guard had been made up of people pursuing an idea of freedom; not power over others. Erica knew a few in the service who would have entered into a compact with her: Those couple of people she thought of had very few scruples and Soames knew that what they were doing required someone with principles.

"I guess if it comes down to it," McCoy said. "I'll," Erica saw his hesitation, "I'll do what is necessary."

"It must be soon too Frank," Soames said. "The Romulan fleets have been quiet for too long. Max thinks that this new bird will make a move for Sol. That is my guess as well. They are doing a divide and conquer."

"Max huh?" McCoy asked with a grin on his lips.

It occurred to Soames that strangely enough she and McCoy knew each other's personal life far more than their respective partners knew of theirs. She had of course not told Forrest of her clandestine activities. Soames had warm feelings concerning Max but she understood that he was a straight arrow when it came to the need for civilian control of the military. Frank was likewise engaged with someone whom he was hiding his activities from.

"Who knows Frank," Erica said. She was, like McCoy in a relationship with someone she would have to lie to in order to be with them.

"I guess we are in the same boat there," McCoy said, obviously sensing her thoughts. "Eileen is hinting around about something more permanent." He looked into the hazy Pennsylvania sky as he continued. "You know I want to do that so bad and yet I wonder what will happen after all of this is over." He looked at her again. "But that is my problem. I bought and paid for that when I signed up to do this. But yes; it seems like they want to cause a communications blackout sometime in October."

"Protests in the major cities along with a blackout," Soames said nodding. The plan; if successful could be devastating she thought. Were the people of earth to wake to a major Romulan victory it could well tip the scales back towards the Sons' of Terra.

"Thorpe has cracked down on the internal security agencies," Soames said. She had not been surprised after Thorpe's "Who is the Enemy" speech that he had delivered almost a week earlier. The president had said that rousting law abiding citizens who were clearly not Romulans was a mistake. Soames had wanted to point out to the man that the Romulans or their agents at least now apparently looked like humans but she had held her tongue. He had issued a presidential order immediately afterwards halting random road blocks and port searches.

"I can't say that I disagree with him Erica," McCoy said. "When, was the last time a birdie came through the Brisbane Starport and said; hello, I'm from the Romulan Empire and I've come to annihilate you. Here is my visa," he asked.

"True," Soames said. She too had heard the stories about unwarranted searches of old men and women and random traffic stops of people going about their daily affairs. So far none of the law enforcement agencies engaging in those activities had produced a live birdie. "My point is though that you and the rather moldy Mister Brack may well be our last line of defense here." Now for the bad news Erica thought.

"I cannot help you for awhile Frank," She said as she handed McCoy a data wafer. "This contains a list of accounts into which I've funneled credits from various government agencies. It also has a list of codes that will allow you access to weapon storage areas."

"So you are hanging me out to dry?" McCoy asked angrily. Soames looked around nervously. She put a hand on Frank's arm.

"Hold your temper Frank," she said. It was Admiral Soames speaking now in a stern voice. She sighed then explained: "The president called me into his office and specifically asked me about my activities. He didn't discover anything but he was much closer than I thought possible. I believe that it was safe to meet you here today but this must be it. Do not," her voice held an icy bite to it as she continued; "contact me in any way except for legitimate official business. We will work together at Langley as always but I am afraid that the Naval Investigative Service may put an operative in our office; if there is not already one in place."

"Okay," Frank said. "I guess that I'll continue doing what I'm doing."

"Very good Frank," Soames said as she got up. "When things have calmed down I'll aid you again. I'm sorry about getting you into this but look at the alternative."

She knew as well as did McCoy that the Romulans could well have staged a chemical attack on some of earth's major cities. Without their intervention that dreadful event may well have happened.

"We're doing the right thing here Frank," Erica told her subordinate as he rose to bid her goodbye. "The Praetorian Guard couldn't manage to save the old US Constitution but they delayed much of what happened and laid the groundwork for the freedoms that came after the Horrors. We won't single-handedly beat the birdies but we will be able to save our world; our way of life. That way, future generations won't have to resort to this sort of subterfuge."

She strolled off in the opposite direction of the one McCoy had taken. Soames wanted to believe what she had just said but deep down she realized that there would always be a need for individuals to act for the greater good. Average people didn't need to know about all of the monsters and dangers out there Erica reasoned. That way they would be free to be the people that they were meant to be. No, Erica thought; future generations would need to be protected as well she realized.

Taskforce 17, UES Agincourt, inbound to the Vulcan-Andorian border, Sep 2157

The dart landed near the center of the board issuing a satisfying thunk to the ears of Capt. Leonard Zimmermann. He smiled as he thought that he had not lost his touch. Zimmermann recovered his darts and stood back taking a swig of the frothy dark Tellarite beer. Chief Varn, a Tellarite and the chief enlisted person aboard had been busy with some hops and a barley type of grain that he had obtained from his home before leaving with the Star Fleet taskforce. The captain and technically taskforce commander watched as Ensign Endicott Barclay nervously pulled his arm back. The dart left the ensign's hand to impact against the wall; spinning back till it settled on the deck.

"Very good ensign," Zimmermann said. "But the board is on the wall." Zimmermann cast a mocking acerbic glance towards the ensign. "You really don't have to let your captain win. Believe me I like a challenge." The captain said in a dry voice.

Barclay threw again and landed on an outer ring. "Sorry sir," he said as his next dart scored a bull's eye.

"On second thought I might be in the process of getting hustled," Zimmermann said. Barclay smiled sheepishly as he racked up more points.

Lieutenant Tavar's antennae dipped forward as the Andorian studied the game. "Very interesting; I believe this is like Canoz." The officers and enlisted people in the Agincourt's wardroom waited in anticipation of the Andorian's explanation. "Two teams of player's line up opposite one another and cast a sort of blunt spear at members of the opposing team. Much like this game of darts; intoxication is warranted as well."

"Nothing like getting drunk and throwing sharp objects around," Zimmerman said agreeably. "It is a human birthright I believe."

Zimmermann took up his darts as Barclay headed back behind the toe line. The captain took another sip of the tasty Tellarite beer and crooked his arm to let fly when the ship's PA intruded on the game.

"Captain to the bridge," Commander Tristan Conway's exacting accented voice announced over the wardroom speaker. Zimmermann left the game for the nearest wall panel access. He was not one to keep secrets from the crew.

"Minotaur five has caught a sensor echo," Conway replied to the captain's question concerning the call. "It is a large mass; possibly a fleet movement." There was a short pause. "We have nothing in that region sir."

"I'll be right there," Zimmermann said as he punched off the intercom. "It looks like you are saved by bogeys Mister Barclay," he told the officer. Zimmermann was actually on the verge of going down to a crushing defeat to the ensign but as Grizzly Oulette had told him bravado counted for much. He said his goodbyes and departed the happy sounds of the wardroom. Zimmermann was already missing his beer; but business called.

The captain made his way via one of the Tännhauser class Agincourt's turbo-tubes. That was one improvement that had been too long in coming Leonard thought. The old Kretchets and Pioneers had a few crew lifts but most of the mechanical conveyances on those ships were for equipment rather than people. Zimmermann had read an engineering article suggesting that one day single lifts would be able to travel both horizontally and vertically. Zimmermann exited the tube that ran the length of his two hundred and forty-seven meter ship and switched to another that would take him up four decks to the bridge. He soon arrived on his bridge.

Leonard's eyes would take a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. He knew the way in the dark as he suspected that most starship captains did. Still he could easily make out the bridge crew silhouetted by the dim glow of their instrument panels. Tristan Conway's form could be made out vacating the captain's chair. Zimmermann himself had developed a knack for recognizing his captain's footsteps when he had served as first officer: Another trait that he assumed most bridge officers acquired.

Zimmermann paused to look at the bridge viewer before taking his seat. The display was what his sensor chief was seeing. A large mass of glowing blips filled the top right hand corner of the viewer. Leonard knew that the subspace sensors were trying and failing to resolve into hard data things such as power output and mass. The only thing for certain was that the unknown contacts were moving at warp 1.9. Zimmermann looked at his first officer.

"Typical fuel consumption speed for Romulan ships," he said as he seated himself.

"I was thinking the same sir," Conway replied. "Minotaur five is tracking them at its most extreme sensor range."

"Looks like a z-plus approach to Wolf," Zimmermann conjectured. "Helm, calculate when we'll veer away from the contact if both of our groups continue on their respective headings."

Lieutenant Carmen Novak ran her long elegant fingers over her instrument panel before replying; "about forty-two minutes captain."

Zimmermann muttered under his breath. He had caught up with all of the latest intelligence dispatches. No activities had been noted around the birdie controlled systems he remembered. But then again the Romulans had made a concerted effort to find and destroy allied spy drones. So it was possible Leonard mused that the Romulans could indeed have managed to send forth a fleet such as the one his taskforce was now shadowing.

"We can't break radio silence this close to a possible enemy contact," Zimmermann said quietly as he absently ran a hand over his bald head. "If we follow them it'll be breaking our orders to reinforce the Andorians at the border."

"And we really don't know what we are looking at," Conway added. "For all we know this could be a stellar phenomena or even a group of ships from another alien species that have nothing to do with this war."

"Novak," Zimmermann said mildly to the dark haired navigator, "plan on our continued shadowing of the unknowns. Run a hypothetical cruise for Wolf and calculate how much time and distance will be needed if we break off this pursuit and head to the rendezvous coordinates on the border." Zimmermann knew the furthest point would be off of Wolf itself. The captain had a mental idea of the time needed to traverse that distance to the border. He thought for a moment before adding: "Use a midpoint from where we are now to Wolf 359."

"I'm guessing that will give us a few days to see exactly who these johnies are," Commander Conway said agreeably.

"Exactly Tristan," Leonard nodded. "A few days to pick up a stray electromagnetic or perhaps a place where we can draw closer without being detected ourselves."

"Get with the Minotaur squadrons and tell them to be on their toes," Zimmermann told his first officer as he decided to implement his plan.

"How do you think Star Fleet command will take this?" his first officer asked pointedly. "I'm not trying to second guess you of course sir."

"If I'm wrong at the most we'll be late for picket duty," Zimmermann answered. "There hasn't been any shooting there," he paused and added ominously: "Yet." He continued, "Forrest always says that he wants his officers to exercise autonomy. I'm exercising that now. If this group is going for Wolf it will signal the start of a major offensive; hardly where we expected them to go."

Leonard had been one of those who had suspected that the next move from the Romulan chess masters as he thought of them would be an attack on earth. This apparent move toward Wolf made no sense to the captain of the Agincourt. Had the birdies had yet another change of command or was it that they were executing random tactical changes to confuse Star Fleet he wondered?

"If we lose our holdings at Wolf 359 it would certainly affect the political climate," Conway said. "The Sons' of Bitches might gain the momentum to cut the military budget."

Zimmermann's tight grin and nod was the only reply that he gave. Conway was not given to cursing, Leonard realized except when it came to certain subjects. Earth's xenophobic, antiwar group was one of those areas that drew the Englishman's ire Zimmermann knew. The same could be said of Zimmermann when it came to his opinion of the Sons' of Terra. But as captain it was his place to provide a sense of balance and fairness for his crew. Still he sometimes wondered how a group could be so blind: It would be another decade before the Florida panhandle could be restored to something of what it was before the Romulan fusion bomb had wiped it off of the map.

"We have to be careful that we don't play this fellow's game," Zimmermann said meaning whoever or whatever was commanding the Romulan military machine. "I'd like to send a warning out but I know that if this contact is Romulan then they'll have all of their subspace detection gear working overtime."

"Then again we could deny them the element of surprise," Conway countered.

"You're right commander," Zimmermann said. "I still want to shadow them until we can establish where they are going. We'll play the rest by ear."

"Stiles' taskforce is holding down things about Wolf," Conway said.

"The mass of these contacts suggests a large force," Zimmermann said. "It'll take more than two taskforces to hold onto Wolf."

"Bateson," Zimmermann sprang up out of his command chair and made his way to the ensign's communication alcove. The ensign turned and acknowledged Zimmermann as he approached his station. "Is there any way to send a tight beam subspace radio transmission that the birdies can't detect?"

"The spillover effect is pretty strong," the ensign replied as he cocked his head in thought. "But," he hesitated as a look of consternation filled his face. "If I send it in bits at a lower frequency it might appear as subspace background noise."

"It would be slower traveling like that too," Zimmermann said. "Okay; do it. Send a message detailing our contact with these unknowns along with our position. Send one towards earth and another towards Taskforce 18."

"Aye sir," Bateson replied as he fingered his earpiece. "Sir, Captain Jellico is on 'b' channel," Bateson interjected. "Video and voice," the communications officer added.

"Let's hear it," Zimmermann replied.

The view screen changed to graphical representation. Zimmermann was pleased and not altogether surprised to see the power readings, mass and reflectivity consistent with a Romulan Sabinus class cruiser. The Midway's captain's explanation soon followed.

"A stray dropped out of the pack sir," Jellico's disembodied voice proclaimed. "Minotaur four barely avoided detection but when the birdie dropped to sunlight speeds they managed to get good returns from the subspace sensors. Probably a collapsed warp field from what our boys scanned before they had to bug out."

"That confirms who we are shadowing then," Zimmermann said. "Very good Walt; your people get a pat on the back for that one. Just make sure we aren't spotted. I'm not sure what our friends are up too; but rest assured that it is not something good for us."

"Aye sir," Jellico replied. "We'll get it done."

UES Daedelus, on course for the Sol system, Oct 2157

"We here know the true nature of our adversaries," Captain Michael Cromwell declared as his eyes moved around the conference room table. Commander Schultheiss was seated to Cromwell's left. Next to the doctor sat Omar Bashir looking somewhat mollified after being told by Trudy to extinguish his cigar or else. The Andorian engineer Taln sat on Bashir's left. Cromwell could clearly see the blue-skinned alien's agitation. A silent Mariel Picard sat next to the Andorian. Schultheiss had reported that her condition was improved but Cromwell knew that the Frenchwoman still had periods of depression. The members of the briefing were completed by Lt. Marcel Dieulafoy. The archeologist sat to Cromwell's right but his attention was mostly devoted to the stonily impassive Picard.

"A few of my staff have suspicions," Schultheiss said. "I hate lying but I have repeated our fable about Vulcan prisoners aboard the cruiser. I altered the official record as you asked Olly—for now."

"First the pointies fight a war with my people," Taln lashed out angrily; "then we find that they are related to these Romulans. I say let the information out. The alliance members will find out when we arrive back at Star Fleet Headquarters." The engineer eyed Cromwell as he added: "I will ensure that General Shran knows."

"I believe that our president will inform your people Taln," Cromwell said. "As to why I wish this information to be held in confidence it is this: If this information comes to light it may well affect everything that is done after. I cannot speak to what the politicos will do. But this information must be safeguarded until they do decide what to do. If it gets out on this ship we deny ourselves the option of what to do with it when we get home."

"In other words bring the point—Vulcans over to our side?" the doctor asked.

"That would be one option," Cromwell said nodding.

"The pointies spat upon your people in their hour of need sir!" the Andorian exclaimed. "They may just as well align themselves with their brothers!" he concluded referring to the Vulcan Romulan relationship.

"At least they will have that choice," Cromwell responded sharply. "Given your peoples' feelings concerning the Vulcans and us humans as well; if this information gets out an alliance with the Romulans may well be the only choice the Vulcans will have left," the captain answered.

"That relationship is dubious at best," The previously restrained Bashir said. All heads turned to the psychiatrist. He seemed to visibly swell as he went into full lecture mode. "My analysis of the Romulans suggests that they retained the worst traits of their ancestors: Extremes of passion coupled with an arrogance in their own superiority. Culling through migration may explain why present day Romulans aren't as savage as Vulcans have said that their ancestors were. But," he said in an ominous tone. "They show a pattern of violence that has been incorporated into their society. I can sum it up by employing the aphorism: They play to win."

"Why are they looking to the Vulcans then?" Cromwell asked his staff.

"It has become part of the mythos of their society," Dieulafoy spoke up in a voice that plainly betrayed his nervousness. "Do one degree or another. Commander Aranel," the archeologist said meaning the former commander of the Romulan derelict, "was an ardent believer in reunification bringing about a change for the better in both societies. Peaceful reunification," Dieulafoy said sharply.

"But many a war was started over past glories," Bashir added; "a greater Germany and Islamic fundamentalism from our history, the Tellarite Hordes and the Andorian nation of Talimon from the histories of our allies. In each case events from the past were inflated and used to rally people for this or that cause."

"Reunification is held by some Romulans to be a peaceful bonding with their Vulcan brothers," Dieulafoy said. The Frenchman looked with some concern on his face, at Picard.

"I am sorry all," Picard looked around as if seeing everyone for the first time. "There are two groups, Marcel—Lieutenant Dieulafoy mentioned one." The mathematician seemed to have recovered fully from her fugue. "I restored some of their Commander's journal from what was left of their databanks."

"Aranel believed; privately," Dieulafoy explained; "that reunification would occur peacefully. He believed that after peaceful contact with the Vulcans that their sundered relatives would of course see the logic of rejoining the descendents of their cast out relatives. The commander believed that Romulans had much to learn from the Vulcans."

"But publicly his opinion was different," Picard said as she took up the explanation. "He endorsed the war before his crew; including reunification at any costs rather the Vulcans wanted that or not."

"It seems as if we are dealing with two camps here," Cromwell nodded and said.

"More or less," Bashir agreed. "Aranel believed that the intelligence arm of their military was promoting the war as a way to gain control over their Senate. It seems that internally the empire has had several setbacks in recent times including overextending themselves in the conquest of the Zeta Reticuli aliens and repeated uprisings by the Remans."

"There seems to have been some internal dissension as noted from Aranel's private journal," Picard said.

"A power vacuum of sorts," Bashir supplied. "The Senate blamed the Praetor and the Praetor in turn faulted the Senate. In the meantime it appears that the Tal Shiar moved in."

"Aranel wrote a passage in his private journal suggesting that Karzai was no longer in control," Dieulafoy added. "That another power was ruling from behind the throne."

"I can only hope our people at home can make use of this information," Cromwell said thoughtfully. "The fact that our enemy is suffering from internal division is in and of itself more than we've known since this whole thing started."

Cromwell paused as he marshaled his thoughts; finally he said: "The official story is that we encountered the Romulan Sabinus. Their crew had managed to evacuate after the craft was hit by a plasmonic discharge. Some may have been recovered: That could explain the arrival of the searchers. Apparently the Romulans had the corpses of a few dead Vulcans aboard; no doubt captured off of the few Vulcan freighters that went missing in fifty-five. No indication of what the Romulans look like besides that they were bipedal; which we already knew. The databanks were mostly destroyed by the electromagnetic pulse from the discharge."

"That will cover most everything," Schultheiss said. "A few of the crew may still have guessed about things though Olly."

"So what?" the captain replied. "If we or any of the allies release this information then the point is moot. If it remains secret I imagine that other fantastical stories will be disseminated to cover the truth." Michael smiled broadly as he added, "Think about it: some people believe that Colonel Green's consciousness was downloaded into a computer; or that Khan Singh was frozen and exiled on a spaceship. Perhaps these Romulans are shape shifters who can assume any form. There! That is a story that could be spread about."

Cromwell hated the idea of lying to his crew but there was little else he could do. This mission had been a covert mission to gather intelligence on their enemy: That they had done. But intelligence had little value when it was leaked to all he knew. For better or worse the information had to remain under wraps until they returned. There seemed little left to talk about so Cromwell dismissed his people. He was not surprised that Schultheiss had stayed behind.

"I have also altered Crosby's official medical record," she said as she got up and paced about the conference room. She stopped near a wall to study a picture of the Charybdis that hung proudly illuminated in the briefing room.

"Thank you Trudy," Cromwell replied. "Whatever his sins he has more than paid for them with his final act. He saved us all." Cromwell got up and walked over to stand next to his chief medical officer.

"We've lost something with all of this technology," the captain said as he looked at the painting of the old spacecraft. "Those men and woman went out with no warp drive or artificial gravity or protein resequencers. We've never even found debris after all of this time. It is not like the craft could have gotten far." Cromwell sighed. "One of those mysteries that will never be solved I suppose."

"Have you changed his performance record as well?" the doctor asked as she pressed up against Cromwell. He put his right arm around her shoulders.

"I entered a commendation into his personnel jacket," Cromwell answered.

"Next stop Ross 128," Trudy stated. At Cromwell's nod she continued. "That is well as the food situation is not good. We are at half rations now and even with the Romulan foodstuffs and the hydroponics we effectively run out in two months."

"Hopefully we won't be another Charybdis," Cromwell said. "We have accomplished half of our mission. Now we need only get back."

"I know that you will lead us back Olly," Schultheiss said as she reached up and gave his artificial hand a squeeze. "But in case you are losing sleep over things I have this," she added as she stepped away from him and reached into one of the deep pockets of her smock. She handed him a book.

He took the worn, dog-eared old paperback and examined the cover. Cromwell was an avid reader who still preferred the feel of a real book in his hand instead of the impersonality of a computer monitor. He had complained to Trudy several days ago that he had gone through the small number of paper books that were circulating through Daedelus. "Hotel Royale," he said as he recited the title. "Sounds interesting," he concluded.

"Wait till you have a restless night Olly," she said as she was leaving. "That will put you asleep quicker than anything in my pharmacy."

Hell's Canyon, Lewistown, Idaho, the old United States, Oct 2157

The view was a majestic one for sure. Frank McCoy had been out among the stars and yet he had been moved more by sights that he had seen on his own world. The ancient canyon had been carved out over the years by the Snake River. McCoy marveled to see the first rays of the morning sun sent shimmering off of the mighty river. The officer welcomed the sun for other reasons as well: The Idaho October brought a chill to the air that had not yet reached Virginia and Maryland. McCoy felt a sense of melancholy as he had a fleeting wish that Eileen could share in this grand view with him.

McCoy exhaled a steamy breath as he caught sight of his partner. Brack stepped out from the shadow of a tall pine. He shot McCoy a quick glance then resumed his surveillance of the old Snake River Complex. McCoy wondered what the man saw: The only things visible to Frank were the winding dirt road that led to the facility and the small surface building where one would conceivably descend to the old missile control room and silo below.

"I expect that our quarry is watching this entire area," Brack said in greeting. The industrialist turned agent had his back to McCoy. "There are hikers in the woods, so I hope that they take us for woodland tourists; if they even see us at all." McCoy could see Brack's exhaled breath as the latter resumed. "We can perhaps approach the fence line from below. The land rises of course but it is particularly steep near the western end. I remember that the hills contour enough to offer protection from aerial surveillance. This land really has not changed much."

"You mean since the Lewis and Clark expedition?" McCoy asked. "You wouldn't by any chance have been part of that?"

"You have spoken to your admiral about me?" Brack replied with a chuckle. He turned to face McCoy. "Actually I still lived in England at the time. I didn't return to America until the 1830's; in the company of Alexis de Tocqueville." Brack sighed. "What would you have thought if I told you when we met in Oklahoma?"

"I would have thought that you were crazy," McCoy replied with conviction. McCoy paused a long time before asking his next question. Maybe he didn't want to hear the answer he thought. "Tell me about Chrysalis?" McCoy asked, too late now he knew. It crossed Frank's mind to ask Brack his age; his true age. But that was not what had been on McCoy's mind since Admiral Soames revelations concerning Brack had been brought to his attention.

"I never funded the project for its historical conclusion," Brack answered. A pained expression crossed Brack's face that almost sent McCoy reeling. "The late twentieth century was a time of change. On the one hand man stood at the door of nuclear annihilation, on the other he had the chance to grow. I believed that Chrysalis offered a chance for man to continue even after an atomic exchange."

"You almost guaranteed that happening," McCoy retorted. The augments had pushed the world to the brink of war. Historians including McCoy had speculated that man; the men of that time would have been unable to survive the aftermath.

"I believed that a stronger improved race of men could survive a nuclear war," Brack explained. "The augments were meant, by me, to be a vanguard of helpers to assist mankind. They would be teachers and doctors and scientists. Their DNA would slowly be assimilated into normal men hopefully improving the breed both physically and mentally." Brack laughed sardonically before continuing. "I must admit that I hoped a longer lived race of man would evolve out of the project as well."

"Longer lived companions for you eh?" McCoy asked.

"Grant an old man; a very old man his foolishness Frank," Brack shot back. "I wake up almost every night thinking about that mistake. Don't you think I feel remorse over what I did?" he asked. "I was too much of a coward to end my life—but I wanted to; many times. I've spent the two hundred plus years trying to fix that error Frank. Your admiral is very resourceful; even Thorpe's people were unable to uncover my connection to Chrysalis."

"Is that why you hate them so much?" Frank asked; avoiding Brack's attempt to change the subject.

"That is simplistic Frank," Brack answered. His voice held an undercurrent of bitterness. "If you helped to turn loose something that nearly destroyed everything and everyone you held dear would you sit idly by and let that thing out again?" Brack continued as he cooled somewhat. "You were right Frank: Some of the augments have consciences. But those were very few. I can't afford to sort out the good from the bad, Frank. Besides; do you think that any augment willingly helping the Romulans have our best interests at heart?"

"I suppose there is that," Frank answered. He was somewhat mollified by that particular fact. It still did not assuage his conscience though. McCoy still had nightmares about Brack's torture of Aubrey Tate. The man may have been misguided but McCoy thought that the unfortunate Tate could have been made to see another point of view. Frank was aware that Brack was discussing his plan to enter the old missile base.

"I think I have that covered," McCoy interjected. Frank really didn't want to make an uncertain ascent up the heavily wooded ridges. Especially when they could be detected: McCoy was no foot soldier and he had no illusions about their chances against armed genetically enhanced human beings in a woodland firefight. McCoy explained his scheme to Brack.

"It has enough gall to succeed," Brack replied after apparently mulling the idea over in his head. McCoy had been sure that his long-lived partner would reject the idea. "Let's get on with this then."

McCoy led the way back to his ground vehicle. He was glad that they were not going to pursue Brack's plan as McCoy was already huffing and puffing despite the short climb back up to the road. He chuckled as he heard Brack's exclamation at the sight of McCoy's transportation.

"I decided before you think of a way to use that matter zapper again that I'd try finding something better," McCoy said. "I figured even augments have to eat; not sure about birdies but as far as I know Khan and Li Quan needed food just like regular people."

"Anyway, the old boy running this catering service just happened to have his delivery people quit," McCoy said, continuing his explanation. "They went into the navy," McCoy could still not get used to the term Star Fleet. Ever since he had heard it he had thought that it sounded like a contrivance from a really bad science fiction novel. "He was a little doubtful but I told him I was medically retired from the service; was looking to settle down here and was just looking around for something to occupy my time. Here," McCoy finished by handing Brack a small box. He got into the transport.

"You cannot be serious," Brack said as he seated himself in the passenger compartment. Micah held the fake moustache out before him.

"Look Brack," McCoy replied as he engaged the transport's engine and maneuvered the hauler out onto the road. "So far we've used all of these technical gadgets and the end result was that we got in trouble each time. Now I'm just an old country boy who ran off and joined the navy but I've always found that the simplest solutions are the best."

"In case you forgot we planned to get in and blow up this place," Brack replied. "I can't think of much more trouble than that."

"But this time we are going in and getting out before the fireworks start," McCoy argued. "And no matter zapping either; if you comes to that go right ahead: I'll catch the next car."

"Even if it comes down to life or death?" his partner asked in reply.

"I'm still not sure that I'm alive from the last time," McCoy answered in a grim tone. "I've been asking myself: Am I Frank McCoy or some kind of technological ghost of McCoy?"

"You over-think things too much my friend," Brack said. McCoy glanced over to see the false facial hair in place below Brack's nose. "It's a good match," Brack said as he looked at himself in the hauler's rearview mirror.

"Eileen belongs to a theatre group," McCoy answered conversationally. "She dragged me along a few times and I picked up some behind the stage tips." McCoy had happy memories of those times. His unexpected relationship with Thomas had opened a whole new world for him: One that McCoy had thought that he would never experience after his divorce from Helen. His happiness was short-lived however as he wondered again what would happen to the two of them when all of this was over.

"Have you thought about the end of all of this?" Brack asked him pointedly. It was like he was telepathic as well as seemingly immortal Frank groused. McCoy knew that Brack meant him and Eileen.

"I don't like to," McCoy answered as he swung the vehicle onto the main road and put the transport under local control. He turned to the task of applying his newly acquired beard and moustache. McCoy had obtained a set of brown contact lenses for his eyes. He had reasoned that if anyone would be recognized it would be he, McCoy and not Brack. McCoy had tried speaking to two of the augments in the Mildenhall pub. McCoy thought that there must have been a Murphy somewhere in his past as that luckless individual's law seemed to apply to Frank all of the time.

"Perhaps she will forget her political affiliation if earth wins this war," Brack said. He was trying to placate McCoy and Frank knew it. McCoy held the same hope but somehow he knew differently: Eileen was grounded in her beliefs. It had been one of her appealing qualities. He realized that Micah was talking again. "You'll have to watch out for her Frank. Sooner or later the Romulans are going to realize where the leak is from."

"I am supposed to go to Catoctin the day after tomorrow," McCoy answered. "I am to start coordinating the protests then."

"And it follows that when we stop them from disrupting earth communication's facility that they won't be long in figuring out who had that information," Brack said. "I've seen it before: There will be a house cleaning of all possible moles."

McCoy was silent. Brack's assessment had hit home too close too home. He was exactly right Frank knew. He had been agonizing over that possibility ever since he and Thomas' last meeting with the mysterious Loch and company.

"You're pretty optimistic that we'll succeed at doing all of this?" Frank said as he avoided answering Brack's last comments. He didn't know how he would protect Eileen. But he realized at that moment that he would do whatever it took. McCoy looked in the mirror and seen that he had done a neat job of applying his disguise. He looked over at Micah silently seeking his partner's judgment.

"I hardly recognize you myself," Brack said caustically. "Yes I believe we will win. You never asked how old I am Frank. I won't tell you my chronological age but I'll say this: I'm old enough to have seen man win out against impossible odds before. We'll win here as well."

McCoy looked up as they approached the entrance to the Snake River facility. An ancient rusting chain link fence ran the length of the highway marking the outskirts of the old United States' missile facility. A fading Air Force Space Command shield was emblazoned upon a rusting metal sign. Part of the sign was scorched leading Frank to wonder if it had been burnt in the fireball from the nuclear blast that had hit this area. He also wondered why some history aficionado not unlike himself hadn't snatched the ancient relic. He resumed manual control as he departed the prepared surface and turned the car onto the foot of the steep mountain road.

"Okay here is the story," McCoy said then proceeded to explain to Brack their new employer's name and business. He needed the two to be on the same sheet of music. Brack not only realized that but started providing details that McCoy had not even thought about.

"Chances are that they are using a new reactor," Brack said. "Most of the fusion plants were ripped out of these babies during the Horrors." Frank knew that if they had a chance to finish off the installation blowing the reactor was one option open to them. He was not surprised that Brack understood that as well.

"You survived that?" he asked then added hastily. "Of course you survived that. I mean…" McCoy trailed off weakly.

"The Post Atomic Horrors?" his partner answered. "Let's just say that the Black Plague was a mild cold in comparison. But man survived that. Those are the things that give me hope, Frank."

"Then here's to hoping for the best," McCoy concluded as the transport drew up to the heavily guarded entrance. A short powerfully built young man, almost a teen McCoy reckoned walked up to the driver's window of the hauler.

"I do not recognize you," the youth said as he eyed the Shaw's Café sign plastered on the cargo box of the transport. "Where are the regular delivery people?"

"In the navy," McCoy answered. "We are recent hires. You can call Mister Shaw if you aren't sure about us." Frank could not miss the flechette firing Taurus assault rifle that was slung over the guard's shoulder. The rifle, first deployed over a century ago now could kill just as effectively as any laser could McCoy knew. McCoy made motions to hand the armed tough his phone. He started fumbling through his belongings and in the hauler's up front storage bins. McCoy breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw the burly guard eye his chronometer.

"Very well," the guard said. He was literally dripping with contempt. "Just drop off your slop. Your employer made sure that you understood that you would unload?"

"Just inside right?" he asked. Matthew Shaw had told McCoy that he would have to unload and take the food into the kitchen area located in the underground base. The youth angrily told McCoy that he, McCoy have would take the goods underground.

"You mean there is really an underground bunker here?" Brack asked in a cornpone voice that even made the southern American McCoy wince. "Can we look around?" Brack turned to Frank. "Just think there may be a piece of the Phoenix down there or something!"

"Just shut up and deliver your garbage!" the guard was practically seething.

McCoy and Brack got out and unloaded the vehicle making several trips back and forth between the outer building and the hauler. When they had secured their delivery onto a freight lift they boarded the same lift after being told that another guard would greet them below. The doors of the lift closed and McCoy felt the contents of his stomach rise as the life dropped suddenly.

The lift doors parted seconds later presenting Frank with the image of a petite young Asian woman; petite but every bit as dangerous looking as the guard on the surface. She hooked her thumb over her shoulder indicating that McCoy and Brack should follow her. They pushed the heavily laden dolly through the concrete lined tunnels of the base.

"This here place is down deep," Brack said in his thick hayseed accent. "I bet you get big rats down here ma'am?" he asked the woman who was obviously growing annoyed. McCoy wondered that these augments, if the woman was indeed that, had conquered anything given an apparent attention span of a cocker spaniel and the temper of a small child. Brack was looking around at everything. McCoy was distressed at his partner's overly thorough examination of the complex until he realized that it was in character with the part he was playing.

"Sure is a lot of room down here," McCoy added as he gawked. He supposed that the conduit he observed were power feeder lines. He realized that an installation like this would have multiple backups. Still it seemed that the lines ran down until they met at a central corridor. McCoy would have guessed that the small reactor was housed somewhere down there. The Asian woman grunted when they arrived before a door marked pantry. The two guided the heavy dolly into the room.

McCoy turned to see Brack about to smash the woman in the back of her head with a can of fruit. That was until Brack lurched forward with a look of surprise on his face. McCoy didn't even see the Asian woman move but realized as he was falling to the floor that she had clubbed him with the butt of her rifle. His vision started fading to black as voices intruded onto his nightmare.

"Well, well our loyal Mister McCoy," the man whom Frank had spoken to in England said as he swam into Frank's narrowing field of vision. McCoy saw the blonde man who had been at Loch's side; Perrin was the man's name Frank remembered. The Indian spoke to Perrin in a language unknown to Frank. McCoy wondered if he had just not heard the birdies' native language as he fought to stay conscious. He failed.

Taskforces 25 & 33, outbound from Alpha Centauri, Oct. 2157

Grizzly Oulette had managed to send a brief poignant message home. Taskforce 25 had been ordered to rearm and make repairs at Centauri instead of their planned return to earth. So a brief message on subspace was all of earth that he or any of the crew got to see. Christa Witmer was spending much of her free time with his parents and Katy. The commodore actually was getting the "married feeling" that his friend and ex first officer Leonard Zimmermann had told him about so many times. But for once he really cared about getting back to earth: There was someone there expecting him. His crew had been disappointed as well by the Taskforce's orders to remain out.

But the Vulcan-Andorian situation was untenable. Oulette's confidential dispatches had warned that it was only a matter of time before the border crisis ended in outright war. Oulette had received reports of Vulcan ships crewed by the members of the Syrranite group. Those few, according to Grizzly's reading, had chosen not to fight; some of those crews had scuttled their vessels while others had been observed making their way away from the alpha and beta quadrants towards regions of the galaxy yet explored.

Oulette sat back in his command chair and looked around the dimly lighted bridge of the Fearless. Talas occupied the operations' station. Lt. Cmdr. Sutton was off shift. Oulette wished that the couple would've had time at earth. He wondered how his operations' officer's quite human parents would take to Sutton's blue-skinned love. The commodore did not disapprove of such things: He supposed that it would be the wave of the future. Oulette briefly wondered what the humans of five hundred years hence would be like. One thing he knew: Pierre Oulette would not live to see that. The bridge entry door opened admitting Lt. Sylvia Moran.

"I've rechecked the extra missiles sir," Moran said as she moved to stand beside Oulette's chair.

Grizzly merely nodded at the report. The commodore had assigned the gunnery officer the task of ensuring that the extra Grand Slams they had taken aboard were fully functional. It was not hard for Oulette to figure out Star Fleet Command's strategy: If the Vulcans started shooting it was obvious that Forrest planned a quick, decisive bombardment of Vulcan. Oulette shuddered inwardly as he thought of the rain of death that the one hundred megaton orbit-to-ground weapons would cause. But that would effectively put the Vulcans out of the war save for stragglers from the High Command fleet, Pierre had to admit.

"Who could have imagined that it would come to this?" his Andorian first officer proclaimed. "But then again it is no surprise: V'Las was an agitator during our last conflict with the pointies."

"I hope it does not come to that," Oulette countered. "I am no great lover of the Vulcans but nor do I wish to command the instrument of their destruction."

"Their system is highly defended sir," Talas said. "It may be our part to fight our way there only to be destroyed."

"You are a ray of sunshine Talas," Oulette said in a slightly sarcastic voice. "No, I supposed that I always believed that the Vulcans were our partners," he explained assuming a more serious tone. "Nothing against your people Talas; it is that for us the Vulcans' were our first encounter with another species other than our own."

"They seem to be following the will of this V'Las despite the actions of these few Syrranites," Talas said.

"Agreed," Oulette replied simply. He supposed that was his rationale for what he might have to do: Troubling regimes only stayed in power when a majority of the people desired them to do so. Pierre prayed that the Vulcans would act to change the course of their government. He was brought out of his troubled musings by his communications' officer.

"I'm receiving a coded message from Agincourt sir," Ensign Peter Wilson said. Oulette watched as the ensign's hands flew over his panel. He knew that Wilson was verifying and decoding the message.

Oulette got up and pulled the paper copy out of Wilson's terminal. He seldom preferred being one to have things brought to him; and he was anxious to see what his old friend Zimmermann had to say. He missed Len's wisdom and good humor. Talas was a true taskmaster and had been readily accepted by the rest of the crew both human and alien. But she definitely had a style that was all her own Oulette mused. Pierre read through the two pages of small single spaced script and reviewed the small chart that was imbedded in the communiqué.

"Tabernac!" he exclaimed as he finished the first page. Oulette started on the second page. "Talas get with Lt. Guerrero; calculate how much time a course deviation that would take us," the commodore paused as he did some mental arithmetic of his own: "Five AU's outside of the orbit of Wolf 359's outermost planet." He announced the contents of Zimmermann's message:

"Taskforce 17 is currently following a large groups of ships; probably Romulan. They are on a course for Wolf 359 although they could deviate and make a move beyond Wolf."

"Or a feint so that the Vulcan Fleet can attack Andor," Talas proclaimed. The Andorian had been leaning over the helmsman's seat engaged in a quiet conference with Guerrero.

"We cannot assume that there is an alliance there," Oulette argued. "Not yet anyway," he conceded.

"That will put us just over three days off of our expected rendezvous time," Guerrero said. "Just outside of Hell's Gate," the navigator added.

"I'll not leave our leave our forces guarding the border that long," Oulette declared. "Ensign Wilson, raise the Trafalgar; voice and video."

"Channel open and scrambled sir," the ensign reported seconds later. Oulette was greeted by the sight of his friend Xavier Valdez. The captain of the Trafalgar was holding sheets of paper in his hands.

"I have read the same message Grizz," Valdez said.

"I am going to swing by Wolf to investigate and bolster Stiles' taskforce if need be," Oulette explained. "I require you to part with the Randolph and Monterey," Pierre said referring to the carriers that had been attached to the greatly reduced Taskforce 33.

"They'll need an escort," Valdez answered. "I suppose that you plan on sending them ahead to the border?"

Oulette nodded back at his friend. "I'll dispatch the Navaga and Stingray to escort them. That will leave us with the Oriskany and Exeter for carriers."

"According to the mass readings this movement may contain over one hundred and fifty birdie ships," Valdez replied. "It won't be much of a fight even with our taskforces combined."

"If they hit Wolf we can muster behind the Hercules defense zones," Oulette countered. Pierre sighed. "I cannot say the outcome or what may happen. But we cannot abandon Wolf."

"I agree," Valdez sighed. "My engineer will be happy about the course change."

"Why is that?" the commodore asked.

"I'll explain sometime over a glass of singani," Valdez answered with a grin. "In the meantime I'll coordinate for the breakup of my carriers and the course change."

"Same here with the escorts," Oulette said. The commodore was thinking about the Bolivian liquor his friend had mentioned; another time hopefully he thought. "Let us say in thirty minutes then." Oulette added. He ordered the channel closed after his friend's answering nod.

Pierre started issuing the orders that would put his plan into motion. He resumed his seat thinking as he did so that in three days he might well be in combat again. He might be dead shortly thereafter he thought. The Romulans had been bottled up for some time now. Oulette wondered if time passed the same for the birdies. Were they long-lived beings like the Vulcans he wondered? He expected that they would find out one way or another.

Snake River Missile Complex, Idaho, the old United States, Oct 2157

McCoy was groggy. He was on his stomach and his hands were restrained behind him. At least he could see he thought. Frank was thankful for small things and given how bad this situation was sight was indeed a minor blessing. He rolled onto his side to come face to face with the twitching nose of a large rat. McCoy rolled away quickly slamming into something that felt like a large bag of potatoes. He spun around despite his restraints to see Micah Brack similarly tied.

"It's just a rat Frank," his partner said as if he were describing a cloud in the sky.

"Damn hairy rodents!" the intelligence officer cried. "How long have we been here?"

"I really didn't ask the maitre de for the time when he seated us," Brack answered caustically. Brack looked around as far as he was able then added in hushed voice: "Look Frank, no matter what happens; be ready."

"What do you mean?" he asked as a metallic squeal pierced the air. McCoy looked up across the floor to see a heavy metal door open. He looked up at the figures of the Asian woman and Loch.

"I have some questions for you Mister McCoy," Loch said. "We've long known that someone here was opposing us. Now I will determine who is helping you and have them removed."

"I'm not saying anything!" McCoy shouted angrily. It was an empty threat. McCoy knew that these people would use drugs to get him to say everything that they wanted to know. It occurred to him that he and Soames should have discussed some sort of suicide pill.

"I know that you understand what we will do to find answers," Loch said.

"Why don't you tell us about yourself," Brack interjected as he pulled himself painfully to a sitting position. Brack was rewarded by a kick from the Asian woman. Frank winced as he was sure that he had heard ribs breaking.

"Some restraint Leiko," Loch cautioned. He turned to Brack. "A person of your import should not be engaging in these kinds of theatrics Mister Brack. I know who you are. Your knowledge of engineering and shipbuilding will serve the empire well."

McCoy watched as Brack rolled onto his back and struggled up again. It was obvious that the Asian augment, Leiko, wanted to aim another kick at Brack. Frank wondered what Brack was up too. He had been working with the man long enough to know that Brack was at something. McCoy's world took a tumble just then as sure as if the artificial gravity in a spaceship was suddenly removed. Brack spoke to Loch in a language that McCoy had never heard before. Loch seemed equally surprised.

"How can you know that human?" Loch roared the question at the man resorting to English rather than the same language. This time it was Loch who moved to attack Brack. But no, McCoy realized it was not an assault; not quite Frank thought. Loch hauled up Brack to a standing position. "You speak the ancient tongue human," he said as the two faced each other. Loch's face practically touched Brack's.

McCoy heard Brack utter more words in the seemingly alien language. Loch seemed at first to grow angry; then softened somewhat. The head of Hansu replied in like kind to Brack. The two conversed in the unknown language until Loch, who had been growing angrier started to push Brack away.

Brack looked sidewise at McCoy then slammed his head forward. McCoy had a brief sickening feeling as he heard a sound like two wet logs hitting one another. Loch reeled back in pain. McCoy kicked his legs out trying to intercept Leiko. McCoy realized things were occurring in seconds and yet it seemed like minutes. Leiko easily danced away from McCoy's flailing feet. Brack had somehow got his arms out in front of him and was apparently trying to seize Loch by his neck. Frank had a fleeting thought that it looked like Brack was trying to pinch the neck of the chief of the Hansu Corporation.

The tiny Asian woman slammed into Brack pushing him away. Frank rolled into a shelving unit. He finally realized that they had been imprisoned in the pantry area. Frank hit the shelves solidly causing the entire unit to slam against the wall then totter forward. Loch turned on him as the shelves and their contents came crashing down onto Loch. McCoy took the final second to shove himself along the floor before he too would be pinned under the heavy shelves. He yelped in pain as he felt something tear along the flesh of his arm. There was a flash of red in the room. McCoy looked up to see that somehow Brack had gotten his bound hands around the Asian augment's throat. Incredibly McCoy gasped as he realized that Leiko was breaking Brack's hold on her.

McCoy was amazed to see his hands before him. One was covered in blood: That is where he must've gashed his hand. It was also the cut that had freed him. The augment's rifle went clattering along the floor finally resting near Frank's good hand. McCoy realized that it was the woman's first mistake that he had seen the enhanced woman make. He took the rifle up as Leiko reversed her situation with Brack. McCoy fired a round past the fighters' heads. The deadly rifle had only a slight report but its effects were anything but slight. Brack dropped to the floor. McCoy had no time to think as he squeezed the Taurus' trigger releasing a hail of small needle-like projectiles. Leiko's head vanished in a spray of red.

"Damn you Brack every place we go people end up dead!" he shouted.

"Keep your voice down Frank," Brack said calmly. Frank watched as his partner casually studied the headless corpse that had landed beside him. He reached down and pulled a knife from the formerly attractive Asian woman's boot. Brack made short work of his bonds. "I wonder where the other two are?" Brack asked.

"I think that we'll find out soon enough," McCoy answered. He handed the rifle to his partner. McCoy at the end of everything was no killer. He didn't know Leiko and he knew that she may well have killed Brack; if Brack could be killed Frank thought. Yet McCoy did not feel that it was his right to execute her.

"We should make for the power room," Brack said. "If we find anything between there and here we'll investigate; otherwise we move on and rig the reactor to blow."

Brack opened the heavy blast door carefully and peered down the darkened hallway. McCoy waited until Brack made a motion that it was safe. The two crept out into the hallway. McCoy pointed indicating the direction where he thought that the installation's power source lay in. Brack led the way slowly. There was a sound of one of the blast doors opening. Brack held up a clenched fist as the two slunk in the shadows of a support beam. Frank peered cautiously down the corridor to see the Indian woman in the company of the contemptuous looking blonde Perrin. McCoy stopped moving; he did not even breathe. He remembered the augments' senses. The pair preceded down an adjoining passageway much to McCoy's relief. Relief until he realized that was the direction in which he and Brack had to go. Brack turned around with a troubled look on his face. That expression changed as he looked past McCoy.

Brack once again led McCoy; this time in the direction opposite to the one they had been going along. McCoy jerked and looked around wildly as Brack ratcheted open a blast door on the opposite wall. Frank breathed a sigh of relief that no one was rushing towards the two men. McCoy followed Brack into some kind of mechanical room; or what he first took for some sort of equipment room until he looked up.

The two were standing in the bottom of the installation's missile launch tube. McCoy looked up to see three black tubes staring back at him. It took the naval officer a few seconds to realize that he was looking at the exhaust tubes of a small shuttle. The craft was unlike anything McCoy had seen before. But it did not look like the images recorded in the fuzzy videos taken of birdie shuttles he thought. Still, it occurred to Frank that he had seen the design before.

"A Vulcan boat," Frank remarked quietly. He remembered where he had seen the type of craft that now hung vertically suspended above them. "You know Micah I think it is time for you to explain some things to me. I may be a little slow on the uptake but once I get an idea in my head I don't let it go."

"I was hoping that the old missile fueling tanks had some juice left," Brack said as he walked over to two large metal double doors. Brack threw open the rusted doors revealing several manual valves. Frank doubted that those control devices had been turned in over a century. Brack started twisting frantically on one of those.

"No Micah not about rocket fuel or even how old you are," McCoy answered. He recalled the strange alien words that had come out of his partner's mouth less than half an hour ago.

"We don't have time," Brack shot back. "Can you rig something to put out a spark; on a time delay?"

McCoy studied a few of the old control panels. "Hell, from the looks of things it is a wonder these things haven't short-circuited ages ago," he said as he went to work tearing off the access panel of one of the control boards.

"There is leftover monoethylhydrazine in the tanks," Brack explained. "I'm venting it to the bottom of the silo. It should be enough to wipe out this whole installation. Try to rig your igniter for half an hour."

McCoy nearly jumped out of his skin and only narrowly avoided electrocuting himself when a loud klaxon sounded. Voices came over a PA system using the strange language that Brack had spoken to the now plasma consumed Loch. Frank guessed that they had been discovered. He found a dirty rag that he wrapped around his bleeding wrist. McCoy rushed through a rewiring that would have caused his navy technical school instructor to have a stroke.

"Done!" he told Brack.

"We'll take the silo's maintenance lift," Brack said. He walked over to where missile technicians of old boarded the lift to take them up to work on the higher portions of the weapon under their care.

"Or not," Frank said as Brack futilely pushed buttons on the lift's control panel. The rusted metal caged elevator didn't appear to be going anywhere.

"Looks like a climb," Brack said as he started up the maintenance ladder besides the track of the old lift. McCoy followed. He guessed that it was a good twenty-five meter climb up the exposed wall of the silo.

"At least this ship's boat should keep us covered," Frank said. He studied the pointie ship as the two of them climbed past it. That perusal kept McCoy balanced. His wrist was burning like fire and his head was swimming. Some spy he was McCoy thought as he paused to vomit down the silo. That saved his life as a small explosion followed by a crackling sound signaled a missed shot from a laser.

"No time to heave your guts!" his partner shouted as he fired a burst from the Taurus. McCoy had a quick sight of the Indian woman and Perrin. The two were retreating back into the doorway to one of the many maintenance walkways that were wrapped around the silo's interior.

McCoy's head felt like it was packed with cotton as he continued the climb. He wondered where they were going then realized that the main lift stopped at a few key locations in the installation. McCoy froze as he heard an incredibly loud hiss. The ladder above them exploded. Brack turned and fired. Frank turned to see sparks flying as the mini-flechettes tore up the walls below. The young gate guard who had fired the rocket or grenade at them moved at lightning speed but was unable to avoid being sliced into two by the high velocity needle projectiles. McCoy was sickened again when he saw the man's top half raise the grenade launcher again. Frank jumped to the nearest walkway as another grenade exploded above his head. Brack landed beside McCoy and cried out in pain then cursed. McCoy understood why when he saw the metal fragment jutting from the man's thigh.

"We'll get into a corridor here!" McCoy shouted.

No!" his partner retorted. "Board the shuttle."

"Are you crazy?" Frank asked. The two agents were near to the shuttle's airlock but Frank knew that he did not know how to fly a Vulcan machine. "I suppose you can fly that thing?" he asked. At this point nothing surprised McCoy when it came to Brack.

"We can't transport out of here," Brack explained hastily. "Not without having done an area scan and we came here with nothing."

"We'll leave with nothing too," McCoy countered. "If we live that is," he added gloomily.

McCoy remained unconvinced until the sizzling, crackling hit from another laser; this one fired from above; nearly decapitated him. He sprinted to the shuttle's tiny airlock door. Even the airlock door controls baffled him. Brack stepped up beside him and neatly pressed several of the studs. The airlock opened silently.

"I know that they are planning some kind of attack on the orbital communications' array as well as the ground control center," Brack supplied.

"I suppose that plasma boy told you?" McCoy asked dubiously as the two of them scrambled up the handholds of the normally horizontally situated shuttle to the cockpit.

Brack guffawed in an odd falsetto warbling sort of laugh. McCoy had heard it somewhere before: But it was something buried in Frank's memory. Or perhaps it was nothing he thought. McCoy doubted the man's sanity. But he was one hope Frank had of getting out of this technological hole. Frank pulled himself into the one of the seats. He couldn't remember if the Vulcans followed the human convention of pilot on the left side copilot on the right or not. Brack seemed to have no such trouble as he settled into a seat and after a brief look started hitting touchpads. The interior lights came up as did the lights of several of the instruments beneath their touchpad coverings. Brack absently tossed the rifle to McCoy.

"Logical to keep the same instrumentation," Frank heard him say as if to another, besides McCoy. A light flashed atop the flat console. Brack looked at it for a few seconds then pushed the pad beneath it.

"These would be our captors," he turned and told Frank.

"We know what you've did here McCoy," Frank recognized Perrin's voice. "What will dear Eileen think when she finds out?" his unseen tormentor asked.

Brack held up a warning finger as McCoy was about to reply. "This end has been muted," he advised Frank.

"We need to get out of here Micah!" Frank exclaimed. He watched as Brack continued entering commands into the ship's control panel.

"It has been twenty minutes," Brack said. "And we will get out of her—in this," he told Frank as he swept his hand around the shuttle's interior.

"We wish to leave," Brack said to the air in the cockpit after he punched a touchpad near where the blinking light had been.

"You may come up to the surface and join us Mister Brack," Perrin answered. "Bring your partner as well. You see we know that you flooded the floor of the silo with fuel. Very clever; but we have other plans in the works. We will live; and despite the destruction of this facility—we have others. If you and Mister McCoy stay down there you will die. I care little for your decision although we will find out who you work for after you have surrendered to us."

"That man is crazy," McCoy said quietly to Brack. Apparently not quietly enough Frank realized.

"Not at all Mister McCoy," Perrin said. "Stay in there and die. It is all the same to me. I will however have to have a discussion with Miss Thomas concerning her loyalties. Such interviews can be agonizingly long." Brack gripped Frank's forearm tightly and gave him a warning shake of his head. Perrin continued. "I do not wish to sound melodramatic. Even you, a human can understand the simple terms: Stay in the shuttle and die, knowing that your Eileen will die as well--slowly; or surrender to us."

"We'll come out," Brack said. "I can't allow Frank to go through that."

"Come out and take the lift to the surface," Perrin replied. "Doubtless you have placed a timed device. I suggest you leave before your time runs out."

"Twenty-three minutes," Brack told him. Frank noted that his strange associate had muted the conversation again.

"I'll give up," McCoy said. "You; you get away somehow—save Eileen," McCoy's voice cracked. All thoughts of his own danger vanished as thoughts of Perrin's veiled threats toward Eileen took shape in McCoy's mind. McCoy's head snapped to the side: Brack had slapped him a ringing blow.

"Don't be an idiot!" the immortal cried. He explained in a calmer tone. "Perrin will wring you out then do the same to your Eileen. We are going to get out of here—strap in!"

McCoy listlessly did as he was told. The shuttle lurched forward hard, taking Frank's breath as it did. He wondered if Brack had started the takeoff sequence then it occurred to him that the "cap", the protective covering sealing the business end of the installation had to be a fake. Still it was an obstruction to them taking off Frank realized. He looked out to see an image of hell.

Fire wreathed the shuttle as seen by Frank through the crystalline windows of the Vulcan ship. McCoy realized that the kick he had felt had come from a rear impact: The hydrazine being set off by the ship's thrusters Frank guessed. He was similarly knocked breathless as the shuttle lurched forward once again. This time to McCoy's horror it did not stop. He wondered for a second what it would be like to die in a collision when the vehicle broke through some sort of covering that was not the tons of permacrete that should have been used to cap an old missile silo.

McCoy marveled to see the clear night sky of Idaho briefly intermingled with the pyre that was consuming the birdie base. The Vulcan shuttle rose higher and Frank's stomach took a painful twist as Brack engaged the artificial gravity making it feel as if the floor had tilted ninety degrees. The shuttle climbed still higher seeking out its natural realm as the atmosphere slowly gave up its fight against space. McCoy looked at the blue sphere of the earth but its beauty was only fleeting to him.

"We'll be spotted by command sensor nets," He warned Brack.

"I think not," Brack answered. "This little beauty has some sort of stealth device. I would surmise that the hull is made of some exotic materials as well."

"Well it isn't like we are invisible behind some sort of cloak," McCoy spat out. He could see parts of the exterior surface of the shuttle.

"No but we can handle electromagnetics just fine," Brack said. "Good thing too; we will need this to get to Orbital Station One."

Brack explained how Loch had offhandedly let slip that his earthbound forces were planning what Loch had called "an attack in the sky". Micah had surmised that he could only mean the orbital control center for earth's communications to the rest of the galaxy.

"If they hit the ground center in Italy and Station One then that could isolate earth for days," Brack continued. "I'll bet they plan on hitting the military network at the Mars' Defense Perimeter. That would put us in the black for days; maybe weeks."

"How can we fight that?" McCoy asked incredulously.

"Can you get some sort of a warning to your admiral?" Brack asked.

"I suppose so," McCoy said reluctantly. Soames had cautioned him about contacting her. Still he supposed that if anyone could find a way to shake off someone following them and intercede at the foothills of the Italian Alps it would be the admiral. He told Brack that he guessed that had been his partner's plan. Brack nodded.

"The attack will be soon," Brack said. "You said the day after tomorrow is the date. I think we should lay low and head out to Station One after Friday then. Your admiral can be on her way to the Alps in the meantime. Subspace radio being what it is this plan is already in motion."

"Sounds good except that we are making a stop in Baltimore first," McCoy said.

"It is better for you to stay away…" Brack trailed off as Frank leveled the Taurus across his lap at his partner.

McCoy had no idea what he would tell Eileen. He was not fond of her politics but for better or worse he was in love with her. McCoy knew the revelation of what he was doing would end things for them in all likelihood. That thought seized his heart painfully. But Eileen had to live or McCoy knew that he could not.

"I don't know if you can be killed Micah," McCoy said. "But we'll see what happens if I blow your head off with this thing."

"You will crash in the shuttle is what will happen, still I will comply Frank," Micah answered. The man sighed. "Baltimore it is." Frank realized that Brack was doing what Brack wanted to do. There had been no fear from the man facing the muzzle of the assault rifle.

"And on the way down we need to talk Micah," McCoy said. "The whole enchilada, as my granddad used to say."

Taskforce 9, UES Valley Forge, near to Wolf 359, Oct 2157

Lt.Cmdr. William Walters pushed away another stack of data wafers. He looked wildly across the labels on some of them: Crew efficiency reports, anti matter packet storage updates, weekly disciplinary actions, parts' inventories by section, engineering area and importance. Walters had always assumed that with so many people, ships just took care of themselves. The Andorian Flu had taught him the hard truth about running a starship. This was the second week but things were looking better Bill thought.

Bill settled down as he reviewed the surgeon's; Lt. Cmdr. Stone's report again. The mysterious flu, transmitted from Andorian to human, mutated then retransmitted affecting both races the same: Chills and nausea followed by diarrhea, vomiting and sleeplessness. So far there had only been three deaths in the taskforce that could be attributed to the sickness which currently affected almost fifty percent of the taskforce's crew. The sickness Walters knew took people down long enough to wreck havoc on the operations of the taskforce; hence, Walters' presence in the office of Admiral Frank Buchanan, while the taskforce commander was currently heaving his stomach up in sickbay. Buchanan was joined by Captain Ramanujan and Lt. Cmdr. McCalister as well as the XO.

Bill was serving in the first officer's position with the operations' officer Lt. Cmdr. Arnaz taking on the role of captain. The Andorian operations' officer had also handed Walters some of the burdens of overall taskforce operation. It was those extra duties; Bill thought that would age him before his time. He seemed to spend hours reading reports. No Bill thought it did not seem that way; it was that way. At least someone in authority had ensured that the paper recyclers would provide adequate toilet paper for the human crew Walters thought. Bill turned to more pleasant musings for the moment.

Sharon Patelli was in the final stages of recovery from the flu. Walters wished that he could have been at her side but there was no way to effect a ship-to-ship transfer in warp. He had been relieved to hear her voice though she had looked and sounded to be near death. Walters wasn't sure what he felt for Sharon; but he wanted to see where things went. At least she was one who understood when Bill woke up screaming. Bill was considering opening a channel to Ticonderoga until Buchanan's door chime sounded. Walters' pushed a stud in the desktop control panel admitting the caller.

"The latest sick list sir," Lt. Carmella Howard declared as she extended a data wafer towards Walters. Bill thought that the red headed Scot looked like she was in the first stages of the flu then decided that she just looked tired. Howard plopped down in the seat across from Bill. Bill knew that Stone's assistant surgeon was not one to stand on ceremony. "The good news is that the first wave is recovering; Admiral Buchanan could be back on his feet in seventy-two hours or so."

"Let's hear the bad news Mel," Walters said; he had been told by the doctor herself that particular nickname was Howard's choice when being addressed. Bill rested his head in his hands and waited.

"Doctor Stone is down as of four hours ago," Howard started. She absently ran her hand through her thick head of curly red hair as she continued. "Arnaz came into sickbay five minutes ago and collapsed. We are pumping him full of fluids. He will live but is in no shape for command."

Just when Bill thought things could not get any worse. Walters nodded to the fatigued looking doctor as he inserted a wafer into Buchanan's terminal and brought up the taskforce personnel report. Bill knew the answer already, he and Arnaz had already done the research.

"No need to transfer the flag at least," Walters declared. At twenty-five years of age previous marine private found that he took the news that he was now in command of the lives of just over seven thousand eight-hundred people pretty well.

"Any new orders sir?" the doctor asked playfully.

"Very funny Mel," Walters retorted. "No, we'll proceed as the admiral ordered before he got sick: On course to Wolf until we are back up to full strength. How about you? Are you anywhere close to some kind of a cure or inoculation?"

"Believe it or not—yes," the doctor answered. "I stopped looking at the genetic differences of those of us not affected," she explained meaning among others herself and Walters. "Instead I concentrated on what we have all been exposed to lately."

"That was why you sent that survey out?" Walters asked pointedly. Bill had been annoyed at being questioned on where he had been and what he had eaten lately. Nonetheless he had complied with Howard's request.

"Except for a tenth of a percent each of us not affected ate, among other things Andorian elberons," the redhead proclaimed as if the light should come on for Walters.

"Those flower things in the salad?" Bill asked. He had tried those and was neutral toward them; at least as far as the taste was concerned.

She nodded. "Now as to rather they are causative in and of themselves or because of a reaction I don't know—yet," the doctor said. "Early tests in blood samples showed that the plants leave an enzyme that renders the sample resistant to the strain. I don't know if they will be a cure or just a preventative agent." Walters was about to answer when Howard concluded: "I'm doing a series of injections this afternoon. I'll tell you more then."

"A flower huh?" Bill asked. "Sounds like you ought to go in for botany doctor."

"I like poking people with needles too much," Howard answered with a grin on her lips. "My sister is the botanist; she has a green thumb."

"Is she back on earth or…." Walters let the question linger. These days many people had relatives in the service. And many people had relatives who had perished in the service Walters knew all too painfully.

"Yes," the doctor answered, "someone has to keep the Howard family candle." She smiled at Bill's puzzlement. "It is just a family heirloom. I almost got it until I took a deep space assignment. I guess in another life I'd be home chasing kids and dusting off the candle along with a hundred other knick-knacks."

"In another life," Bill started then stopped. He had no idea about another life besides the one he was leading now. He could no longer see himself as a moon shuttle pilot; following in his dad's footsteps. Had Misty Johannsen not been reduced to radioactive ash and Walters ever had the courage to speak to her would he be a farmer on Deneva now he asked himself? He was aware that the pretty doctor was waiting for him to speak. "I suppose that this is my life."

"You know that," Howard hesitated before continuing. Walters could tell that she was uncomfortable. "You know that in all likelihood a lot of you who were brevetted through the ranks will revert back to what you were."

"You mean I can be a private again?" Walters asked with a grin. "Except for those red shirts I wouldn't have a problem with that. I always knew after this thing started that I was here for the moment." Bill leaned back in Buchanan's desk chair and sighed. "I'm betting after this thing is over the exploration crowd will be running the show."

"They'll still need people who can fight," Howard said. "If this war proved anything it is that there are things out here that might want to kill us."

"I never figured you for the militaristic type doctor," Walters countered. The intercom buzzed at that moment.

"This is the CAG," Bill said after punching the reply stud.

"We are picking up a sensor return at extreme range," Ensign Warner Schoener reported. Walters could detect the uncertainty in the German's voice. Truthfully Bill would rather have posted Chief Edward O'Brien to the operations' position. But O'Brien had refused the temporary bump insisting that he would never work again after being exposed to so many officers. Schoener was doing a good job Bill knew; and the ensign had to learn to fly sometime. Besides, Walters knew that O'Brien was holding engineering together: The Irishman always had been Bill thought.

Walters looked at Howard. "I'm headed up; probably nothing," he said apologetically.

"I'll find you a cure before we put into Terra Nova sir," the doctor declared as she sprang up. Walters rose as well. The doctor's freckled faces had been a welcome sight; as well as were her nicely curving set of hips Bill thought.

"Keep me posted doctor," Bill said as he followed her out of his office. He split from her seconds later and boarded the lift for the Valley Forge's bridge. He exited that and after a short jaunt down the main access way entered the Forge's bridge.

Schoener fairly leaped out of the command chair. Walters understood the man's attitude given that Schoener had only just been a cadet at Heidelberg less than six months ago. Bill understood it but did not like it. But, Walters thought, the ensign would learn to lighten up soon enough. Life on starship dictated that Bill knew. He assumed the seat after casting a casual smile towards the ensign. Let him know he is doing a good job Bill said to himself. It was hard to believe that Schoener was only three years younger than himself.

"Report," Bill said as he studied the tactical display on the viewer.

"Stellar cartography was studying what would happen if they bounced subspace sensors off of interstellar bodies," Schoener explained. "Hell's Gate in particular sir," Schoener said as he pointed at the viewer. "They got that on the return sir."

That, Bill observed was a group of nebulous power signatures moving at warp speed. The intruders were on the opposite of the mass of ionized stellar gas. The sensor trick must have doubled their range. Walters looked at the readout and, much to his discomfort realized that the blobs as he called them were cruising at a speed known to be used by birdies for long cruises. He did some quick calculations in his head and realized that the unknowns were on a course for Wolf and would be there in about a day; and so would the taskforce.

"Goddamn," Walters swore softly under his breath. Taskforce 9 was outgunned even with the support of the Iron Maiden's force. That and Walters' people were sick. The plan had been to get to Terra Nova and bring some doctors up from Walston. The plan had never been to try to fight against superior odds with a crew decimated by illness.

"Shall I call Star Fleet sir?" Schoener asked meekly.

"What for?" he replied. As far as Walters knew, he was Star Fleet in this area right now. Walters mind raced as he reviewed the number of Minotaur crews that he could put in space. He wondered what Buchanan would do, then he said: "Helm, on my mark alter heading for the center of Hell's Gate and accelerate to warp 3.2."

"Aye sir," Chief Anders Rudolph replied, "course laid in; standing by to engage."

"Ensign Schoener," Walters turned to the ensign who seemed to be unsure of what to do next. Well Bill thought, the man would have a purpose soon enough. "Coordinate with the taskforce and have them follow us on my mark."

"Aye-aye sir!" the German cried. He moved quickly now that he had orders.

"We should come to IP with the unknowns in twenty-one hours Cap—Lieutenant Commander Walters," Rudolph said. "A good thing the pointy heads in sciences were poking around sir," the chief added using the common moniker for the scientific staff.

Yes Bill thought; it had been good. Walters wondered what sort of science degree he would get if he were allowed to go to this Star Fleet Academy. Maybe the future belonged to the explorers but an explorer who knew how to shoot might come in handy he thought.

"Should we notify Taskforce 18 of our sighting," Schoener asked.

"Negative," Walters replied. He had considered that first thing but he knew any subspace message, coded or not would betray nine's presence to whoever was approaching Wolf. Right now there was an element of surprise. And Walters knew that any advanced warning right now would not save a single civilian on the planet. The unknowns were just too close and Walters knew that there were not enough ships to evacuate Wolf.

"The taskforce is standing by sir," Schoener interjected; intruding into Walters' revelries.

"Very good first officer," Schoener visibly swelled at the title. "Engage," Walters said without ceremony.


	17. Chapter 17

Sondrio, Province of Sondrio, Lombardy region of Italy, earth, Oct 2157

Piz Bernina sat majestically against a pale blue sky. The eastern end of the mighty Alps was dominated by Bernina which sat mostly in old Switzerland. Admiral Erica Soames would normally have enjoyed the view and welcomed a chance to explore this part of the European Hegemony. But she was not here to enjoy scenic vistas. Soames believed that she had shook off her would be pursuer.

Erica laughed at her apparent display of what ancient Americans and her mother called "ditziness". She had realized, somewhat conveniently that the Auckland shuttle was not the one she had wanted. The man and woman who she guessed had been assigned to her had moved to pursue her. Unfortunately that had occurred at the same time as the entry of a large group of teenagers who were perhaps on a school field trip. Erica hadn't cared what their plans were or who they were as she sprinted past them just as the students had filled the boarding tube. Her pursuers had probably had an interesting time getting past the crowd of youngsters Erica thought chuckling.

Soames had retained her ticket then sent her luggage merrily on its way back to Virginia while she had used another ticket; purchased under another identity, to board the Hegemony express shuttle. The admiral was regretting sending McCoy out for field work. She realized that there was an air of fun to all of this. She wondered if the agents had finally traced her luggage back to her Virginia apartment. They would be mystified at her change of travel plans but people changed plans all of the time. If the president wanted to pry she need only remind him that she was an attractive single woman who enjoyed her free time.

But then again despite the sense of adventure Soames was faced with a hard reality: Now that she was here, how was she to stop the sabotage of earth's ground based communications? There should be more locations but the site at the foot of Piz Bernina was the first one to be built after the last world war. After First Contact the need to build nodes to survive war and natural disaster had not seemed as important. Decentralization was in progress now but it had been placed behind building ships and training fleet personnel.

She looked in the vanity mirror that was in the small room she had rented. This was the second room that she had rented in Sondrio and not under the name of "Admiral Erica Soames". Soames stuck out her tongue at the heavily made up blonde who stared back at her from the mirror. Friends would recognize doubtless; and wonder what on earth she was thinking to be dressed up that way. The hair and makeup served the twofold purpose of further throwing off pursuit and also she planned on trying to contact one Marlin Killian.

Soames got up and threw on a warm cape. She was adorned in tight slacks and a revealing blouse. She would have preferred something tawdrier; but she realized that she might have to be active to accomplish her goals. Soames only hoped that the disgruntled Mister Killian preferred women. McCoy's report had not indicated anything to the contrary: McCoy however had been feeling out Killian's political convictions and not his sexual preferences. If that turned out to be the case; well Erica remembered the advice of an old Royal Air Force flight instructor who had once told her that even when she didn't know something she still should maintain an illusion of competence. Soames would find a way to sidle up to Killian: She had too. Erica departed her room; she didn't expect to see it again. Next stop Switzerland and the Diavolezza Pass she thought. She stepped into the street where a small cab was waiting for her.

Erica would have preferred to rent a vehicle but she was in no position to erase spending traces at the moment; besides public transportation further muddled her trail. She silently handed the driver a card with her destination. The driver, who was a little older than Soames; attempted to make small talk with her. Flirting was more like it she thought; Erica feigned ignorance of the language although the driver was pleasant to look at she mused. Soames instead studied the contents of her fashionable purse. She was glad that the small bag, which had been out of vogue for well over one hundred years, now was making a comeback.

The bag, which the man at the counter had assured her was "sexy" looked to Erica like it was covered by the hide of some bizarre purple spotted alien beast. But the gaudy, as far as Soames was concerned, bag had room for her Webley Mark VI. Her father had encouraged her to shoot ever since he had considered her old enough, especially as Englishmen as a whole had rediscovered a romance with firearms. Due in no small part Erica remembered, from the lifting of weapons restrictions against law abiding people in early twenty-first century Britain. Erica shuddered as she remembered her school studies concerning the roving gangs who had practically taken over the British Isles then. Could she do as her forefathers had though? They had gone in search of the gangs killing most of them. Erica had never killed anybody in her life. Would she have to tonight she wondered? The taxi stopped at the tube station. Erica bid the driver good bye after leaving him a generous tip. She had spoken to him in his own language mustering the best exaggerated Italian accent that she could. She walked as best she could in the tight but so she had been told, stylish shoes to the tube station entrance.

A casual perusal of the tube schedule showed a car leaving for the pass and the small town where sat the ancient cable car that took crews to the communication facility. Erica bought a ticket out of the automated ticket machine and waited. The tube would leave in half an hour putting her in the town just below the Diavolezza Pass. She started to pace until she realized that her actions looked somewhat out of place. She sat down on one of the benches in the waiting area. A man that Soames judged to be in his sixties gave her an unabashed appraisal. Erica was growing quite uncomfortable when the man started speaking to her.

"Going up to the mountain huh?" he asked in American accented English.

Erica had decided to ignore him then thought better of it. "Why yes I am," she answered. Soames needed as much information as she could get. She still had no idea how to proceed once she got there.

"Figured that," the man said. "You mind me saying ma'am you are a little old for that," he said as he looked at her. The man shook his sadly. "Damn shame a woman has to resort to that; but hey, we all make choices huh?"

Erica had noted the presence of many girls; most were younger than she. She was rather shocked when she put two and two together. Soames supposed that indeed, as her unknown compatriot had said, some women still resorted to that. She wondered at that considering that technology had met the demand of supplying everyone's need. But she supposed that the man had a point: Everyone was free to make choices.

"You'll do fine sweetie," the man said. "I'm guessin' one of the older fellas will want to take a go at you," the man winked. "You meet the right one and you are set for life."

"I hope so," Erica said. She decided that she could learn a few things from this man; and she had to admit that she was rather enjoying playing this part. "Do you know where the best place to go for…" she trailed off demurely.

"Most of the communications' techs frequent The Capacitor," the man answered. Erica could detect that he was relishing his role as tour guide. "Not Italian I know but in the bad old days a lot of the media types from the states came over here—you know to avoid the fallout while they reported on the tragedy of radiation victims. It's a good place to start out. The guys stop there for lunch and such before they ride up to the mountain. Not any rough stuff there," the man warned in a grandfatherly sort of way. "If you know what I mean sweetie."

Soames decided to press the man further. Without much detail she insinuated that she was a divorced woman who wanted a taste of the good life after a rough marriage. The man had warmed to her after that. He had introduced himself as Clayton Prescott. Prescott explained how he had shuttled back and forth to the communications complex from Connecticut until he had met a local woman after being stranded by a blizzard one night after his tour was over.

"For me it was all over then," Prescott said with a smile.

"You kept your tech job and moved here?" Erica asked.

"I moved here; but I opened up a café below the mountain," Prescott answered. "Tracking satellites and repairing computers and transmitters was a good job," he said emphasizing the word job. "But I was never satisfied. I liked cooking believe it or not and with Maurlina's help we opened a business."

"None of the technicians go there?" Soames asked.

"Yeah sweetie, a lot of them do," he answered while looking uncomfortable. "But I run a family joint. So," he paused a few seconds before adding; "we really don't go for any of that there."

"I understand," Erica answered quietly.

"Don't take it wrong sweetie," Prescott said. "Lot's of the married guys and gals go there and they aren't looking for that kind of action." Prescott looked out of the window as the tube slowed to a crawl. "Anyway luck to you sweetie," he said as he rose and made for the exit.

Soames followed him into the Alpine twilight. She obtained directions for The Capacitor from what sounded like an Australian man who reluctantly gave her the information after she declined an invitation to go to a motel with him. Erica walked up the street that the man had indicated, turned a corner and found her goal. She took a deep breath as she prepared to enter the belly of the beast.

She was instantly assaulted by the smell of smoke and split beer when she entered. Actually except for the human transactions that Prescott had told her went on here Erica felt at home. She moved to an empty seat at the bar while realizing that many of the patrons were watching her. Soames did not see her quarry. She hoped that he had not altered his appearance since McCoy's clandestine videoing of the man. Erica ordered a gin and tonic as she sat herself down. She was aware that she would have to watch what she drank: Soames might be here awhile she thought. Erica started planning alternatives. She had to do something if Killian did not show. He had to go through here she knew. The communication network shuttles usually only went to the communications' facility during emergencies. Such were the errant winds off of Piz Bernina that even fusion powered shuttles had been crashed as a result of mountain wave turbulence.

Erica subtly checked her chronometer before starting on her second drink. So far she had been propositioned by three men and two women with lines that ranged from very poor to outright vulgarity. Soames had feigned indifference and rejected them all to the apparent ire of the bartender who intimated to her that she needed to be more cooperative or else she would have to leave. She was about to do that very thing after finishing her drink when Marlin Killian walked in.

"We have your dinner Marlin," the bartender said in thickly accented English. He brought a small paper bag which Erica guessed contained food to Killian.

Soames shad run several possible scenarios through her mind. She had planned on tailing him until it occurred to her that only Comsat company employees would be allowed on the lift to the mountain installation. She got up shakily having decided that her plan 'b' was the best. Erica realized that the drinks hadn't mixed well with the local altitude so she didn't have to try hard in faking a collision with the thin man.

"Whoa lady," Killian declared in a tone that struck Erica as being sort of snippy. He shot her a skeptical look then added: "I'm not looking to soil myself. There is plenty other business in here for you."

"What do you mean?" she shot back innocently. "I'm here for my company trying to scout out Comsat for a catering contract."

"Dressed like that?" Killian retorted.

"I happen to like dressing like this," Soames said. "Sorry I bumped into you. I'll be on--,"

"Hey I'm sorry," Killian interjected. "It is just that I thought that you were a…." He struggled for words. Erica would normally have bidden such a man ado by now; but she needed him. "I'm sorry. We get a lot of people around here who aren't the best. It's hard for me," Erica noted his stumbling and reflected; no wonder he was still single. "I'm a Son of Terra," he said at last as if that explained everything. It did to Soames; or at least allowed her some leverage.

"I love what you people are doing!" she exclaimed. "You know," she said quietly. "It takes real bravery to go out and admit you belong to the Sons'. I wish I was but I'm afraid. There are so many warmongers around." She looked down at her feet shyly. "I took up too much of your time. My appointment is in the morning. I'd best be getting back."

"Look I'm sorry for what I said," Killian said. "Would you like to, I mean maybe could, I have some time before," he said haltingly. Erica realized that this man would never produce offspring.

"I think I know what you mean," Soames replied. "Just coffee and a little company," she said. "I rarely if ever drink. You know that it is a foul habit; like smoking and such. I had these here," she said indicating her drink, "to help unwind. But it is not good for a person. No one should drink. I wish the government would put its foot down on people sometimes."

"I agree," Killian answered. "If we get control," he said obviously meaning the Sons' of Terra. "We will be putting our foot down a lot—on some peoples' necks." Soames realized that in his own way Killian was warming to her. She hoped so considering that she had spouted off all of the Sons' dogma as she could stand: Purity, anything fun is bad and some bureaucrat running everyone's lives. "I have a small efficiency here. You could, you could…"

"I'd be happy to stop by," she completed his invitation then added hastily: "Just for a discussion. I would never have relations before marriage. That would be something one of the alien monsters would do."

"Let's go then," Killian said. Despite his apparent innocence and ineptitude Soames started getting a bad feeling from him. He looked at his chronometer. "It can't be for long. I have to meet some friends," he said as he led her out of The Capacitor. She was interested in meeting his friends as well; but for quite different reasons.

The two discussed politics as Marlin made his way to an ancient villa. Soames introduced herself as Maud Adams; a cinematic spy of old. Soames had enjoyed using that name. The two entered the lower stairwell. Erica could see several doors on either side when they got to the top of the stairs. Several Comsat employees in blue coveralls passed the couple.

"Got another one Marl?" one of the women in the company garb asked.

"Shutup Janelle!" he retorted as his face reddened.

It did not surprise Soames that Mister Purity had engaged with prostitutes. From what she had studied most of those types were the biggest hypocrites around. Repression tended to bring out the worst in some people she knew. She feigned a misunderstanding of Janelle's comment as Killian unlocked the door of the small apartment and invited her in. The place was a pig sty. But Soames had seen a few apartments of single and divorced men before. She wasn't shocked by it; even Max was not the best housekeeper. She accepted some sparkling water from Killian who drank the same. The two continued their discussion after Killian had bid her to have a seat on his couch.

"I just wish that someone could bring about change!" Erica cried. "I see all of these people adopting alien ways; thinking that they can do whatever they want just because they have freedom."

"Well maybe something will be done," Killian said conspiratorially. Soames who had at first felt a little sorry for Marlin now was glad that he would remain childless. Let Darwin work she thought. Killian leaned drunkenly to one side. Soames noted his confusion and understood it: How could he know that she had put a drug into his water.

"I feel funny," Killian said. He attempted to look at his chronometer, failed, tried again then asked Soames what the time was.

"Time for you to tell me everything," Erica said as she rose, walked behind the couch and sunk the slim auto-injector none too gently into the upper part of Killian's right arm.

Erica needed information but she also understood the need for secrecy. The drug; obtained from stores of pharmaceuticals left over from Green's Progressives was touted to be quite thorough. Unfortunately Soames recalled reading that the subject would have full recollection of everything. The drug was the best around and Soames had skulked around enough corners to get the illicit drug out of secret storage vaults. She had gotten it with the idea of harming no one. Now she realized what the stakes were; and why Frank McCoy seemed so tortured about their chosen path. For at that moment, as Marlin Killian spilled out the whole plot, Admiral Erica Soames knew that he would never wake up again.

Vulcan Shuttle near Orbital Station One, earth orbit, Oct 2157

"This stealth device could render us invisible to all but video and the naked eye," Brack declared.

McCoy looked dubiously at his partner. He finally had time to mull over what Brack had told him. At first it had seemed too incredible and Frank had thought whereas Brack had stayed physically young his mind was going senile; then the confrontation with a shaken Eileen had removed all thoughts of Micah Brack from his mind. They had landed near the outskirts of Baltimore and Frank had quickly hailed a cab into the city and the couple's home.

Eileen had been watching the vidcaster concerning the mysterious explosion of the old missile silo. Frank had told her that the riots would be dangerous. He had professed a desire to see her safe. Eileen had countered that she had wanted to be a part of what she called the great change that was coming. McCoy had finally insisted saying that he did not want the mother of his children risking herself. It had been a foolish line but somewhere down where it counted McCoy had believed it. Eileen had relented at that. She quickly threw some things together after which McCoy had bought her discreet transportation to his parents' home in Georgia. Frank had kissed her passionately and told her that he loved her. He believed he would soon be unmasked before her. Frank remembered her puzzled look after he had told her that he loved her; no matter what. McCoy returned to the present.

"It is mighty handy that this thing had exterior panels on it to make it look like a Denobulan boat," McCoy shot back venomously. "Funny thing for the pointies to build eh, Brack, or should I call you Mistrial?" he asked caustically.

"It is Mistral," Brack replied calmly. "I know you don't believe me Frank. If you just let me touch you as--,"

"Keep your goddamned hands off of me Brack!" Frank roared. "You may be some kind of martial arts expert but so help me; I'm no doctor but you'll see how fast I can put you in the hospital!"

"As you wish Frank," Brack relented. "We have put much faith in telling you everything."

"That the birdies are here and want to get with their long lost brothers again," McCoy answered heatedly. "And oh by the way; they just happened to wipe us insignificant humans off of our colonies and tried it here. Not even so much as a sorry we nuked you."

"It is not the fault of we--the Vulcans," Brack said.

"How do explain this then?" he asked. McCoy waved his hands wildly gesturing at the interior of the shuttle.

"A few are deluded Frank," Brack answered. McCoy watched as Micah's eyes glassed over. Back added in that other-world voice: "Their logic has misled them. Logic was never the end of wisdom; but rather the beginning."

"Okay Mistral or whoever you think that you are," McCoy said as he reached across and waved his space-suited gloved fingers before Brack' face. "Fly this goddamned shuttle."

Brack's arm shot up and seized Frank's wrist. McCoy had not even seen it coming. "Call me…Fred," Brack declared calmly.

McCoy shook his arm loose. How had he come to being in a space shuttle flown by a paranoid schizophrenic while committing an act of high treason McCoy wondered?

"Hold on Frank," it was Brack speaking Frank thought.

"What, let me guess; a vision?" McCoy groused.

"What we have been waiting for," Brack answered.

McCoy studied the alien readouts. He was no language expert but he was a quick study. McCoy soon found the glowing triangle under which figures were presented in tiny neat Vulcan machine script. That particular craft, which Micah had identified as a maintenance shuttle had entered sensor range and had been mysteriously stationary for some time. Brack's fingers raced over the touch screens. McCoy soon found himself listening to the conversation between the dockmaster and the shuttle pilot:

"We have idented. Maintenance Seven request clearance to dock. It has been a long day."

"Ident accepted seven; complete the verbal challenge."

"Standby dock; I'm the relief pilot let me get the pilot up here."

"Weren't you briefed on challenge procedures pilot?"

"Sorry sir I was called in the last minute. My pilot has the countersign: Standby."

There was a long silence that was finally punctuated by the dockmaster's request for the countersign. McCoy knew that the station was taking no chances after the ill-fated attack on Zandor. As thorough as modern electronic counter measures were there was still no replacement for simple human ingenuity. If Brack was right McCoy reasoned, then the saboteurs were no doubt in the process of wringing out the countersign from a survivor of the luckless shuttle.

"Mezzanine Red," the voice from the shuttle returned.

"Cleared in, seven," came the dockmaster's answer. "Rendezvous at dock alpha slash epsilon. Took you long enough," the dockmaster concluded tersely.

"Now we have to get in" Frank said. This shuttle might be invisible when it came to electrons but it would stick out like a sore thumb to video surveillance.

"I have a cover story we--," Brack stopped when McCoy seized his arm.

"How about we hitch a ride with that lady?" Frank asked as he pointed through the crystal at the one hundred and eighty two meter Olympus Mons class freighter that was gracefully going over top of their shuttle. McCoy reached toward the odd maneuvering controls that functioned, as far as Frank could tell by hand motions over a semi spherical surface.

"I wouldn't do that…" Brack trailed off as the Vulcan craft jutted forward. The Olympus Mons grew in the cockpit windows.

"I dunno," McCoy replied. "I've been watching you; doesn't seem so hard." McCoy pulled his hand back gently as the Vulcan ship tucked itself neatly beneath the behemoth freighter. Frank took it easy as he pushed the shuttle beneath the freighter's auxiliary reactor cooling system. The shuttle cockpit darkened as the Olympus' warp nacelles blocked out the sun's rays. Frank played his hand over the control nodule. McCoy had wanting a rating as a shuttle pilot but his orders for the Naval Intelligence Division had arrived before he could qualify. Still, McCoy's initial instructor had indicated that he had a talent for flying. Right now all that was going through Frank's mind was his instructor's old adage: Follow the numbers. Frank was aligning the alien shuttle by keeping a perspective on the UES Eiger's registry number.

"There; we stay here and match their maneuver's," Frank said absently as he stared intently at the freighter.

McCoy was not even concerned about the space station. He kept his eyes moving and noted that they were getting closer as evidenced by the illusion of the station approaching them rather than the freighter's controlled collision with the station. The station's silhouette had always reminded Frank of a sheathed sword. The central power core impaled the center of the web of docking bays marking the blade; while the control tower, shops and living areas formed the grip. Engineers' had waxed about a day when an outer skin would be applied over the station; looking much like an inverted bowl with more maintenance areas and living quarters: Frank doubted that the resources would ever exist to do that. Frank applied a little forward thrust as he noted his shuttle's creeping ahead of the Eiger's registry number.

"The maintenance shuttle is near to docking," Brack said.

"I'm thinking we'll be five minutes behind it," McCoy answered.

"Check your suit and close your visor," Brack said. "I'll decompress and we'll cross over on suit jets." Brack's voice continued over McCoy's helmet audio system as Frank closed the visor of his commandeered Stellar Navy space suit. "We'll split up: You go for the shuttle. You can bet that the augments have a nuclear weapon aboard as a final resort."

"What if the crew—the real crew is in their Micah?" McCoy asked. The word "expendable" ran through Frank's mind: He did not like that word.

"Try your best Frank," Brack answered after a pause. "There is a whole planet beneath us with living people on it: Don't forget about them. Your compassion is going to be your undoing someday, Frank."

"The hell you say Brack," McCoy retorted. "Or is that your Vulcan buddy speaking?"

Frank had thought that Brack was mollified by his comments until that strange other voice spoke over McCoy's audio: "You are correct McCoy: Caring about the life of one person; good or evil may one day rule how others are treated. The needs' of the many must never be permitted to rule the lives of a few."

McCoy didn't know how to answer that. But the freighter was in the act of finishing its docking maneuver: Frank diverted his full attention to bringing their craft to a relative halt as well. McCoy used the Vulcan shuttle's maneuvering jets to slide the craft over until it was nearly touching Eiger's starboard warp nacelle. Frank knew that the rads wouldn't be good for him here; but he didn't expect to be near to the nacelle for that long. He unstrapped and flipped over his seat. McCoy collided with the aft structural section of the shuttle.

"Been awhile since I was in zero gee," he explained as that strange guffawing laugh came over his headset.

"Get your bearings and let me know," Brack said. McCoy was upside down relative to Brack who was framed against the open shuttle hatch. Frank gave him a universal hand sign that all was well. A split second afterwards Frank saw a small spark marking the ignition of Brack's thruster pack. The intelligence officer followed his long-lived partner. The two jetted out until they were clear of the mass of the Mons Olympus freighter. Here was the breakup Frank thought.

Brack continued on under the shadow of one of the station's arms while Frank coasted behind a maintenance gang making their way to a battered Archer class patrol craft. The flashes of welding torches illuminated the battered hulk. Frank fired a blast of suit jet at the last minute propelling him towards the back of the alpha epsilon dock. It would cost a minute or so but it allowed McCoy to approach the dock and maintenance shuttle from the rear. McCoy had never worked at the station but he knew that each of the arms had emergency airlocks that could be opened from the outside. McCoy stalled near one of those: He was less than ten meters from the shuttle. Frank opened the exterior door and gently pushed himself into the small lock.

The interior of the auxiliary lock had a weightless environment. That pleased Frank as he removed an access panel revealing the power leads running to the arm's primary airlock. Just as Brack's diagrams had shown that it would be; Frank thought. McCoy removed the leads' shielding and secondary connectors then proceeded to reassemble them in a fashion that the designers had never intended to be. McCoy's second act was a simple one: He tripped the circuit protection system for alpha epsilon's corridor lights. Frank was rewarded when the transparent aluminum bulls' eye in the center of the inner lock door went dark. Frank tripped the secondary repressurization system filling the lock without transmitting that fact to any outside observers. McCoy opened the internal lock door.

Frank stepped out while fighting down his nausea as his stomach and inner ear fought to correct his stepping from zero gravity to the artificially induced one full earth gravity of the station. Frank reeled and stumbled but that saved his life: He did not hear the sizzling crack of the laser beam as it narrowly missed removing his helmet along with his head as a consolation prize; but he did see the ultraviolet flash filtered by his visor. McCoy dived behind one of the circular metal reinforced sections. He saw another flash light the corridor. McCoy knew that it had to be an augment shooting at him as he had sabotaged the corridor's emergency lights as well. No normal human could see down that pit of darkness Frank realized.

Frank jerked around looking quickly past the corridor support. He snapped his head back as another beam caused the metal near his helmeted head to explode in a shower of sparks and molten metal. McCoy had seen one figure shooting at him from the safety of the shuttle. He knew that most terran and allied hand lasers took at least two seconds to recycle. McCoy removed an emergency flare from his belt and thumbed the end off. The ensign tossed the glowing stick out in the corridor earning it a laser blast. McCoy ducked around and fired his colt down the corridor. Another of his opponent's laser beams crackled close to him. He fired the colt blindly again this time seeing a flash come from the direction of the shuttle.

Laser fire nearly took McCoy's arm off as he reached around to fire again. He had a glimpse of his adversary stepping into the airlock between the shuttle and the space station. He dropped down before he had a chance to fir again so quick and increasingly accurate was the person shooting at him. But that was their last shot Frank hoped: Blinding blue flashes lit the airlock. Frank looked around to see two solid bolts of electricity sear the shooter. Even the augment's suit would not protect him or her Frank knew: He had removed the airlock's protective grounding.

McCoy sprinted down the gangway his colt out before him: He was realizing just how tough a bunch of bastards these augments could be. But there was no need, he observed as he saw the figure of the young Indian augment sprawled out on the airlock deck. McCoy opened the maintenance access panel cutting all power to the lock with one hand while keeping his plasma pistol trained squarely on the body of the electrocuted woman. McCoy felt nauseous for the second time that day as the smell of scorched meat assaulted his nostrils. He stepped over the woman: She was pretty no more Frank McCoy thought. The right side of the woman's jet black hair was burned away and her face was covered with blistering third degree burns. A small telltale plume of smoke rolled out of the Indian's mouth. McCoy stopped, started again, stopped then knelt to jam his thumb against her neck; incredibly he felt a weak pulse. Frank removed his boot knife.

Just a quick stab of the thin blade through her eye McCoy thought. That would be quick and painless: More than her people and their masters had planned for humans McCoy reckoned. He put the blade point near to her closed right eye. She was probably as good as dead McCoy supposed as he examined her injuries. Do it, he thought as he wrestled back and forth with another inner voice. McCoy couldn't claim to have a katra in his head or whatever Brack had called it. But he did have a conscience. He sighed and replaced the boot knife in its sheath.

"What the hell happened to your humanity?" he said to the unconscious augment. McCoy rose and walked into the shuttle. A meter long cylindrical device lay on the floor of the cargo area. Beside it lay three bodies; two with their throats cut. The third was badly beaten but the woman's eyes fluttered open as McCoy got closer. "Hold on," McCoy said as he noted the woman's name. "Lieutenant Sandoval," he added.

Frank took a cursory look at what he realized had to be Brack's conjectured nuke. It only took a few seconds for Frank to conclude that he could not disarm the device. Frank sighed. He had to save the station and he was no bomb expert. He looked out the shuttle's transparent aluminum window. Space was clear before the shuttle's window. I don't have to disarm no goddamned bomb he thought as he jumped up and made his way to the pilot's seat. He started working on the shuttle's control panel.

McCoy remembered enough of his piloting lessons to make the attempt. Autopilot to on, he thought. Enter maximum burn and set for three minutes, he mumbled as he inputted the necessary commands. Override deadman control and reroute startup sequence to automatic McCoy mentally reviewed his flight procedures: Dated by fifteen years of intelligence service he was happy to discover that the Stellar Navy hadn't changed the configuration of their shuttle controls over that time. There, Frank thought as he entered the last command: The shuttle would proceed along a straight line course away from the station. Frank returned to the battered maintenance officer and started to gather her up in his arms when he heard a scuffle.

The Indian augment looked fiercely at Frank. She leveled her laser rifle towards him none too steadily. She smiled through cracked burnt lips. "You should have finished me," she croaked at last.

"Who ever made you did a piss poor job," McCoy spat back defiantly. "Whatever you had added is no replacement for mercy and goodness. Maybe you really aren't human; but you are no damn better that is for sure."

"We are the future," the augment wheezed and coughed as she mouthed the words.

"It's a future I don't need no part of then," McCoy declared. With one clear goal in mind Frank went low as if he were a young man playing high school football on a Georgia field again. The Indian may have had superior reflexes when fully healthy but electrocuted and badly burned the augment's laser shot went over Frank's head. McCoy was rewarded by a satisfying grunt as he squarely tackled the woman driving her hard against the back of the pilot's chair. Her rifle fell, clattering on the deck of the shuttle.

Frank crouched and took up the rifle. He wasn't taking any chances as the augment straightened up. He swung the rifle's butt around and hit her chin with a blow that would have killed an ordinary human. The augment's neck snapped around and she slithered to the deck. Still breathing, McCoy was amazed to see. He knelt and made short work of the woman's radio and jet pack. Frank got up, searched the shuttle quickly and found the augment's helmet. He secured her wrists with a maintenance tie-down. McCoy figured that not even a genetically enhanced human could break one of those. He plugged into the woman's suit jack with his communications' suit and seizing the augment by the handholds atop the shoulders' of her suit proceeded to drag her to the emergency airlock. He could feel the first stirrings of her return to consciousness as she started struggling weakly. Two minutes Frank thought, as he looked at his wrist chronometer and continued dragging the struggling woman down the corridor.

"I'll kill you," She hissed over the private channel between her and McCoy.

"You probably will," McCoy agreed. "I'm ejecting your ass out the airlock in the meantime. You'll have an emergency flair and beacon. You put that off and the rescue forces will come get you. Try not to kill someone who is helping you." He shoved her into the emergency lock.

"You should kill me," she retorted. "I won't spare you when I have the chance; and I will have another chance."

"Don't you get it?" he asked angrily. "We aren't you! Why don't you go to some other planet; it is clear that you are no relation to us. I'd rather die than live as some hate-filled thing like you. Maybe Brack is right: You don't deserve to live. But I don't have your arrogance to decide that. I'm no one to decide who lives and dies—and neither are you." McCoy pulled the comm jack out and sealed the lock. His chronometer told him he had a minute and twenty seconds as he hit the emergency blow-out on the external door. He watched through the bull's eye as the augment shot out of airlock into space. If you die woman, McCoy thought, it'll be your own doing. McCoy fairly sprinted for the shuttle.

He came to the side of Lieutenant Sandoval: She had managed to pull herself up; but looked as if she were about to collapse. McCoy put a steadying arm behind her and half pulled her out of the shuttle dragging her along. He hit the airlock door on the way out. Forty three seconds he noted as he dragged her hastily to the end of the corridor. It helped that she was regaining some control. They made it to the opposite end of the gangway as an alarm sounded. Seconds later the entire station shuddered. McCoy shoved Sandoval into the inner airlock.

"Who are you?" she asked weakly.

McCoy was about to swing his visor. He knew silence was the best course but the McCoy family outspokenness surfaced. "Remo Williams," he answered recalling a summer spent reading a departed great uncle's collection of twentieth century pulp books. McCoy hit the stud closing the inner lock as the outer lock tore away from the force of the departing shuttle. He clamped his helmet shut. Frank went flying down the corridor out into space.

The intelligence officer straightened out; got his bearings and fired his jets killing his forward momentum. McCoy twisted right and after a few quick blasts neared the freighter Eiger. There was much confused noise over the maintenance net. McCoy gleaned enough from that to realize that Brack had been successful in one of his goals: A general system wide alert had been transmitted to all allied forces. McCoy moved behind the warp nacelle of the freighter and boarded the shuttle. He tumbled into the pilot's seat and waited: Brack was no where to be seen yet.

Frank wanted nothing better than to remove his gloves and wipe at his sweaty hands. He was concerned for his partner. Five minutes turned into ten when Frank decided to power up to leave. There was chaos as Archers undocked and put to space in answer to the alert. McCoy reached for airlock control wondering how he could fly the shuttle in the atmosphere, quite different than spaceflight he knew, when a suited figure rounded the end of the bulbous nacelle and made for the alien craft.

"Is that you?" he asked over the closed circuit.

A strange voice, but Brack's nonetheless replied: "Lucy, I'm home!"

Taskforce 17/33, UES Midway, Hell's Gate, Oct 2157

Captain George "the Hun" Po's mind was running at warp speed along with his carrier. The forty-three year old had just read out the data telling him that his taskforce along with the ships of Taskforce 18 were all that was arrayed against two hundred and twenty-seven Romulan cruisers. Po studied the viewer again and again. He realized that this was a major attack that might likely cost the allies the Wolf system. Po, badly outnumbered decided that he was not going to permit that.

"We are in the ionization of Hell's Gate," Commander Curtis Shaun Christopher said. Po was constantly amazed that Christopher bore so little resemblance to his famous ancestor: Short and broad like an ancient fireplug whereas Shaun Geoffrey Christopher had been a tall and lanky man. But, Po noted, Christopher more than made up for it in his abilities as a flight officer.

"The birdies are turning too," Chief Charlene Kohl stated as she studied her sensor readings.

"Standby to launch fighters," Po instructed his CAG, Lieutenant Commander Masao Okazaki.

Po cursed as the bridge of Midway lurched. For a moment the captain's stomach turned as the artificial gravity cycled on and off. Lights filled the bridge engineering interface board. Christopher listened intently into his earpiece shouting orders all the while.

"Get that launch mechanism working!" his first officer bellowed.

"Report!" the captain snapped.

"Twenty-three birdie cruisers have dropped out of warp at fifteen thousand kilometers," Chief Kohl announced. "They fired their plasma cannons from out there!"

"Goddamnit; they've found a way to increase the range," Christopher said. "We've been hit twice: The rotary launcher is damaged; engineering estimates twenty minutes!"

"We don't have twenty seconds," Po said. "CAG blow the emergency hull plates!"

"Aye sir!" the CAG answered.

Po knew that his ship would be a sitting duck once the hull plating covering the Minotaurs was blown away to allow the fighters to launch out. That was just too damn bad the Chinese-Anglo captain, schooled in Canada, thought. He felt a telltale shutter as Okazaki executed his order.

"Minotaurs away!" his CAG announced triumphantly seconds later.

"Shall we turn away sir?" Christopher asked.

"Incoming eightballs!" the sensor chief cried.

"Negative Curt," Po answered. "We aren't retreating; we are advancing! Put off all nonessential personnel." Po turned to Lieutenant Piotr Chekov's gunnery alcove. "Target inbounds! Take those bloody bastards out of my sky." He turned to his first officer and added: "Set a course for that cruiser group, maximum impulse!"

"Targeting spiders and lasers," Chekov announced.

"Fire when ready Mister Chekov," Po ordered.

"Firing and away!" Chekov cried.

"Call the goddamned Marl and Bowen," Po ordered meaning the Powhaton escort Albemarle and the Kretchet class Bowen. "We need some cover."

"Flag reports that the escorts are tied up," Christopher answered sourly.

"We'll just have to win this battle without them," Po retorted. "Full ahead!" the captain roared.

The incoming Aeons were lit by the incredible beauty of Hell's Gate. Glowing red and green plasma reflected off their peculiar spherical hulls. Sixty of the nimble craft were speeding through the rainbow of colored gases towards the beleaguered Midway. As they began a fatal strafing run the massive plates covering the carrier's Minotaur launch tubes blew away forming a deadly wave of debris. Over half of the Romulan fighters were destroyed as they collided with the huge plates, now so much space junk. Midway's Minotaurs spat out of the carrier like some deadly spawn spraying invisible laser fire into the surviving Romulan fighters.

The fighters formed up and raced toward the Romulan cruisers. Two of them fell to plasma canon fire but not before they left a trail of blasted Aeons behind them. Spider area defense missiles chewed up even more of the Romulan fighters. Midway sailed on towards the Romulan cruisers as her Minotaurs leapt into warp and dropped back into normal space firing a hail of Amazons into the Romulan attackers. Wave after wave of amazons fell to neutronium pellets and Romulan point defense missiles but enough got through: Five of the Romulan cruisers well hit and obliterated shortly thereafter.

Midway picked its way through blistering laser and missile fire. Glowing red rents in the hull accompanied by the discharge of escaping atmosphere marked where Romulan lasers were scoring hits. But the carrier gave back: A spate of spiders weaved as the missiles homed in on two Romulan Aeons. Those spherical fighters were just launching forth as the Stellar Navy missiles slammed into them. The subsequent explosion tore through the docking bay of their Sabinus mother ship. Smaller explosions followed until the remaining half of the Romulan cruiser was spinning off into space.

Another group of Romulan cruisers: A mix of Sabinus and Veronus class warships stretched into normal space with a flash. Three groups of fifty four Romulan cruisers started launching fighters and firing their plasma cannons. The Star Fleet ships flashed into warp narrowly missing the first cannon volley. They emerged a split second later laying down a pattern of narwhals against the Romulan group on the right flank. Sabinus and Veronus class cruisers were destroyed but the Romulans still severely outnumbered the human taskforce. The Torsk class Holland charged into the center group destroying two Sabinus class cruisers and crippling a Veronus. The Star Fleet craft soon found itself outgunned however as Romulan vessels pounded the Torsk with plasma cannon fire. The Holland destroyed two more of its adversaries before it exploded in a furious ball of nuclear energy.

Romulan cruisers confronting Midway were reduced from twenty to eight. Midway maneuvered wildly for a ship never intended to do so; turning to attack the weak aft section of yet another Romulan cruiser with nothing but its pulse laser batteries. Another roving group of twenty green cast Romulan cruisers emerged into the blackness of space from subspace. Midway was surrounded as several of the Romulan newcomers lined up to apply a lethal cannon volley to the lumbering carrier. Those Romulans had other problems however as twenty Minotaurs flashed into space over top of them and released volley after volley of amazons into the group. A taskforce warped into normal space thousands of kilometers away causing the Romulans to turn to the new threat. They unleashed cannon fire as the new human taskforce warped away to appear seconds later well within missile range.

The new group of arrivals engaged the Romulans attacking Midway allowing the carrier to disable a Romulan Sabinus and reposition itself for yet another attack. The second group of twenty Romulans reduced now to fourteen went into warp allowing the new taskforce to cruise unabated toward the center Romulan group of forty eighth cruisers. The spectral, kaleidoscopic light of Hell's Gate illuminated the snarling beagle emblazoned upon the side of the lead cruiser.

Taskforce 18, UES Beagle, Hell's Gate, Oct 2157

"Romulans repositioning themselves," Ensign Nandalal Bose reported. "They are moving behind Taskforce 17."

"They are playing midfield," Commodore Jocelyn Stiles answered. "Its time for those bastards to learn that space has three dimensions." Stiles turned to Captain Ed Minford. "Raise seventeen's flag and tell them to layer through the defenses on the right flank along a converging heading with us."

This was it Jocelyn Stiles realized. Whatever connection she had with the birdie mind allowed her to guess that this was the long awaited big push. Stiles had always assumed that it would involve another attack on earth. Perhaps one was already in progress she thought. Her heart went out to her earthbound mother; but she mustn't allow herself to think that way. Her taskforce along with the eighteen and the survivors of thirty-three were badly outnumbered. Trip was out there on the Trafalgar she knew. If they wanted to seize Wolf, fine Jocelyn thought: It would cost them dearly.

"Send Minotaur Squadron Five to engage the smaller group," Stiles said. "Tell them to strafe and warp out: I want them to warp to seventeen's group and resume the attack there."

Beagle rocked violently. Stiles was drawn up tightly against her restraining straps. Cruz's communication panel exploded outward. The Tellarite snapped his quick release and rolled on the deck his head aflame. Minford sprang up and staunched the flames out with his jacket. Jocelyn knew that they had been hit by either cannon fire or a closely exploding nuke. Stiles snapped out a command to keep communications up. Minford resumed his station while relaying the damage report: Beagle had been hit but had taken only minor damage.

"Acknowledged," Stiles replied. She studied the rapidly deteriorating tactical situation on Beagle's main viewer. "Minford: Relay to Minnie Seven to engage incoming Eightballs along three eleven mark four-four." Stiles knew that Minotaur Squadron Seven would in all likelihood not survive that engagement. But they would buy time for the two taskforces to catch the Romulans in a pincer. "Tell them to engage and hold until their last Amazon!" she exclaimed in answer to Ed Minford's hesitant look.

"Comm from seventeen's flag," the chief handling communications declared. "Voice and video over scrambled," she added using the navy slang for encoded transmissions.

"Put it up," Stiles answered. She would have preferred the sensor display. Stiles hoped that; she thought for a moment trying to recall the commander of eighteen's name, Zimmermann she remembered, did not have his panties in a knot over who was in charge.

A fuzzy unfocused image of a thin middle aged balding man filled the view screen. The birdies were pulling out all of the stops she thought realizing that the image's clarity was probably from Romulan jamming.

"Good day," Captain Zimmermann said as if he and Stiles were meeting for coffee on a cool Atlanta October evening.

"I'm a little busy to be exchanging pleasantries," Stiles answered tersely.

"Acknowledged," Zimmermann answered. "But I doubt that I have to tell you that the situation here is grim. As my surgeon would say; this is going to take more than a soothing analgesic to take away the pain." He came to the point Stiles had expected him to arrive at. "I suggest that we withdraw to Wolf and start the evacuation. We can delay the attack long enough for some people to get out."

"Negative captain," Stiles answered harshly. "That is just what the birdies want: We hand them this real estate cheap. I am the local commander here and we are holding the line here. We are going to kill the birdies here. Continue the link up: We'll engulf the center group and turn on the right flank."

Zimmermann sighed dramatically. "Very well, see you at the gate," he answered referring to the square looking gap where the glowing gases thinned out creating the illusion of a gate. "Just one suggestion: Organize the Minotaur groups into one flying wedge to drive through the Romulans."

"Plan on that in five minutes," Stiles answered. "Eighteen flag out," she finished.

"Dispatch the Minotaurs to point nine-thirteen-seven," Stiles snapped to Minford. "Form them up on a vector to take them down through the Romulan right."

"Aye," the captain acknowledged. He paused then added grimly: "The Choctaw is gone."

"This is going to be a long afternoon," Stiles retorted. "Continue the attack," she said as she spun to face the viewer now restored to the tactical display. The red displays marking Romulan vessels far outnumbered the green indicators for the Star Fleet ships. Two of those green flashing markers went out as she watched.

Minford unstrapped and approached her chair. She thought that his conversation was going to consist of supporting Zimmermann's idea of a tactical withdrawal. Stiles was surprised when Minford led in from a different tangent.

"We should take the first respite to put off nonessential personnel," the captain said. Not a complaint; just an acknowledgement that the allies would probably not live to see the end of the day.

"Put the word out," Stiles said as she nodded. "Have a freighter brought up from Wolf. Those that volunteer can stay; otherwise cut everyone loose that we can spare," this last she added in a quiet voice. Beagle rocked again; the lights cycled plunging the bridge into darkness for a few seconds. Stiles listened to the bridge speakers pour out a litany of damage, recited by a nameless technician from engineering.

Diavolezza Pass, Lombardy Region of Italy, earth, Oct 2157

The heavy jacket was a little long on Erica Soames. It also bothered her considerably that she had killed its previous owner in cold blood. Marlin Killian had babbled forth explaining that he would meet a group of patriots as he called them at the down slope end of the ancient lift. Erica knew that she now had adequate time to meet the same patriots. Killian had not even had to meet the group: He had already willingly given them the access codes. He had even bragged about it. When Erica had become satisfied that she had wrung Killian sufficiently she had turned away from the man for several minutes. It took her that much time to steel herself to reapply the auto injector. The information about the drug indicated that an overdose was quick and painless for the victim.

It had not been quick Soames recalled sadly. Killian must have realized toward the end that death was near to him. He had called for his mother and sobbed softly as the life ran out of him. Soames wanted terribly to run out of the small efficiency but knew that to do so would leave a loose end. She had instead stuffed a kerchief in the man's mouth to stifle his pleas. Killian had died a few minutes after that. Soames knew the method of the Romulan agents' attack she was lacking a procedure to counter it.

The answer had been before the admiral however: Marlin Killian had been a very disgruntled employee. Erica had sensed that Killian was a disgruntled human being altogether. His flat had been littered with anti war rhetoric, copies of letters disdaining those who were fighting in the military and more importantly some attempts at primitive bomb making. Soames was no technician but she had been discreetly studying matters on the information web. Erica, with the help of one of Killian's manuals and her own readings on the subject had completed three devices.

Soames milled around on the boarding ramp leading to the aerial tram. The aerial tram's attendant cared little for her. Its microprocessor mind responded only to requests to board and cast a weather eye when weight limits were near to or being exceeded. Soames had placed both of her devices under the car along with some Sons' of Terra propaganda. She was considering the one big loose end to all of this: The body of Marlin Killian. The drug she had used in overdose was supposed to first anesthetize the victim then cause a brain embolism. Would the Polizia Municipale accept that Marlin Killian had blown up the tram then returned to his apartment and died she wondered? There would be questions about Killian's lady friend visitor. That was the reason for the third device. Soames chuckled at the mental label she attached to something that was meant to kill. Erica dropped back into the alpine woods as far away from the ramp as she could and yet still be able to watch.

The admiral was cold and uncomfortable and was beginning to wonder if Killian's contacts had changed plans when Soames saw movement on the distant parapet. Soames brought a small pair of binoculars up to her eyes. McCoy's descriptions of the augments' senses still resonated within her. Were these genetically enhanced human beings she wondered? Or could they be Romulan agents perhaps? Whatever they were Soames hoped that they would soon be dead. Whereas she felt remorse over the killing of Marlin Killian she doubted that she would have any for these. Killian had been a confused, lost soul. Those across the alpine glade had a purpose: A dreadful one Erica knew.

The saboteurs boarded the car save for one who Erica guessed was feeding information into the tram's control system. That man boarded less than thirty seconds after the rest of his party had. Soames noted that they were all wearing Comsat garb and carrying tool boxes of some sort. Lethal tools Soames suspected. The car started its slow crawl up. Erica ruminated over the destruction of the ancient tram. But the tram could be restored whereas human life could not she consoled herself. The ancient cables creaked as the tram headed up the mountain to the communication facility.

Erica watched as the aerial car vanished into a fog. She checked her chronometer. Had she rigged the device properly she wondered? Real fear started to grip her. She supposed that if it came to it that she could just call the authorities. That would complicate things greatly but might deny the enemy agents entrance to the facility. Soames checked the time again. Her chronometer was illuminated by a red flash, a split second later a heavy thump permeated the air. Erica heard the cable ends make a loud metallic hiss as they plunged to the ground. She got up and headed back to the small town.

Erica avoided the main road which suddenly became filled with wheeled emergency vehicles. Several times Soames ducked to evade the searching lights of a vehicle. She knew they weren't looking for her; but her presence on the road at night would be questioned. An hour later, Erica, dirty and cut from encounters with tree branches, stumbled down a cobblestone alley and around a corner. She had not looked at her chronometer lately so the blast that tore through the night startled her. Soames wanted to run away but instead followed some curiosity seekers to the scene of the explosion. Half of the villa was engulfed by flame. Soames watched as rescuers carrying a stretcher walked grimly to an ambulance. The sheet was pulled over the body being carried. Erica saw her humanity on that stretcher, as dead as the person beneath the blanket she thought sadly. She walked away to the tube depot.

The conservatively dressed redhead who boarded the tube bore little resemblance to Marlin Killian's last house guest. Soames tried to look as inconspicuous as possible; then realized that she needn't worry anymore: Her traveling companions and even a Polizia de Stat making his way to his station were glued to the car's vidcaster. Erica soon joined them and forgot about her problems as she did.

The newscaster, an outrageously dressed Italian man was reporting the news that a UES Navy maintenance shuttle had went up in a nuclear detonation. No reason was given; the shuttle had been docked at Orbital Station One and was in the process of speeding away when it had exploded. Soames could not understand the newscaster but she did follow along on the English subtitle. Frank had been successful Erica thought as she breathed a sigh. The station was undamaged. The newscaster paused obviously listening to an audio piece in his ear then continued. The Mars Defense Perimeter had been activated upon receiving an alert. Inbound Romulan cruisers had been detected but the home guard was already proceeding to key points thanks to the anonymous alert. The origin of the alert seemed to be a mystery. Soames smiled, so it should be.

Wolf 359, Hell's Gate, Oct 2157

Space was littered with debris illuminated by the flashes of nuclear explosions. UES Marathon cruised through the litter firing narwhals followed by spider area defense missiles. Electrostatic discharges ran down the heavy cruiser's sides which were scorched and torn in various places. Marathon's port nacelle trailed glowing debris behind it. The heavy cruiser made its way to five Romulan Sabinus cruisers. Two of its narwhals made it through the hail of Romulan neutronium pellets and point defense lasers. An Aeon made a suicidal run against one of the missiles colliding with it before it could hit its carrier. The last narwhal flew straight and true destroying one of the five enemy cruisers.

Three Veronus class cruisers lined up firing their plasma cannons at Marathon. The cruiser missed being hit by two of the shots but could not avoid the third. Marathon lurched to the side. More narwhals left the tubes beneath the UES cruiser. Two more Romulan Sabinus cruisers were blasted away. Shuttles started issuing from Marathon as the cruiser continued firing. A flight of three Minotaurs shot past the wrecked cruiser and engaged the Veronus's. Marathon sailed on destroying one of its attackers then turned upon a group of Romulan cruisers that were surrounding Trafalgar. Marathon wallowed along until a Romulan antiship missile turned it into a small, short-lived sun.

Beagle lumbered along dispatching two Veronus class ships as a squadron of five Minotaurs surrounded the craft. The lethal combination turned on twelve Romulan cruisers that were in the process of reforming. High speed particles of metal sparked between the two adversarial groups. Missiles from both sides flew past one another. Plasma cannon fire was intercepted except for once where a white hot beam vaporized a luckless Minotaur. Two of the twelve Romulan ships fell to the concerted fire of narwhals and amazons. Incredibly some of the Romulan cruisers started turning away from Beagle and her escorts. The reason for that soon became apparent: Fifteen Minotaurs emerged into normal space behind the Romulan group.

The hunters suddenly found that their Stellar Navy quarry had a considerable bite as the new arrivals, attacking in waves wiped out six of the Romulan cruisers. Beagle dispatched one more of the Romulans as the surviving Sabinus and Veronus class ships tried to escape the trap that they now found themselves in. The fresh Minotaurs turned about harrying the ensnared Romulans.

A Veronus and Sabinus; both having their warp nacelles blasted away tumbled helplessly through space. The two hulks collided with each other briefly becoming a single spinning wreck before being consumed in a final furious nuclear explosion. The angry Minotaurs sped away toward another group of enemy cruisers.

Taskforce 18, UES Beagle, Oct 2157

"IFF's confirm," Captain Ed Minford said. He stabbed at his panel with his left hand as his right was wrapped in a mitten like glove that covered the electrical burn that he had received from an exploding console. "It's Taskforce 9 sir," he told Commodore Stiles.

"Message from nine flag," Ensign Charles Evans said. Evans had replaced Cruz and rerouted the communications through an auxiliary control station in what Stiles thought had been record time. "Voice and vid," he added.

Stiles ordered a conference setup between herself, Zimmermann and Buchanan. She was a little taken aback when she saw instead a young dark haired man with lieutenant commander stripes adorning the sleeve of his gold Stellar Navy jersey. Zimmermann had a similar reaction evident on his face which did not surprise Jocelyn.

"Are we glad to see you nine," Stiles said. She listened as the young officer; about her age she reckoned, explain how the personnel of his taskforce had been struck down by flu. The original plan, which Lieutenant Commander Bill Walters had been intending on carrying out, was to get the taskforce to Wolf and allow the doctors there to help.

"We won't need that anymore," Walters told Stiles; meaning medical assistance. She was searching her memory: The man's name had sounded familiar. "Doctor Howard came up with a cure. I still have a third of my people down from the secondary symptoms; including Admiral Buchanan. But we are combat worthy—barely."

"I'll send you data on our tactics here then," Stiles told Walters.

"Turning them inside out?" he asked before Jocelyn could continue. Surprised, she nodded in the affirmative. Stiles had been asked to submit a paper to Star Fleet Academy on three dimensional battle tactics. Stiles had groused that probably only students would read it. As much as she respected and liked older officers like Minford and Zimmermann too often she thought they approached naval warfare as if they were on a two dimensional battlefield.

"Exactly," Stiles replied. "We have to hold the line here," she added bluntly. There; she had it: "You were on Deneva?" she asked the lieutenant commander.

Walters nodded in reply. Stiles watched as his face; for one brief second assumed the visage of a man three times his age. She guessed she looked much the same whenever anyone mentioned Captain Huang; or her father, or David. The birdie bastards had a lot to pay for she thought venomously.

"Eagle River?" Zimmermann added in a mocking sort of tone. "Seriously; now that we've had a reunion it is time to get back to the fighting: Only one hundred and sixty or so Romulans between us and victory."

"Let's get to it then," Stiles said. "Squadron commander out," she added. Just one more taskforce and Stiles would have a proper fleet to deal with the Romulans. Ensign Bose returned the bridge viewer to the tactical display. There were still too many enemy pips against too few friendly ones. Stiles wished that her rage could take form as a weapon. She thought, at that moment that she would kill every Romulan in existence with it.


	18. Chapter 18

San Francisco, California, earth, Oct 2157

"My honored colleagues," Mark Hawkins drew himself up as well as his bulk would permit. Christophur Thorpe noted that politics seemed to have agreed with the councilman; especially his stomach. Hawkins continued:

"We have here today assembled for a vote of no confidence in regards to our president. I understand that this motion has never been used since the World Council was formed; but the illegal and dangerous activities of President Thorpe must be addressed.

This war has raged now for over a year and yet we see no progress. We are no closer to reclaiming our colonies. And are we here on earth truly safe when our military is engaged elsewhere? I think not. President Thorpe tells us to be patient while his government goes willy-nilly; spending taxpayer dollars on ships and propaganda that compels our impressionable young people to go out and throw their lives away; all for the president's war machine."

"We have heard this speech from this particular Councilman before," Bindu Raj Modi declared softly. Strictly speaking the Indian woman's interruption was in defiance of parliamentary procedure. But the Council had seen its share of unseemly behavior before.

"Honored Chairman; I have the floor," Hawkins retorted hotly. Thorpe suspected that he was still stinging over he and Modi's prior maneuvering.

"The gentle lady from the Pan-Indo region will grant the speaker his time," the council chairman, an aged, thin Russian declared adding a bang of his gavel.

"Sorry Mister Chairman," Modi answered. "It is just that Councilman Hawkins refers to illegalities. I desire to know of these—though I doubt there are any."

"President Thorpe knew of the disappearance of our shipping traffic," Hawkins continued amid the chairman's gavel banging. "He knew that there was a threat and rather than negotiate with these Romulans he created an environment that forced them to attack us!"

This was ridicules Thorpe thought. The sound in the council chamber increased due to the volume of quiet murmurings of amazement. The chairman pounded his gavel and called for calm amid the rising clamor. Hawkins continued after the noise subsided.

"Not only has President Thorpe been causal in this war he is also responsible for its continuation in his refusal to speak to the Romulans. Praetor Karzan extended his hand to us only to be met with defiance by the president; and what of the funding for this mighty fleet?

Tax dollars better spent on our people who want and need government services to care for their basic needs. Once upon a time President Thorpe embarked on the road to caring for our citizenry where they could not care for their selves. But he turned aside from that and said to our young: The world is out there. You have to make it on your own. All the while President Thorpe was diverting government credits from charity agencies to the military against the imagined threat of the Romulans."

Thorpe looked about the cavernous semi underground hall. The irony, Christophur thought was that on these very premises trials were carried out during the Post Atomic Horrors. The first World Government had decided that freedom had to rise out of the ashes of tyranny. With that thought in mind, Thorpe recalled reading; they had decided to make this hall the birthplace of man's new freedoms. Thorpe wondered how those visionaries would view these politicians today. Christophur was out of tricks.

It was quite likely Thorpe knew; that Hawkins and his Sons' of Terra supporters would win their no confidence vote today. The parliamentary maneuver had been incorporated into the otherwise republican form of government that the first World Council had adopted. This was not the time for another election Thorpe realized. He listened as Hawkins finished by making the motion for the vote. The pompous American seated himself then. Thorpe openly scowled; something that he seldom did in the political arena. Thorpe rose to make his rebuttal. He was tired. Perhaps, Christophur thought, going down in ignominy would not be so bad.

"Councilman Hawkins and his Sons' of Terra backers would have us lay down before the Romulans," Thorpe started. He continued. "While it is true that I was aware of the disappearance of our ships it is a lie that I did nothing: Naval intelligence spent months investigating the disappearances; all to no avail. It is obvious however that our adversaries operated in stealth. Now as to contacting their government:

I would like nothing better than to establish a dialogue with the Romulan Praetor: An honest one. We have sent pleas on subspace radio to the Romulan Empire as well as unmanned drones. We have never heard anything but the messages we already know: Surrender.

Mister Hawkins speaks of diverting credits: He is correct. Credits were spent willy-nilly; from everything to studying the emissions of cows to a gentleman from the United States area of New Jersey who claimed to have created a time machine. Do the Sons' of Terra think these shams were noble ventures?

We need cruisers and missiles. We need people to fight; I wish it were otherwise. But I have more faith in humans. We humans can pull ourselves up without becoming clients of an all encompassing state. We have shown that time and again. When individual freedoms are the greatest and government is muzzled the most is when man flourishes the most.

Today you will vote and there may well be another election. That is as it should be. But I must remind you all that I have no time for the petty politics of destruction. There are real decisions to be made. Who do you want to make those; Mark Hawkins and his pusillanimous backers? I am the President and if you vote against this travesty I will deliver this planet to safety once again. I trust you will make the right decision."

Christophur knew that the council would not make the right decision. He sat down, resigned to his fate. Thorpe had been counting votes ahead of time: It was close Christophur knew, but this time he did not have the votes. He listened with half an ear as the chairman called for the vote. The litany of yeas and nays were shown graphically to Thorpe on a small video screen before his seat in the gallery. The blue yeas ran almost equal to the red nays. But the red number always seemed to be one ahead of the blue number. Thorpe looked at the total as he contemplated the end of his career; just one more to go. Christophur sighed.

"Nay!" a strong voice rang out. There was a collective gasp in the hall; mostly from councilors backed by the Sons' of Terra but just as strong was Thorpe's exhalation of surprise. Deadlock; Thorpe knew.

"If I might speak Mister Chairman," the nay voice said. Thorpe recalled the man as being a somewhat lukewarm supporter of the Sons'. He could not recall his name however.

The ruddy faced elderly man rose at the chairman's approval. He packed a few extra kilos on his frame Thorpe noted; but Thorpe gleaned that it was from a healthy appetite apparently acquired by being out of doors much. His hair was thinning in the front and the councilor had it combed over in a vain attempt to cover his baldness. The man smiled.

"The chair recognizes the Councilman from Central North America," the Russian said.

"Thank you," the man said as he shyly put a pair of glasses on. He gathered himself and commenced. "I came here today to send the president packing. When the Sons' of Terra came along I was all for them. Seemed like a good idea to be looking after our fellow man after all. But my constituents don't agree. Many of those feel a sense of kinship with the aliens who came to our defense." He produced a sheet of paper and proceeded to recite:

"My daughter was aboard the Wolverton when it came under fire. An Andorian ship saved my baby's ship at what I later heard was a loss of twenty-eight Andorians. My daughter told me in a letter how a Tellarite engineer was burned over seventy percent of his body when he pulled wounded people out of the reactor room. I can't believe we are slapping our friends in the face after all they have done for us. I don't know the future but these aliens seem like not only friends but family too. We need to be a part of that family that we helped make."

"Just one sentiment," the councilor said as he removed his glasses and put the letter down. "Trouble is I have a whole office full of stuff like this." He looked around the chamber. "The birdies attacked us last year. It is only today after hearing Hawkins there speak that I come to believe that the Sons' are starting to believe their own horse manure. I have some horses on my farm so I know manure when I see it; the Sons' of Terra's is wrapped up real pretty but it is still crap."

"I not only say no," the man continued stridently. "I have also been thinking about one of President Thorpe's earlier ideas." He waved a hand in the air to silence the ruckus from Sons' backed councilors and then continued. "Now we farmers are part of a farm bureau. There is strength in numbers. But not only that we learn off of each other. We are the better for our differences. My bureau in Iowa is part of a federation of bureaus located throughout the world. That is what we need with our friends.

Today in addition to telling the Sons' of Terra to go to hell I am also putting forth a bill. This bill will submit the groundwork for earth's entry into President Thorpe's alliance. Can't call it a bureau but federation seems just fine. I hereby propose the first law setting us on a course to form a federation with our neighbors—a federation of planets."

"I second Councilman Kirk's motion," Bindu Raj Modi declared in a strong voice uncharacteristic for one so diminutive.

Thorpe smiled. He had heard that term once before. There were applause and catcalls amid the chairman's raucous gaveling. Thorpe knew that the issue was far from being decided. But he had retained his seat today. Thorpe was interrupted by a call from Ebenstark. He sprang up immediately.

"Mister Chairman, Mister Chairman," Thorpe said in a loud voice. "Star Fleet has informed me that a force of Romulan ships is inbound to the system. We must get to shelter."

There was much hubbub as the politicians filtered toward lifts to be taken to the bombproof chamber below. Thorpe's security people helped him clear a path. He ran into the Iowa farmer in the lift.

"I can't thank you enough Mister Kirk," he said in a grateful voice.

"Call me Augustus," Kirk said with a smile as the lift descended.

Taskforce 9, UES Beagle, Hell's Gate, Oct 2157

Jocelyn Stiles wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell of burnt insulation. If she listened hard enough she could hear the tiny whir of the air scrubber fans trying and failing to exchange the bad air on the bridge. She also realized that neither she nor any of her people smelled particularly good at the moment. She was sweating despite the environmental system's attempt to cool the air. They had been fighting for almost two hours now. Stiles had no sense of victory even though the birdies had less than one hundred ships now.

Stiles had adopted Walters' approach of using staggered vectors for the Minotaurs. The layered attack had proved devastating against their adversary. She looked intently at the view screen. The Romulans had assembled their cruisers to punch through the Minotaur groups much like a pin puncturing a balloon. She smiled fiercely at the image; just as you should you bastards. The graphics representing the Romulans were on the move.

"Romulans moving to engulf us," Minford said.

"Standby to go to warp," Stiles said. She stood up and paced despite the risk of being thrown around. "This is where our training will pay off," she said to her bridge crew in a strong clear voice. "Ensign Evans, open up a squadron wide channel," she ordered. She commenced speaking at Evan's nod of completion: "This is Commodore Stiles; we've come a long way in this war. There have been attacks against two of our homeworlds now. We cannot permit that anymore. Intelligence tells us that birdie methodology seems to be similar to ours; therefore they can't have had time to build shipyards on Deneva and Topaz. And we can't give them that time. These additional forces that we are fighting today comprise the bulk of what was stationed at Deneva and Topaz. We must not only defeat the birdies here today—we must destroy them. The people at home are counting on us. Your families; whoever you hold dear on earth, Tellar, or Andor; we must win here today for them. I know that I am serving with the finest crews in Star Fleet here today. I know that you will give your all and at the end of the day we will win. You will remember this day as the one that put us on the path to Romulus; the day when everything changed and victory was ours. Good luck to us all; flag out."

There was silence, punctuated only by the sound of the air exchange fans that was broken several seconds later by Captain Minford. "Squadron is ready to go to warp at your command sir."

"Incoming transmission," Evans interjected. "Voice and vid over scrambled: It is Taskforce 25," he added.

"Friendly IFF's at extreme sensor range sir," Ensign Bose supplied. "Confirmed: It is Taskforce 25," he finished.

"Extreme sensor range," Stiles said quietly. That meant that unless the birdies had made some break through or acquired more allied technology that they could not yet see twenty-five. Jocelyn knew that she could make use of that. "There may be enough fuzz," she said to Evans referring to the heavy electromagnetic cloak in the battle area, "that the Romulans may not be able to make anything of twenty-five's message." She decided what she wanted to do. "Send to twenty-five flag: Maneuver to coordinates nine by thirty-six by fifty nine; prepare to arc around when the birdies enter sensor range and engage them in warp."

Stiles knew that she was taking a gamble. Missiles fired in warp fell back to sublight after exiting the warp field. Gunners needed to calculate to several decimal points to even get close; especially when their intended quarry was in subspace. But then again Jocelyn thought, and this was what she was betting on; even near misses could force the birdies to come to bay in normal space. Evans reported Oulette's acknowledgement. Stiles was glad that the big Canadian was out there.

"Engage Captain Minford," Stiles snapped.

Minford acknowledged. Jocelyn seated herself and locked the coupling of her restraining straps. The view screen image marked the closing of the Star Fleet Squadron. Like an umbrella closing where the Romulans were the handle. Jocelyn got warm inside as she thought of the hellish conditions that the birdies would soon be confronted by. She almost hoped one escaped to tell what happened. But no she thought; one Romulan was one too many as far as Jocelyn was concerned.

Romulan ships though still outnumbering their intended prey soon found themselves in a crossfire of narwhals. The Sabinus and Veronus class cruisers broke any semblance of a formation as they tried to protect themselves. The first wave of narwhals was largely defeated but more came from above and beneath and from the sides of the greenish ships. Romulan cruisers started vanishing in nuclear detonations as their defenses became overwhelmed. The intricately interlaced pattern of narwhals blasted away taking their toll on the Romulan ships. The Romulan numerical superiority was soon lost amid a sea of small short-lived suns.

The deadly rain of narwhals came to a slow halt. But there was no respite for the Romulan ships as Minotaur packs raced toward individual Romulan cruisers firing amazons as they went. The numbers of Romulans continued to shrink. An amazon dispatched by a Minotaur went off near a Veronus sending the craft reeling. Thrusters on the Romulan cruiser succeeded in reorienting the craft; but just in time for a direct hit by two more amazons. The victorious Minotaurs raced through the cloud of nuclear debris that had marked the Veronus. The fighter crews were on the prowl for more prey.

Less than forty Romulan survivors turned about. A few of the craft formed a protective, suicidal shield for their escaping mates. Romulan cruisers stretched forth into subspace. Their protectors died quickly as an overwhelming number of amazons bore down on them. The Minotaurs broke away from the remnants in search of the few luckless Aeons that were left.

The Star Fleet capital ships leapt away in pursuit of the Romulan fleet. The Minotaurs followed after they concluded their grim business with the Aeons. The multicolored beauty of Hell's Gate now reflected off of the scorched flotsam of the battle. An Aeon shot through the debris only to be cut neatly into section by two passing Minotaurs. One of the pieces exploded turning the larger chunks into small pieces of shrapnel.

The gases of Hell's Gate thinned out. Space was empty but only briefly as the small cylindrical cases marking the bodies of narwhal missiles flashed into Einsteinian space. Some of these were shredded to debris in the uncontrolled transition into normal space. Other missiles exploded lighting the blackness. Fleeing Romulan ships reemerged into the darkness; several of these ships flashed out of subspace as pieces of radioactive debris. They were no longer recognizable as a vessel. The others turned about and commenced firing their plasma cannons.

The Powhaton class Catskill emerged reeling into normal space; the only Star Fleet ship that had been hit. Its vengeful mates rushed out ahead to protect the ship as electrostatic discharges cascaded down Catskill's sides. The Pioneer Fearless led the rest of the ships in Taskforce 25 in forming the other half of the sphere in which the Romulans found themselves engulfed. Narwhals filled space. The flashes from the dying Romulans were reflected off of the last shuttle escaping from the doomed Catskill. The Powhaton added its own nuclear death to the Romulan pyre marking the end of the battle. A torn section of Romulan hull proudly emblazoned with the Romulan raptor, its burned edges still glowing from the heat, tumbled slowly through the vacuum.

Mars Defense Perimeter, Sol System, Oct 2157

Captain Pat 'Patch' Edgerton reflected on the quick promotions that war brought. He was now leading a force of twenty Archers from the bridge of his Torsk class Hai Lung. But he would gladly have traded his extra stripes just for a chance to be strapped in the small cockpit of an Archer. Curran, he reminded himself of the venerable Archer's upgraded cousin. Edgerton absently tugged at the bottom of his gold jersey as he gave the final orders arraying his forces.

"All ships report in the green," Commander Jennifer Carlisle informed him. His doughty first officer had replaced his friend lieutenant commander; soon to be Commander Mark Wilkerson as the latter had received orders appointing him as XO of one of the new Tännhausers. Jennifer was a warrior but tended to be too serious in other areas. Patch felt vaguely uncomfortable swapping tales of past debaucheries with the green eyed New Zealander. He had not had that problem with his friend Wilkerson.

"Perimeter batteries?" he asked.

"Two Merculite rocket batteries are down for maintenance but they have been replaced with Hercules platforms,"

"Standby to split up," Edgerton advised his first officer. "I'm betting that they will try a stick and move." Patch thanked all that was holy for probably the fifth time that day that some anonymous person had sent out the alert.

Edgerton and his staff had been confused at first as they had brought their ships' alert status' up. The Currans that had been anchored to Utopia Planitia had launched as Edgerton had considered overriding the alert which he thought must have been a glitch of sorts. Then the first sensor echoes had returned: A force of some twenty vessels displaying Romulan power signatures had been spotted.

"Another group of bogeys sir," Lt. Shakuntala Patodi said softly. She was all but invisible in her darkened sensor alcove. "This one is on a z-plus approach."

"Currans one thorough five move to intercept," Edgerton commanded. He was hesitant to allow the Romulans to engage the orbital defense network. "Have six through ten move on the first group," he added. Carlisle acknowledged and repeated his command to the Curran units. The sixty two meter shark like craft jumped into warp.

Minutes passed. Edgerton was growing impatient. He wanted to get up and walk around but old habits die hard: He had always remained strapped in the seat when he had commanded an Archer. His first officer cocked her head as she listened in to the comm traffic from the patrol boats.

"Three birdies destroyed from group one, two from group two," she said. "They are continuing in; not dropping out of warp."

"Alert the orbital batteries," Edgerton said. "Tell them to look sharp; this may be a suicide run."

"Another group of twenty have just appeared on a planar approach," Lt. Patodi stated.

Two Currans fell to normal space firing two amazon antiship missiles immediately thereafter. A Romulan Sabinus warped into existence; half of its cabbage like top blasted away. Another Romulan craft suffered similar fates as two more Currans emerged into normal space. Hercules missiles warped away then fell back to the blackness of normal space where they detonated. A group of Romulan cruisers dropped out of warp.

The group of invaders quickly formed into a star like formation. Seconds later they fired their plasma cannons. The streams become one that struck the military communication station above Mars. The station's hull plating absorbed the punishing blow. Merculite rocket batteries laid down a blistering hail of cover fire as Curran converged on the Romulan cruisers. A group of five Currans tore into the superior cruiser group. Three Sabinus cruisers were hit; damaged beyond repair. The stricken Romulans self destructed seconds later. Another Romulan cruiser fell to a Hercules missile. Twelve Romulan cruisers jumped back into warp.

Currans rushed out to meet the newest arrivals as they too fired a concentrated plasma beam burst from a distance greater than had yet been observed. This time the communications' station was buffeted hard. Pieces of hull drifted silently away from the station. Debris fell out of subspace as the approaching Romulan cruisers were shredded by Merculite rockets. The cylindrical station suddenly was rent down the middle as what had been a Romulan Sabinus collided with the station. The station erupted in a cataclysmic explosion.

The third group of Romulans made a run for the web of Utopia Planitia. Pursuing Currans tried in vain to obtain targeting solutions on the craft in warp. Three of those were successful. Once again rocket and Hercules missile fire cut down the suicidal Romulan attack. The Hai Lung added her narwhals to the melee along with the Tännhausers Shiloh and Hastings. One Veronus made it to collide with the massive shipyard. Pieces of gantries and transfer tubes went flying before they were consumed by the Veronus nuclear discharge.

The Currans turned on the last group as it too tried a run at the orbiting shipyard. This time the attackers were overwhelmed by the combination of shipboard attacks and orbital defenses. Radioactive debris made a dense, glowing, briefly expanding cloud as the last Romulan ship was destroyed.

"Damage report on the yard?" Edgerton asked in a tense voice. He didn't like what he seen: At least a third of the mighty shipyard was no more. Carlisle's report said as much. At least there were no more attackers he thought.

"It's bad sir," Carlisle said in no uncertain terms.

"Two-thirds of the facility is intact," Edgerton said tersely. He needed to buoy himself as much as he did his crew.

"Move all ships to alert yellow," Edgerton said. "Let's keep our eyes and ears open. In the meantime let's move in to help the yard personnel."

"The military network is gone," Carlisle said. "The civilian backup is coming on line. Thank god that they didn't hit us with anymore ships," Carlisle said as she exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Which is exactly what Forrest thought they would do," Edgerton answered as he stoked his chin thoughtfully. "If the main attack isn't going to fall here then where?" he asked the question openly. He suspected that he would have an answer soon enough.

Romulan Imperial Cruiser Riitraxa, enroute to Deneva, earth year Oct 2157

Valdore looked about the command center. The looks upon the faces of the crew were shielded by their heavy gold helmets. But the admiral could see it; in his mind's eye he saw the disbelief give way to despair as the extent of the loss became apparent. This was supposed to be the pivotal battle; and it would have been had Talex followed Valdore's plan. Valdore walked over to stand behind the sensor officer. The new device; co-opted from their enemies gave the D'Zera class cruiser the eyes of a M'Linga hawk. Valdore briefly wondered why; if the empire had the best scientists that they had not created such devices?

"Denaton is their any sign of our enemy?" he asked the sensor operator. The young soldier belonged to one of Valdore's select group of people that he trusted. Too much lately the Tal Shiar had eyes and ears everywhere.

"There are images gaining from behind admiral," the soldier replied.

"Pilot; alter our heading for Vulcan," Valdore commanded.

"General Talex has given no such order admiral," the centurion replied. Valdore recalled a day when questioning an order from a superior would lead to lashes—or death. What an empire the Tal Shiar has bequeathed to us, Valdore lamented.

"Tjixa son of Sodaza; I do not take kindly to disobedience," Valdore countered. The Tal Shiar frequently threatened and sometimes went after the kinsmen of those who opposed them. Valdore was satisfied to see Centurion Tjixa visibly cringe at the mention of his father. He would never harm the centurion's kin, but let the fool think what he will Valdore thought.

"Changing course for Vulcan," Tjixa responded. The centurion added almost as an afterthought: "Admiral." Valdore watched as the man made the necessary inputs executing his orders. "I shall have to speak of this matter to the general, admiral."

"You may relax centurion," Valdore answered. "I shall inform the general. I go to see him now."

"You command in my absence Baraza," Valdore proclaimed to the centurion that he trusted as he did Denaton. Valdore returned the command center guards' salute and made his way to Riitraxa's central nexus. Talex was in the fortified command section three decks below. Valdore remembered when engineering and the command center were the most shielded parts of an imperial vessel; before the Tal Shiar.

The admiral cast a wary eye about him as he descended down the ladder of the central core. Assassination as a way to remove unfavorable soldiers was becoming common in the Praetor's fleet; madness Valdore thought. What sort of navy was run where officers had to guard against assassination he wondered? Still he was planning a variety of that very thing: Talex was overdue to commit honorable suicide for his failure. A regular Romulan soldier without connections such as Talex's would, in so resisting the inevitable, be condemning his family.

Valdore entered the guarded section of the command quarters. Two imposing black slashed Tal Shiar guards confronted Valdore. He turned his handgun and knife over to them without question or comment. The thugs, as far as Valdore was concerned, took his personal weapons without ceremony. Valdore wondered briefly if Talex's personal guards would be as silent when he put them out of an airlock.

Valdore entered Talex's sanctuary after pressing the alert and being grated admittance. The admiral saluted Talex who was seated behind a large desk. The general looked up at Valdore and after a few moments clumsily returned the salute. No not clumsily, Valdore realized; drunkenly. Valdore's face wrinkled in disgust as a thin trail of drool ran down the general's chin. The pungent smell of Kali-fal permeated Valdore's sinuses. Talex's two Reman security guards looked ahead impassively. No wonder Valdore thought; their foreheads both bore the scar of loyalty. They were little more than robots to be programmed, Valdore knew.

"Ah just in time Valdore," Talex rose; and promptly fell against the desk. He righted himself unsteadily before continuing. "I plan on stationing the Twentieth Legion about Cosaba," the general informed him.

Cosaba; called Deneva by the humans, had received the name which meant "flight" in the ancient tongue. Fitting, as Valdore considered that they may soon have to go to flight to escape the conquered world before the humans came to take it back. Valdore wanted to be angry but at this time he felt only pity and concern; pity for the legions that had perished and concern for his great empire, his people.

"That legion is gone in the battle," Valdore stated succinctly. Valdore continued: "In fact general, as far as legions are concerned I am going to order that the fourteenth, seventh, and forty-fifth be repositioned to Gozai," the system that the humans had called Topaz.

Despite his drunkenness Talex realized the import of Valdore's request. "That would leave only the Tal Shiar legions as defenders," Talex retorted in a voice laced with drunken outrage.

"Just, don't you think general?" Valdore asked. "Those that have mishandled this war should stay to fight the holding action against the Triple Alliance," Valdore explained.

Talex reeled haphazardly over his desk. His arm slipped and he fell forward. Valdore could hear the impact as he caught himself with his free arm. "All of the legions will stay admiral. The humans; they will fall before us," he slurred out.

"Would that your drunken fantasies were true general," Valdore replied evenly. "No; we must now invest our hopes into bringing the Vulcans into the war alongside us. Reunification must happen if we are to win. It is our only hope of victory now; short of the gods of old coming from Vorta-vor to aid us."

"Vulcan!" the general exclaimed. "You ordered a course change for there. I reversed that order."

"Did your informant also tell you that the Stellar Navy pursues us?" the admiral asked sharply. "We will not live to make Cosaba. A heading for Vulcan space would put us within the safety of their border before we are brought to bay. Thus far the earthers have respected our brothers' borders." Talex started to call the command center when Valdore seized his hand. The general failed to see the continued impassivity of his Reman guards. "I will order the change when I return to the command center." Valdore reached into his tunic and pulled out a piece of folded parchment. He deposited it on Talex's desk.

"What is this?" the general asked as Valdore released him and he fell back into his seat.

"Your letter of supplication to the Praetor," Valdore replied. "It is your duty before you kill yourself." He continued at Talex's look of shock and horror. "Now, at the end of all things it is time for you to be Romulan."

"I must live to fight the humans!" Talex bellowed.

"You have failed!" Valdore retorted. "I begged of you to concentrate our fleet against the human system. You chose instead to try to conquer another of their colonies. You are right; someone must live to fight the humans. That is me; would that it were not so. But your failure dictates that another must lead the long march of retreat back to Romulus if we fail at reunification."

Talex rose shakily. "The admiral is a threat," he said to his Reman guards. "Kill him," Talex commanded. The Remans stood by silently. Talex turned to them. "I gave you an order!" he shouted. Talex's spittle flew out of his mouth. The Remans stood motionless.

"You've never really read any of our enemies' literature, have you general?" Valdore asked as he calmly seated himself opposite his superior. He plunged on without waiting for Talex's reply. It would be nonsense anyway he thought. "The humans had a general once who said: Know your enemy and know yourself, and you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. I knew that you would have your Galamides try to kill me," Valdore said addressing the mindless beings that had been under Talex's control.

Valdore leaned forward as if he were sharing a secret with the distressed Tal Shiar officer. "The Tellarites and the humans as well have little wooden figures suspended from strings. The humans call them "puppets"," Valdore stated the strange alien word haltingly. "Much like a Galamide when its controls or strings are severed the puppet goes limp. I am afraid that my operatives have overridden your guards' cranial implants. They do make nice statues though."

Valdore would take great satisfaction in jettisoning the poor creatures. Taken at birth; the chosen Remans underwent a series of invasive operations incorporating the control devices into select areas of their brains. It was barbarous as far as Valdore was concerned. He was one of those who wanted the Remans made full citizens. Willing citizens were preferable to unwilling slaves Valdore had always thought.

Talex reared back and tried desperately to open a desk container. Valdore had leaned forward to put him in a position to pounce. The admiral still maintained his physique and in fact prided himself on his abilities. Valdore was over the desk sending the bottle of Kali-fal crashing to the floor. He seized the general around the neck with one arm while positioning the hand of the other under Talex's chin. Valdore twisted until he was rewarded with the sound of a wet snap; like the sound he made when he stepped on a rain soaked tree branch when he walked about his estate. The admiral released Talex who slid bonelessly out of his chair to the deck.

"You are relieved general," he said to Talex. The general's still seeing eyes pleaded back to Valdore. He reached down and closed them.

Valdore assumed his former commander's seat and finished the latter's last draught of Kali-fal. He waited for some time then called the command center. "All is well Baraza?" he asked.

"All is as you have commanded admiral," Baraza's disembodied voice answered. "I changed course for Vulcan," the centurion added cautiously. Initiative, Valdore knew was sometimes rewarded by the lash: He knew that Baraza's caution was warranted. But Valdore never wanted to lead a command like that.

"Very good Baraza," he replied. He was pleased to find out that they would escape into Vulcan space before the vengeful Stellar Navy cruisers caught up to them. Valdore turned to look at the motionless Remans. "Have some troops dispatched to the general's office to move some heavy objects. Invite Senator Vrax to join me in the meantime."

Valdore soon answered the door signal admitting Vrax who came in amid Valdore's troops' moving assignment. He observed Talex's body carried between two stout centurions; the neck cocked at an unnatural angle.

"My fate as well?" the senator asked without fear as he eyed the former general's body.

"Perhaps," Valdore replied candidly. "Though it would warrant my execution: Killing the Praetor's Hand," Valdore said acknowledging the senator's role.

"Then proceed with my execution, admiral," Vrax said defiantly. "The viinerine is abysmal on this ship."

Valdore liked the senator's response. He had always had a good feeling when it came to the older Romulan. Slightly shorter than Valdore, Vrax had a more pronounced kexat on his forehead. The Reman genes introduced into the Romulan population had stopped the birth deformities that had resulted when the few first ones had landed on Romulus. But they had left their mark on them all to one degree or another. Valdore had once counted on Vrax when he was a senator. But that support had stopped once upon a time.

"You opposed me in the Senate; why?" he asked the senator.

"I supported you Valdore," Vrax responded. "But you sometimes allowed your vocal chords too much reign. One must pick their battles and you did not know that then." Valdore was about to answer when Vrax continued. "I support you now. You know that it is not out of fear. In fact; I will approve your actions and extend you the protection of the Imperial Seal. If things go against you; they go against me."

"We shall see my friend," Valdore answered. "The Vulcans are our last hope. I fear what may follow if we fail there." Valdore rose. "I will not say that I was right. That is an exercise in futility now. But I tell you now, with the same conviction that I expressed when the Tal Shiar prompted the Praetor into this war; that we have set things into motion. This war will forever change the face of the quadrant." Valdore's voice grew quiet as he added: "It may be that we have created the circumstances for a greater power than ours to rise."

Star Trek: Dagger, Book III, Federation and Empire

Sokur Province, Vulcan, earth year Oct 2157

Sand, Lieutenant Tarang Gupta had his fill of it. He tried to spit, found that his mouth was too dry for it then reconciled himself to the taste of the native soil. At least they were making their way into a town again. Gupta had his fill of sleeping out in the desert as well. Two nights ago he and his party had holed up in a narrow cave as a hungry le-matya had attacked him and Syrran and T'Pol. Gupta had been terrified by the dragon like beast and had drawn his colt to the consternation of Syrran. Gupta decided that in addition to Vulcan language and history that a lesson on the local flora and fauna might have been helpful.

Syrran had stood up as well as was possible in the narrow confines of the cave. Gupta had been amazed when the Vulcan had issued forth with a cry that had froze the Indian's blood. Syrran had twice repeated the dreadful howl until it was answered. The le-matya had soon found itself with other interests as two sehlats set upon the creature allowing the trio to escape.

"Those vehicles are military," Syrran said. Gupta had now been around Vulcans long enough to hear what little emotion they allowed to be expressed. Syrran was clearly disgusted at the mention of the High Command.

Gupta looked at the vehicles weaving in and around the small town. His heart sank as he realized that they would probably not be able to overnight there. Another night in the desert he thought bitterly. He took another look through his binoculars. The High Command troops seemed to be entering individual homes and escorting the occupants out. It was all quite peaceful though Gupta observed.

"It looks like they are being rounded up," Gupta declared. The townspeople were being put in some of the armored box-like ground vehicles bearing the High Command crest. "Why would they do that?" Gupta asked as he handed the binoculars to Syrran.

"I do not know," Syrran replied. "V'Las has mandated the detention of the more vocal members of the followers of Surak; but not an entire portion of the population."

"They will not be hurt Tarang," T'Pol said. It bothered him that she could actually sense that when he was pondering something.

"You don't know that," Gupta countered. "I know you expect Vulcans to treat one another," he paused searching for words, "logically; but there is nothing logical about any of this."

"You are considering violence human?" Syrran asked. "These people are followers of the ways of—

"Yes, yes," Gupta interrupted. "I know that. But what is happening to them is wrong." He fell silent as he took a minute to think then continued. "Why is this happening? Are they arresting—my pardon detaining people elsewhere? Perhaps there is something about this area."

"I chose this route because there is a concentration of s'tred'iax," T'Pol said. Gupta shot her a look of puzzlement. He recognized the root word expressing a metal but was unsure of what it was. "Humans call it kelbonite," she informed him. "It is a refractory metal found in small quantities that can partially block scans. Since we are trying to move by stealth a region that cannot be scanned easily should have comprised our route."

The trio needed furtiveness Gupta knew: Twice they had come near to being spotted by aerial patrols and once a squad of soldiers had descended onto a campsite that they had only just vacated. V'Las, Gupta thought, was tightening his grip. They could not possibly make their intended appointment atop Mount Selaya now. Tarang and the Vulcans after much discussion had concluded that T'Pau was probably running into a similar roadblock.

"This province has been a welcoming place for those who more closely follow Surak's teaching as well," Syrran added.

"It seems to have come before the attention of Minister V'Las and the High Command as well," Gupta said. He scanned the area with his binoculars. Gupta wanted to get down there and see what was happening. He was about to propose that he go into the town to look around when a low rumbling commenced. Tarang and his traveling companions scrambled deeper into the lee of the boulders under which they had been hiding.

The rumbling became a roar as the freighter passed overhead. Gupta eyed the craft: It was not Vulcan. It was not any type of design that he was familiar with in fact. Gupta estimated the craft at a little over one hundred meters in length as it turned in the air and extended its landing gear. The freighter settled slowly on a permacrete pad just outside of the city. Gupta was amazed to hear T'Pol say a single word in English: Orion. He turned to her as the scalding roar of the craft's landing thrusters fell silent.

"It is an Orion freighter," T'Pol said simply.

Gupta's mind filled with a plethora of thoughts: First and foremost was how she knew. Gupta expressed that sentiment. T'Pol replied that she had been privy to a negotiation between the Vulcan government and the Orions. Was everything he had heard about the Orion's true Tarang wondered? He did not express that thought to T'Pol; not wanting to appear like some sort of intergalactic rube. But it was not long before the intelligence officer's curiosity got the better of him.

"Is it true about their criminal activities?" he asked.

"Their economy," T'Pol began, "as far as the diplomatic corps could tell; is supported by a host of criminal activities including piracy, smuggling, illicit narcotics' trading and an active slave trade."

Gupta took up his glasses again as the cargo hatch slid open. Much to his surprise three Vulcan High Command officers stepped out of the transport's large freight opening and descended down a gangway to the tarmac below. The three Vulcans were in the company of a largish green humanoid. Gupta handed the binoculars to T'Pol. She confirmed the intelligence officer's conjecture.

"An Orion male…" she started then trailed off. Gupta watched; he could actually see her grip tighten on the glasses' case.

"What is it?" he asked. He could see that there was much motion among those who had stepped off of the freighter. But Gupta could not make out what sort of activity it was. He soon had his answer as T'Pol handed him the binoculars.

Gupta was silent as he observed two of the Vulcans in the process of furiously beating the third. The Orion stood by impassively. Gupta guessed that he was waiting for the outcome of the struggle. Tarang lowered the glasses; he nodded absently as Syrran took them up.

"Remember when I said one of the attackers in your mother's home smiled?" Gupta asked. When T'Pol answered in the affirmative he continued. "Who are they?" he asked. "You mentioned these emotional Vulcans; these V'tosh ka'tur."

"I do not believe that they exist in sufficient numbers to have influenced a minister," T'Pol replied. "Still; it is possible that V'Las is using those," T'Pol said after awhile.

"I believe that it would be profitable for us to find out," Gupta said at last.

"No," Syrran declared firmly. "We must move on."

"We do need to obtain more supplies," T'Pol said. "Perhaps a quick look—

"I say again—no," Syrran stated in a voice that, in Gupta's opinion bordered on emotion. T'Pol's look of consternation seemed to confirm Gupta's belief.

"If you are opposed to our investigation you may remain here," T'Pol said. Gupta wondered when his curiosity had become "our investigation" as T'Pol had called it.

"You two will probably succeed only in allowing yourselves to be captured," Syrran said in what Gupta thought was a protest.

"We still have injectors and a supply of fast-acting anesthetic," T'Pol said.

"And," Gupta declared in a victorious tone, "our healer pendants." He was glad now that she had glommed onto his scheme. He had been actually considering trying to sneak into the community to look around. Gupta thought that in that case Syrran might well have been correct in his assessment.

"The last time you lied to obtain admittance into a place where you did not belong an entire city center was disrupted," Syrran said.

"But no one was killed," Gupta answered facetiously.

"There is that human," Syrran answered in a completely serious tone. "I cannot dissuade either one of you I see; very well;" the Vulcan seemed to be gathering his thoughts before continuing. "I will aid you as far as is practical; and to watch you especially Gupta as you seem to be too quick to produce a weapon to solve every problem."

"I've noticed that the High Command troops carry weapons as well," Gupta answered. The Indian had heard enough savage human talk to last him a lifetime. Many Indians such as Tarang had grown up after the dissolution of the notorious caste system. But Gupta had heard enough about it to know that it was based in a form of prejudice.

"I'm not the pacifist that you are Syrran," Gupta said. "My region on earth produced one of the greatest pacifists that ever lived among us humans. Yet not all problems can be solved with a smile and good intentions. Without my intervention you would still have been in that prison. I'm sorry if my being an off-worlder offends you."

"I am not offended," Syrran countered, "you subscribe emotion—

"No," Gupta interrupted, "I have been among Vulcans long enough now to tell. You are offended by me. As much as you claim to embrace diversity you are as much afraid of change as you claim that Soval is."

The Vulcan was silent for so long that Gupta had thought that his whole statement had just been ignored. He started to scramble out of hiding toward the vehicle road beyond when Syrran said: "I am not afraid of change. But I am afraid of outcomes. For good or ill our society is going to change. But the change can be profoundly disastrous; for Vulcan as well as the worlds around ours." Syrran paused again and then said: "I must ask both of you: You must both promise that whatever you uncover must remain secret. If the truth were known it might well mean the end of Vulcan as it is today; perhaps even the end altogether."

Gupta was flabbergasted. He could not imagine finding anything that could destroy a whole people. Gupta would not be surprised with such an exclamation from a fellow human; but a Vulcan was another thing. Gupta detected that he should remain tactfully quiet but he was curious.

"You must know that I find it hard to swear secrecy in a matter that I have not been made privy too," Gupta said at last.

"It is conjecture only," Syrran answered. The Vulcan looked thoughtful for a moment. "You are right Gupta; that is neither logical nor reasonable. I have misjudged you; and your people. I have known a thing for a long time now; a thing that no other Vulcan knows. When one is the guardian of something for a very long time one learns to hold their thoughts close; closer even than is the norm for most Vulcans. If you discover that secret then I leave it to you to decide."

"You have not extended that trust to me," T'Pol said to Syrran. The trio flattened themselves behind a group of boulders as another of the High Command's armored vehicles roared past.

"Child of sulfur," Syrran began. "When you find out, all will be clear. You cannot be Vulcan—maintain the daily struggle to keep your emotions in check and not fail to see what the danger in knowledge here is."

"They seemed to have rounded up most of the townspeople for transportation," Gupta said. "If we can make our way into the outlying sections we should be able to work from there." Gupta suspended his Vulcan healer pendant from the belt of his travel cloak. There was no sound on the road as he led the trio out of cover. The ancient road had seen little work since the preponderance of air vehicles. Gupta eyed a section of rock wall across from their position. He withdrew his sidearm. Gupta drew a bead on what he thought was a vulnerable area. He was alarmed and more than a little angry when he felt a tug at his sleeve.

"You'll want to shoot over there off-worlder," Syrran said as he pulled Gupta's arm over slightly. "You will bring down more debris along the road that way."

"Very good," Tarang replied as the anger ran out of him. He sighted after carefully looking about then fired a blast of the colt's plasma at the area. The three ran back for the cover of the rocks on the other side as boulders rolled down onto the road.

"The plan is fruitless if no more vehicles come by," T'Pol declared.

"We'll make our way into the town after dark if this doesn't—

The intelligence officer's statement was cut off when Syrran raised a hand. There, Tarang thought, he could hear the crunching sound of sand and rock as another heavy vehicle approached. He peered around to see another of the two-person container vehicles. These were obviously meant to spirit the townspeople away in. Tarang felt foolish as he realized that he didn't really know what he would say to the occupants of the stopped vehicle. He looked at his Vulcan companions who were staring expectantly at him. Feeling a little like a member of the Thugee cult he stepped out into the road as the High Command soldiers stepped down from their vehicle. They started from their inspection of the rock slide at the sight of Gupta.

"What are you doing here?" one of the High Command soldiers asked.

"I am with the Ministry of Health," Gupta started. Was he trying this on earth, he believed it would take the soldiers all of two seconds to call his bluff. But Vulcans were a straightforward people; Gupta felt a pang of regret as he thought that attribute made it easy for him to deceive them. "There is an epidemic here. You must receive an inoculation before entering the city."

"What sort of an epidemic healer?" another of the High Command troops asked. Gupta walked up to them as he withdrew an injector full of anesthetic.

"It is of an alien variety," Gupta answered; "perhaps spread by the human agents," he added attempting to play into what he hoped was their acceptance of V'Las' statements concerning alien agents. "It is called Yoganidra," Gupta declared.

The two security troops eyed Gupta; warily he thought if he was becoming any judge of Vulcan expression. Several tense seconds passed. Gupta hoped that his companions were ready to spring on the troops. He had a mental image of Syrran jumping out and commencing an explanation to the troops of why they should throw down their weapons. Much to Tarang's surprise both of the security force personnel extended their arms raising the sleeve of their cloaks as they did so. Gupta took up two injectors and jabbed down first in the arm of one of the troopers and then quickly into the last one.

"There now," he said; almost breaking into a smile until he restrained himself. "That didn't hurt; did it?" Gupta asked as first one then the other soldier stumbled. Gupta caught the first one and helped to ease him to the ground. T'Pol ran out and caught the last soldier.

"Divine sleep?" she asked as she pulled the cloak off of the soldier. She changed into the High Command trooper's slightly oversized cloak as did Gupta.

"As a matter of fact yes," Gupta answered; surprised that she had recognized the Hindi term that he had used to name his fictitious flu. "I wasn't aware that you knew any Hindi."

"I thought that it would be courteous to learn your language as you have learned mine," T'Pol answered.

His parents would approve of that Gupta thought: Especially important as he considered the implications of bringing home a green skinned alien woman to his parents. He hadn't thought of their relationship since the couple had freed Syrran. Not only was the older Vulcan acting as a defacto chaperone but also they had been too occupied with the attempt to make it to Mount Selaya.

"Thank you very much," Gupta replied simply. He wanted to say more but could not find the words regardless of Syrran's presence. "We should see if we can find another cloak for Syrran," Gupta said at last.

"That will not be necessary human," Syrran said. "I shall be who I am."

"We can put you in the passenger compartment then," T'Pol said.

"Also not necessary," Syrran countered. "I shall stay here and watch over these soldiers. It is not just that they be secured in the desert among predators without a chance to defend themselves."

"Very well," Gupta said as he set about the chore of clearing the worst of the rock slide. He may have been somewhat exuberant in creating the slide.

Half an hour later a dirty and sweating Gupta climbed into the passenger compartment of the armored vehicle. T'Pol switched on the engine and gunned the vehicle forward leaving Syrran and their now secured prisoners behind. They passed beneath the freighter's control section now darkened in the shadow of the setting sun. A ring of High Command troops were arrayed about the alien freighter. One of the troopers directed Gupta and T'Pol to a point where the civilians were being collected. T'Pol dutifully turned the vehicle in the direction indicated until they were out of sight around a corner.

"Let's hide this vehicle," Gupta began as he looked around. "Between those two homes," he finished as he spotted a low wall behind which the tracked vehicle could be concealed. T'Pol maneuvered the car behind the wall and the two disembarked.

The two slung their confiscated particle rifles over their shoulders and made their way by unspoken agreement towards the freighter. Gupta also hoped to meet someone who had either been missed in the sweep or who had refused to go; if such a thing were possible. Gupta looked around as he heard the approach of another of the armored cars. The couple was disguised but he felt a little better the fewer encounters that they had. Gupta steered T'Pol towards one of the apparently abandoned houses.

Amazingly the armored car had an amplifier mounted atop of it. The voice booming out of the vehicle's sound system declared that the area was hazardous due to the discovery of an ancient nuclear device. Gupta wondered if that were indeed the case. The Indian remembered an old axiom oft quoted by Admiral Soames: The simplest solution was usually the one that fit. Gupta asked T'Pol about the matter after the car had passed.

"It has been thousands of your years Tarang," T'Pol replied. "There have been extensive planetwide searches conducted in the intervening time. I find it highly doubtful that such a thing could be."

"We need to find out what that ship is doing here," Gupta answered softly. "If these Orions are indeed criminals why is the High Command using their services?"

"Perhaps it involves something that Minister V'Las knows that he will lose support on," T'Pol answered.

The two looked sharply at one another as they heard a scuffling from outside. Two troopers adorned in the same garb as the cloaks that Gupta and T'Pol had commandeered stepped into the entrance hall of the house in which the couple had hidden themselves. They were caught; Gupta thought as the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He felt T'Pol squeeze his arm and realized that she was speaking.

"My companion is overcome from fatigue," she said in answer to one of the troopers. "We have completed the sweep of this house and were preparing to move on."

"This area is clear," the officer said. "You were misinformed as to where you should search. The evacuation must be complete in," the soldier withdrew his chronometer, looked and gave them the deadline.

"Do you really believe that they have discovered an ancient weapon?" Gupta asked suddenly. T'Pol looked sidewise at him. Gupta had observed enough Vulcans now to know that they, as humans would be in similar circumstances, would be curious about their assignment.

"I do not see how such a thing could be," one of the unnamed soldiers stated. "Still the ministry has dispatched us here."

"There is that," his companion chimed in. "But the establishment of a time limit is most illogical. Such a device has not gone off in all of this time; then why must we evacuate the inhabitants by a certain time?"

"Still most of the inhabitants of this province are Syrranites," Gupta said. It seemed that in their own Vulcan way the soldiers wanted to gossip and exchange rumors. "Taking them into detention is probably warranted."

One of the soldiers looked to his companion. Gupta thought that he was seeking permission to speak or at least checking to see rather he should do that. "The Syrranites seem harmless. It is not that I disagree with the minister's policies. I am a loyal member of the High Command. Yet it does not seem logical for the minister to be apprehending professed pacifists."

"Perhaps the minister's logic is based on things of which we do not know," T'Pol added. Gupta could see that she was giving the soldier a way out.

"You are probably correct," the soldier replied. "You need to return to your unit now," he said.

"We will do that," Gupta answered. He gave the slight nod of the head that seemed to pass for a salute among Vulcans.

Darkness had fallen outside as Gupta led the way out of the house and immediately reentered after the soldiers turned a corner. Night had fallen and they could hear the heavy tracked vehicles leaving the small city. Gupta felt a great deal of sadness that they could not help those who had been rounded up. He said as much to T'Pol.

"They have not been harmed," she replied.

Gupta could not find fault with her assertion. Humans under similar circumstances would have been enraged. V'Las' own personnel did not believe the stated goal of this mission. He decided not to pursue the matter further as the two of them made their way slowly toward the freighter landing site. Gupta was gasping hard after several sprints from one hiding place to another. T'Pol touched his shoulder gently as he was bent over trying to catch his breath. Gupta realized that his human respiratory system still was not fully acclimated to the thin Vulcan air.

He looked up to see the dark form of the freighter against the night sky of Vulcan. A harsh blue light spilled out of the cargo hatch. Gupta judged that the two of them were less than fifteen meters from the freighter's offloading ramp hid in the blacker darkness of a shadow of an outbuilding. Several High Command troops were milling about the ramp. Or so it seemed at first. Gupta could see the consternation on T'Pol's face. He wondered why until he heard the soldiers' conversation: The language was not Vulcan.

"The deadline is past yet these soldiers are still here," Gupta gasped out at last. He righted himself; and instantly froze. Three soldiers rounded the corner of the building where he and T'Pol had concealed themselves. The newcomers almost passed by the huddled couple when one of the troops spotted the two. The man stopped and spoke to them in the alien tongue that they had heard the others on the ramp use. Gupta knew that he couldn't reach his sidearm in time. Tarang did a double take as one of the Vulcans, as he had thought them reached across and smacked the one who had spoken to he and T'Pol on the back of his head.

"P'Tav, you fool!" he exclaimed. "You have been instructed to speak in their language." Gupta detected that the one who had lashed out at his companion was someone in charge. Though alien, his manner struck the Indian as being similar to non commissioned training instructors that he had experienced in his military career.

"My apologies," P'Tav answered finishing his statement with some word unknown to Gupta: It sounded like you-lan. Was he referring to his leader's name or rank Tarang wondered?

"And you two!" the being said to Gupta and T'Pol. It was uhlan; Tarang was sure of that. Uhlan seemed to notice T'Pol for the first time. He stepped up to her and swept her hood back. "An nviahr!" he exclaimed. "So it has come to women joining the fighting as well. A pretty one at that," Uhlan added as he touched T'Pol's hair. Gupta visibly tensed. He turned and said to Tarang: "Ah, she is your awevhoi." He cast a knowing glance at Gupta. "Be warned though, that others will cast their eye upon her. Unless you are selling her," he laughed cruelly, "attributes. You must be prepared to duel." He smiled and laughed.

"You two laggards," Uhlan declared of Gupta and T'Pol. "Report to Uhlan Tesex in compartment 3; we must finish unloading the equipment prior to the landing." Uhlan laughed again. "There will be time for you two to vinxav later!" he exclaimed. "Now get moving!" he added.

Gupta and T'Pol fell in with the group of what Tarang reasoned were soldiers. The uhlan seemed more interested in getting his personnel to work than pursuing any small talk with either Tarang or T'Pol. The remainder of the group talked about their desire to see home again. Gupta wished he could have asked them where exactly that was at. The pair soon found themselves bathed in the bluish white light of the freighter's entranceway. When the uhlan had assigned his soldiers to various duties he turned to T'Pol and Gupta. He pointed to a hatch and ordered the two to go and report to Tesex. He landed a swat on T'Pol's backside as she and Gupta made their way for the hatchway.

"If you tire of your haavwoi then you may share my bed," he said to her then laughed and turned away from them; joining a group of soldiers who were forming a chain to unload cargo. Gupta opened the manual hatch and squeezed through the narrow opening. T'Pol followed him.

"Who are they?" Gupta asked when he saw that the two of them were alone at the foot of a ladder that obviously passed through the length of the freighter.

"I do not know," T'Pol replied. "But we should proceed up." She took the lead and started climbing.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To help Uhlan Tesex of course," T'Pol halted her climbing. "They obviously do not know everyone among their number. We cannot go back out without being caught by the uhlan. We must," she paused looking around quickly for listeners, then said in English: "Bluff our way out of this."

"Quite right," Gupta said agreeably reverting back to Vulcan. He sprang up the ladder after T'Pol. The two of them passed through several levels until T'Pol stepped off onto a gangway that circled the passage. "This may be the third level or compartment, at least in a base ten system," she said as she opened the hatch.

"Is that third up or third down?" Gupta asked as he stepped into a darkened corridor. T'Pol merely shot him a look of annoyance as they observed a soldier, his back toward the room he was departing. The soldier was dressed in an odd uniform, a golden helmet over his head: He jerked his arm toward his chest. Gupta guessed that it was the Vulcan's, or whatever these people were, way of saluting. A second figure stepped out of the chamber as the helmeted figure scrambled past them. The second figure was helmeted as well: He called toward the couple and motioned for them to come.

"It is about time," the figure declared as he lifted his helmet off of his head. Gupta thumped his chest; T'Pol followed suit. The Indian desperately hoped that these aliens' or Vulcans' customs demanded that sort of military courtesy. He was greatly relieved when the older looking Vulcan returned the courtesy. Gupta wondered what the "v" down the man's forehead was from. The human grew nervous as the older man scrutinized him. Tarang breathed a silent sigh of relief when the officer, for Gupta believed that is what this being was, turned to T'Pol.

"I have heard that women were in the Ehrefv rhi," he said to T'Pol. "It is a sad thing that the mothers' of our children must go forth to fight. You are the first that I have ever met. What is your name child?" he asked.

Gupta winced inside as T'Pol, without hesitation answered: "My name is T'Pol sir."

"Ah," the man answered, "promise, in the ancient tongue. An antique name but very lovely; a beautiful name for a child. Where are you from Promise?" he asked.

T'Pol was silent for some time. Gupta knew that she was in conflict with her strict Vulcan ethical code. He knew that Vulcans got around that by obfuscation and sometimes exaggeration; but anything T'Pol told the man now would be a straight out lie.

"We are from Chula Province," Gupta said at last remembering one of the soldiers speaking of his homeland. "Excuse me sir but my companion is somewhat in awe of you." Weak Tarang knew, but among humans higher ranking individuals sometimes were feared by subordinates.

"I am an admiral but I am merely a soldier of the empire as are you two," the being replied. He eyed Gupta and said: "You do not sound like you are from Chula," Gupta could feel his hackles rise until the admiral added: "I have not been in that Province for many d'fvheisn. I sometimes forget accents with all of my time in space."

The conversation was interrupted by the noise of a heavy metal container falling. Someone cried out in pain. The trio turned and the older man stepped back into the chamber revealing to Gupta a large cargo bay. A man dressed in the flowing robes of the Vulcan High Command was standing next to some cargo boxes. He had his arm pinned beneath a long cylindrical object that looked to have rolled out of one of the boxes.

"Mnaes!" the man threw down his helmet and cried. He rushed back to aid the trapped being. Gupta shot a quick glance to T'Pol and followed the admiral.

Gupta and T'Pol positioned themselves near the weighted end of the two meter long cylinder. Tarang almost blurted out a statement of surprise in Hindi as he saw that the cylinder, which resembled a terran amazon antiship missile in size and shape, had the Romulan raptor clearly emblazoned upon its case. The two pushed the object upwards allowing the older man to pull the trapped man's arm away. Tarang exhaled as he let the missile; for that is surely what it was he thought, return to rest. Gupta and T'Pol turned to see the admiral hastily tearing at his own cloak in an effort to create a makeshift bandage to staunch the gout of green blood on the wounded being's hand.

"I am well Admiral Valdore," the wounded being said looking anything but well alien or not Gupta thought.

"You are not a good liar Uhlan Keldar," the admiral answered as he examined Keldar's obviously broken arm. He looked at T'Pol and Gupta. "You two see to the uhlan. The surgeon has set up a field hospital near to the landing pad." The admiral looked, with some concern at Keldar.

Gupta realized in one stark moment that these were Romulans. He vaguely recalled T'Pol mentioning a schism between two the followers of Surak and others. She had told Gupta that it was assumed that the others had perished out among the stars. Gupta was beginning to realize that was not the case. The human almost missed Admiral Valdore's orders as the Romulan officer extended his hand to T'Pol giving her an object.

"That is my personal seal," Valdore proclaimed. "See to the good treatment of Keldar or so help me I will have Opulat skinned though he be our only doctor." Gupta and T'Pol moved to support Keldar who was obviously going into some kind of shock. "Have Opulat report to me personally on Keldar's condition. I should have been there to help him; more time wasted. Our landing here must be unopposed." This last Gupta gleaned was the admiral's voicing of what was on his mind.

"We shall see that he is cared for admiral," Gupta replied. He watched as T'Pol issued the odd salute with her free arm. His right arm was supporting the wounded Romulan.

Gupta did not want to anthropomorphize; but he thought that when Valdore looked at T'Pol his look was not one of sexual desire but rather that of a concerned grandfather towards a beloved grandchild.

"Jolan tru Promise," Valdore said to T'Pol. "And to you," The admiral looked at Gupta. Tarang doubted that his name would fly as well with the Romulan as had T'Pol's. He suddenly recalled one of the names from the first group that had come upon him and T'Pol.

"Tomalok, sir," Tarang answered.

"Jolan tru Tomalok," Valdore replied. He held aloft one hand splitting his fingers in the Vulcan salute; "and live long and prosper. We must become accustomed to that if reunification between the races is to succeed."

Andorian Imperial Guard cruiser Kumari, Andorian-Vulcan border, Oct 2157

The hot steam rose up to tickle Captain Gordon Albright's nose; he smiled. His cabin heat was up. But the true luxury that he was granting himself was the hot tub of water into which his cold feet were now in the process of warming. He was seated at his office chair enjoying the warm soak. Doubtless his engineer wondered why he needed a large tub; but he supposed that the Andorian looked at it as yet another strange pink skin ritual. Albright enjoyed his warm feet as he paged through the adventures of Captain Hornblower.

The Kumari's captain wished that his adventures were as grandiose as were those of his fictional seagoing counterpart. Albright wished that this war could be one by one mighty battle where his ships would cross the "T" decisively ending the conflict. Instead the Canadian found himself on border patrol; processing report after report to the Andorian Command filled with the adventures of his random encounters with subatomic particles. All the while Captain Hornblower was blazing away at coastal fortifications in the warm Mediterranean.

He sighed, took his feet out, dried them off and put on some heated socks. Albright was pulling on his regulation Starfleet boot when his intercom let out its peculiar chirp indicating that someone was trying to talk to him. Gordon sprang up and hit the reply. His first officer was on the other end of the circuit. The Andorian was clearly nervous: Their scanners had picked up the signatures of three Vulcan cruisers.

"I'll be right there," Albright responded in crisp Andorian Sehlan; the predominant common language of Andoria.. Gordon started out without his right boot on; realized his mistake and cursed at whoever had designed the tight fitting high topped Star Fleet uniform boots. He threw on a uniform jacket and made his way out of his cabin. He greeted the various crewmen that he met along the way using what his first officer had assured him was a much improved accent. Albright and his fellow humans aboard Kumari seldom used any of the terran languages anymore.

The Kumari was positioned in corona of a red giant on the Andorian side of the border. Vulcan sensors, Albright knew, were far superior to either Andorian or terran subspace sensors. Gordon had hoped to defeat that advantage by masking his ship in the solar radiation being emitted by the red star. The pointies would already be in range by the time they picked up Albright's cruiser. Gordon stepped through the final airlock to his bridge. The Canadian was glad for the purplish light that dominated the Andorian cruiser; made for eyes other than human.

He immediately picked up the tall throne-like command chair. Albright's first officer got out of the chair in an acknowledgement of Gordon's rank. Chief Ezra Crowder was manning the sensor station. Gordon asked for a report as he assumed his seat.

"We picked up group of four Vulcan cruisers near the edge of the border," his first officer began. "But according to Ezra it now seems that three of the cruisers are pursuing the fourth."

"This may be the Vulcan civil war we've gotten intelligence about," Albright said. "Chief, are they on a heading into Andorian space?" he asked the mustachioed Alaskan native. Albright had grown up in Saskatchewan yet he could not bring himself to wear the short sleeve Star Fleet issue jersey as did Crowder.

"Aye sir," the human replied. "They will be at the edge of the system in two hours."

The system that Gordon had stationed Kumari in sat on the edge of the Vulcan Andorian border. Albright did some mental calculations: They could intercept the Vulcans in less than half an hour. Once that was accomplished Albright knew that his ship would be heavily outgunned. But the Imperial Guard and Star Fleet had issued orders to defend the border. Albright had little choice.

"Standby here," he ordered sharply. He caught the glances and antennae twitches of the Andorian members of the bridge crew. "Send out a call to the nearest reinforcements and prepare to set an intercept course." Albright was going through the motions: The nearest Star Fleet vessels were well over three days away. When those tasks were complete he ordered his helmsman to engage.

"They'll see us anytime now," Commander Saln said.

"I know," Albright answered. "This could, as we humans say, turn ugly quickly."

"Incoming transmission from the lead Vulcan," Lieutenant Hahn declared. "They identify themselves as the cruiser Ri'Genza and request a meeting with a Star Fleet officer under a flag of truce," the blue skinned communications officer added.

"Damn," Albright cursed in English. He continued in Andorian. "I have specific orders covering a border incursion but nothing for this situation." This was, as the American Admiral Buchanan liked to say, why a captain was paid the big bucks. Right now Gordon Albright would've preferred a smaller paycheck. But this was indeed why he had gone this far in the navy: To command. He knew what he had to do.

"Hahn, send to Ri'Genza," Albright began; "Permission to cross the border under a flag of truce." Now for the bad news Albright thought: "Send to the remaining cruisers that entry into allied space is forbidden and will be dealt with harshly." Gordon saw the looks of martial pride pasted on the faces of the Andorians. But he also noted the look of seriousness held by some of the more experienced bridge personnel: They knew that Albright's statement was basically empty.

"No reply," Hahn said after several minutes had passed.

"They are playing it cool," Albright said. That was it he thought: The logical thing for Albright to do would be to turn tail and run. And Vulcans Albright knew were a logical people. Gordon thought of the adventures of Horatio Hornblower: What would C.S. Forester's hero do the Canadian asked? He slapped his fist into his open palm.

"First, do we still have those antimatter packets under containment?" Albright asked the tall Andorian commander. Kumari had been detailed to carry a load of the small fuel packets to a rendezvous with a carrier. They had exceeded their time and the little containment vessels, their contents meant to power Minotaurs for short combat flights, had begun to deteriorate. When his first officer replied in the affirmative Albright sketched out his plan. Saln's antennae visibly drooped.

"Captain," his first officer started, "with respect: I have fought the Vulcans. I do not believe that such a strategy will be successful."

"Unless reinforcements show up this is going to be a short engagement," Albright answered. "We aren't going to win this with missiles Saln." Albright turned to Crowder. "Chief, what is the timing between the Ri'Genza and its pursuers?"

"We'll be at IP with the Ri'Genza in fifteen minutes captain," the chief answered. "The others will be on us ten minutes after that," the chief added after a thorough look at his scope.

"We are receiving a video transmission from the Ri'Genza," Hahn said.

"Let's see why they are so anxious to cross the border Saln," Albright said. Hahn replaced the image of the black starfield with one of a dark haired powerfully built Vulcan. Albright could not guess at his age relying instead on the old human rule of thumb for Vulcans: Dark hair meant less than one hundred and fifty years of age. The individual pictured behind the Ri'Genza's captain was over one hundred and fifty Gordon guessed.

In fact Albright thought that he should know who the older Vulcan was. Gordon was sure that he had seen the Vulcan before. Unlike the Ri'Genza's captain the older individual was dressed in a nondescript two piece outfit that Albright understood passed for Vulcan formal wear. The video was two way and it did not escape Albright's attention that his Vulcan counterpart was somewhat disoriented at the sight of a human ship master.

"I am Skon," the Vulcan started in halting Andorian. "I command a vessel under Syrranite control. We request safe passage to an allied port that we may wait out the duration of the strife on our world."

"Captain Gordon Albright commanding the Star Fleet cruiser Kumari," Albright replied. At least Skon was not being deceptive about the Syrranite control: Ri'Genza's IFF was on the list of Syrranite held cruisers that had been passed along to Taskforce 9. "I am certain that Star Fleet will approve that."

"Very good," Skon answered. "I also carry Minister Soval aboard my ship. He has requested to be put off aboard an alliance vessel."

"If we stop to effect a transfer will you aide us against the cruisers that are pursuing you?" Albright asked. Those ships had IFF's not on the list that had been provided by Buchanan. Now Albright remembered: Soval was some sort of high ranking minister in the pointie government. Albright had not followed politics as well as he should: A lifetime in the navy consisted among other things of getting news three weeks to a month after it had been created. Hence, Albright found the subject to stale for his tastes.

"We will not fire on our fellow Vulcans," Skon answered.

There that was out, Albright thought. He could not allow Ri'Genza's pursuers any further into Andorian territory. But if he made a stand here it would likely end in the death of them all. He said as much to Skon.

"If I may," Soval said to Skon. At the Vulcan commander's slight bow of his head the minister stepped forward and addressed Albright. "Vulcan is in the midst of a civil strife. I believe that Minister V'Las is instigating an incident between Vulcan and the allies. Such an occurrence will leave Vulcan isolated. Not all of us are desirous of that."

"Minister it is most likely that we will be destroyed by your attackers," Albright said.

"We will stay behind and be destroyed," Skon stepped forward and said. "You should be able to escape with the minister in the time it takes them to deal with Ri'Genza."

"Not my first choice," Albright answered. He sat back in his command chair. Albright was ignorant of politics but he understood the import of a meeting between a Vulcan minister and the alliance governments. Besides that if he allowed the High Command cruisers to cross into Andorian space to destroy Ri'Genza how long before they would do more he wondered?

"Prepare to shuttle over minister," Albright said at last. He signaled for Hahn to mute the channel as noticed Saln's gesturing at him.

"We have removed the antimatter packets from the containment area," his first officer reported. "The engineer reports that the containers are not severely degraded but does not recommend leaving them out any longer than we have too."

"Very good," Albright answered. He asked Hahn to restore the audio. The image of Soval had turned away so he assumed that the minister had no more to say. He ordered the channel cut.

Gordon leaned forward. He removed his uniform jacket. He guessed that they had about five minutes before Soval would shuttle over. Five minutes after that Kumari would either be on the run or fully engaged against an overwhelming foe. Crowder reported no other ships in the area which meant that support could not possibly reach them in time. Albright ordered his ship out of warp. He watched the video of the rather boxy Vulcan shuttle as it departed the elegant spear shaped Vulcan cruiser.

"The Vulcan's shuttle has been recovered sir," Saln reported.

"Very good first," Albright answered. "Make sure that security treats this Soval with respect: I know your people still have feelings toward the pointies. But this is not the time." Albright paused then added: "Escort the minister to the bridge."

"As you wish sir," Saln answered.

"Take up a position in front of Ri'Genza," Albright told his first officer. "Hahn, open a voice and video channel to the other cruisers." The Andorian communications' officer made the necessary inputs. Gordon stood up, tugged at his gold jersey and addressed the empty view screen.

"Vulcan ships; you are in violation of the Andorian Sovereignty's border," Albright started. "Crossing the border can be construed as an act of war. You will withdraw or be destroyed."

The image remained blank for a minute. Saln reported that their potential enemy had dropped to sublight. So far power readings on both Vulcan cruisers were unchanged. Albright guessed that they were already at their highest alert level anyway. Finally the view screen lit up with the image of another Vulcan captain.

"We seek the return of our property," the Vulcan captain whom Albright judged to be around two hundred declared in English. "The cruiser Ri'Genza; in addition we demand that you hand over former Minister Soval who is wanted for questioning."

"Captain Gordon Albright here," the Canadian stated. "It is customary to identify yourself; what has happened to Vulcan courtesy?" Albright asked in an acerbic tone.

"It is logical to comply when one is confronted by a superior force Albright," the Vulcan answered. Albright noted the arrival of Soval on the bridge. "Yet you are correct: I am Vanik of the High Command vessel T'Mir."

"Captain Vanik you are in violation of the treaty between your people and the Andorian Sovereignty," Albright countered. "Surely you are not here to start a war? What is the logic in that?"

"We do not desire war," Vanik replied. "We merely wish to recover our property and the renegade Soval. Why is that a human commands an Andorian craft?"

"The Kumari is a Star Fleet vessel," Albright explained. "In case you haven't heard sir, there is an alliance between our three peoples. We humans honor our commitments sir," Gordon added. He thought he could see the gray headed Vulcan's hands grip the armrests of his chair a little tighter.

"You will withdraw Albright," Vanik said without emotion. "I am prepared to destroy the Ri'Genza if necessary. Even were the Syrranites to join you; you could not survive our assault. Our ships, our weapons are superior to yours."

"Very true captain," Albright answered. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled slowly around his command chair. "No doubt you have scanned this vessel with those superior sensors. And no doubt you have detected several antimatter sources." Gordon positioned himself before his chair and continued without waiting for a reply. "Kumari is equipped with a new antimatter tipped missile." Gordon realized that he needed a name. He had been reading a paper on emissions from gaseous nebulae yesterday. "Our photon missiles," he caught Saln's antennae standing straight up out of the corner of his eye. "Our new warp driven photon missiles can easily dispatch your two puny vessels."

"We are not aware of any new weapon human," Vanik replied; "especially any antimatter weapon."

"The alliance isn't in the habit of relaying secrets to those who can't be trusted," Albright replied. "I'm not surprised that the Vulcan Science Academy has not heard of photon missiles. Your science seems to have fallen behind lately captain. Perhaps after the war we will share some of our technology with you."

"Standby human," Vanik replied hastily. Albright was amazed when he realized that Vanik had failed to mute his end of the commlink.

Albright heard Vanik inquire to someone off screen in his own tongue. Saln who knew Vulcan gave Albright a knowing look. Seeming to realize that his mistake; Vanik turned suddenly and reached forward obviously opening the audio connection.

A full minute passed before Vanik opened his audio channel again: "It is not logical to parade our internal disputes before non Vulcans. We will depart with this warning: Relay to Soval that he is forbidden in our territory as well as are the Syrranite traitors."

Vanik reached down again prompting Gordon to say: "We will escort you safely back to the border if you want Captain Vanik. We would not want any harm to come to your vessels while they are in allied space."

"That will not be necessary human," Vanik replied.

"Very well then captain," Albright said. "Good day to you," he concluded cheerily. Albright motioned for the channel to be cut leaving what he thought for a second was a gaping Vulcan.

"They have turned about and went to warp captain," Chief Crowder said. "They are making for Vulcan space."

"Grand!" the captain cried. Albright took up his jacket and put it on. He was growing chill as he resumed his seat. He turned to Soval. "It looks like you are a man without a planet sir."

"I was hoping to rectify that situation captain," Soval answered. "My world is in jeopardy. V'Las must be prevented from moving us into open war."

"It will be over three weeks before I could get you to earth," Albright said. "I suppose that we could conduct you to Andoria when reinforcements arrive to relieve us here. Shahar Shran could meet with you. Though I do not know how we can help you without provoking the very war you claim to want to prevent."

"I do not know either at this juncture," Soval answered. "But I must make the attempt."

"That makes sense," Albright said. "Very good," Gordon gestured to a weapons technician, "Zenna; please conduct," Albright hesitated; was the man a minister or traitor to his world? "Please conduct the minister to the guest quarters on deck 5." When the bridge hatch trundled close behind the exiting Vulcan Albright turned to his first officer.

"Signal Ri'Genza to stay in formation with us," Albright said. "We'll escort them to Andor when we are relieved from picket duty."

"And do what sir?" his first asked expectantly. Albright could guess what was on the Andorian's mind: The same thought dominated Albright's thinking at the moment.

"I'd love to have our people tear into that thing," Albright said gesturing toward the image of the Vulcan cruiser on the bridge view screen. "But you know and I know that the politicians might have different ideas." Albright's face assumed a dire expression as he added: "Soval mentioned the Vulcans going to war. The questions are with whom and against whom?" Albright's lips broke into a grin. "Still I do believe that the Sovereignty provides for agricultural inspections of incoming ships. Who knows what sort of insects or microbes may be on that vessel Saln?"

"I shall arrange for an agricultural inspection sir," Saln replied. The Andorian looked like he was about to turn away when he asked suddenly: "Photon missiles?" Saln's incredulousness was visible on his face and in his demeanor.

"Would you rather be fighting the Vulcans in a mismatch?" Gordon asked.

"True sir," Saln replied. Albright ordered a return to their previous position near the system's sun. Saln started turning away but not without Albright catching the blue skinned alien's mumblings: "A warp speed antimatter torpedo—it has merit."


	19. Chapter 19

Walston City, Terra Nova, Wolf 359, Oct 2157

"Attention on deck!" the chief petty officer roared. The officer and enlisted naval personnel, human and alien sprang to their feet. Admiral Maxwell Forrest stepped out onto the stage of what had once been a high school auditorium. He walked to the podium and spoke:

"At ease," he said. Forrest smiled a wolfish grin. The allies had been battered and beaten for many long months now. But that had all changed just a few short weeks ago. The admiral was not surprised to see Commodore "Grizzly" Oulette still standing.

"Why are we here sir and not turning the battle back to the birds?" Oulette asked. Forrest was also not surprised to hear that sentiment being echoed throughout the hall.

"The alliance council has been concerned about the Vulcan problem," Forrest replied. "So far our logical friends have stayed quiet and not taken sides. But we have gotten inklings that a power play is in motion there. They may well enter the war on the Romulan side." The hall burst into a clamor. Forrest bellowed for silence.

"We should neutralize those hazinda before they have a chance to do anything," General Antor shouted. Forrest was not surprised at a statement like that being issued by the new Andorian commander. Star Fleet had such plans in their back pocket Forrest knew: He had helped to make up those plans. The admiral suddenly felt cold despite Terra Nova's warm spring day.

"The crux has always been having an enemy at our backs and our fronts," Forrest proclaimed. "But the alliance council has approved a plan to deal with one of our fronts in this war." Without ceremony Forrest moved to the large curtain behind him. He motioned for the NCO that was helping him with his presentation. A huge curtain behind the admiral parted revealing a view screen. Forrest heard the collective gasps from the crowd of Star Fleet personnel.

"Deneva!" a voice exclaimed from the crowd.

"Deneva," Forrest echoed in a commanding voice. "Star Fleet believes that after the victory of Hell's Gate Deneva is now a prime target. Our flybys are seldom challenged now."

"You are landing troops to take their fortifications sir?" Forrest was not surprised to hear Jocelyn Stiles' young yet old voice ask.

"The council wants prisoners," Forrest answered curtly.

"Admiral with all due respect that has been tried," Stiles retorted. "I say the hell with that: We blanket the surface with grand slams and then the red shirts can land and pick up the pieces. We don't need to throw our peoples' lives away."

"We think the birdies are in a weakened position," Forrest explained. "The chance to get insight into their technology and the Romulans personally is too big an opportunity to pass up."

"Sir," Recently promoted commodore Zimmermann spoke up. Forrest liked the man as a tactician but his acerbic wit was not much to be desired. Forrest recognized the commodore. "Sir I agree with Commodore Stiles here. The birdies have never allowed themselves to be captured. If we overrun their fortifications they are liable to use some bunker busting nuke to settle things."

"It is a risk," Forrest replied. He dared not add that it was a risk that had been weighed and the decision to go ahead made anyway. Forrest had personally agonized over the toll in life that this attack would take. "But we all knew the dangers when we signed up; that goes for the ground troops as well. Over five million people died between Deneva and Topaz; not to mention the losses we took in '56." Forrest was too much of a warrior to hide the facts from his people.

"This new council does have an agenda here," Forrest started. "They want live Romulans because they want an explanation." Forrest found himself in the unenviable position of being not only the supreme commander of the allied forces but also balancing the politics between the members' of the alliance. And like it or not he believed that they were right: An explanation had to be gotten from the birdies on why they had started this. It would not change anything Forrest knew; but it might lead to an understanding that would resolve future conflicts before war started.

"We can get answers when we show up over Romulus," a female voice interjected. The call earned more than a few exclamations of agreement.

"The issue is settled," Forrest countered. "The military exists as an arm of the government which in turn acts as an arm of the people. I realize that you all want payback. But keep in mind who our employers are. Anyone have misgivings about that; then see me."

"Sir, I see that you assigned Taskforce 17 to help 9 knockout the orbital batteries," Stiles said. The graphical representation of the attack plan was there for all to see. Forrest wasn't surprised about Stiles' protests. "Taskforce 18 has been over Deneva: My people are better able to handle that." Forrest saw the look that Stiles shot towards Zimmermann. "No offense commodore; my people have been tangling with the birdies around Deneva a lot longer than have yours."

"No offense taken," Zimmermann replied sharply. "It is going to be charging into the lion's mouth. If you want to step up for that then you are more of a man than me."

"Taskforce 17 is going in," Forrest answered firmly; resolving the issue as far as he was concerned. "Commodore Stiles you will support the troop landings. Is that understood?" Forrest had anticipated Stiles posturing. He had recently had deep misgivings about promoting the young woman. From a military standpoint she was a genius; but Forrest realized that she was also a killer. The admiral knew that one day this war would be over: There would be no place for the Stiles of the war to go after that he knew. She would have a terrible personal struggle Forrest knew. But as harsh a thought as it was Forrest understood that Stiles' personal life would better be in the hands of a psychologist after the war. Right now Forrest needed killers. But Forrest knew that allowing Stiles to take out the orbital platforms would also put her in a position to bombard the planet. He could not permit that.

"What about the tellars and andies sir?" a petty officer asked.

"I have just received word that the Tellarites are committing their full resources," Forrest answered. "Their leader did some collective ass kicking after Hell's Gate but he got their congress to support full engagement." Forrest looked to General Antor. The Andorian stepped forward some. His voice had enough volume behind it that he did not need it to be amplified.

"We are still holding at our border," the Andorian announced. "The Vulcans have made one incursion into our space which was turned back by the Kumari and her crew. Shahar Shran has released some of your vessels from border patrol. The information on the Syrranite movement leads the Shahar to believe that the Vulcans lack the internal unity to strike at us yet."

"In addition," Antor continued. "We will release our carriers to support the retaking of Deneva. We still must defend our homeworld and Shahar Shran feels that if the Vulcans engage us they will try to make a final stroke against Andor. The Guard will defend Andor."

Forrest thanked the general for the carriers then closed the briefing a few minutes later. The rest of the operational details would be hashed out well before the ground troops arrived. If all went well the allies would be on Deneva in November.

"You were going to shuttle up without seeing me?" Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker said. He had followed the young woman after she had left the hush-hush briefing. He had finally caught up to her near the field where the Stellar Navy shuttles were lined up alongside the few Tellarite and Andorian boats.

"I've got things to do Trip," Jocelyn Stiles replied. She stalked toward her shuttle.

"Look," Tucker said, grabbing the woman's arm trying to stop her. "You can spend five minutes talking to me. I really thought we made a connection. Anyway your mother says you hardly write anymore. And I heard about Mary Vong. Jo-jo she is a good friend."

"This fleet is just full of gossip," Stiles answered while shaking Tucker's hand off. She sighed deeply and for just a second Trip saw the beautiful twenty-four year old that he had fallen in love with. "I told you once before that I don't want to feel that way again. As soon as you love a person, along comes some aliens who kill them."

"I asked you once before what happens when all the Romulans are dead Jo-jo," Tucker said. "I think that when that happens you'll die too. Oh I don't mean your heart will stop; you will die inside."

"Did you ever stop to think that is the cost of war Trip?" Stiles said hotly. She continued in a voice full of anger that bordered on rage. "Did you think we would all go home and live happily ever after? I don't want to be this way but you are being childishly idealistic. I would like nothing better than to have been married now and looking at settling somewhere on earth with David. But I woke up. Life isn't some fairy tale: It is full of monsters. It is time for you to se that too. Elizabeth isn't coming back. She was sitting around, no threat to the great Romulan Empire and those bastards just incinerated her along with my father."

"No one could have known that this would happen," Tucker said. "Hell I was torn up about Liz but I've managed to put it behind me. I want to see the birdies pay for what they've did too. But that is it. My sister was full of life. She was happy." Trip's voice grew quiet. "I think she would be sad if I burned my life up on some quest for revenge."

"I'm going to set things right," Stiles said. "The president and the rest of the starry eyed exploration crowd wants to reach out and understand what happened." Trip nearly took a step back at the bitter tone Jocelyn's voice assumed when she mouthed the word "understand." "I don't want to understand anything. I want the Romulans and yes later if they want to try it; the Klingons to understand that you don't sneak up and start a war like this. If you do we'll hit you and we'll keep on coming even if it means exterm—

"Exterminating them all," Trip said completing her sentence. Jocelyn remained silent. Tucker tried to reach out and stroke her hair causing her to pull away. "I never knew your father; but from knowing you—how you were before and meeting the rest of your family: I believe your father would turn you over his knee for saying something like that."

Trip barely saw her hand but he heard the loud smack of her palm across his cheek. "Don't you talk about my father!" she exclaimed. Tucker saw Jocelyn's red shirts standing at rigid attention at her shuttle's airlock. They had witnessed the exchange.

Tucker rubbed his cheek where she had slapped him. "You can hit me all you like and it won't change things. You can kill all the Romulans and it won't change things. You know what I'm saying is right." Tucker stopped and sighed. He knew her enough despite the little time they had shared to know that there was no changing her mind now.

"I'm here for you," he said at last. "I love you; I think I always have. Sometime before this is all over you need to take a long hard look in your soul." Trip wanted desperately to embrace the woman but he knew that he dare not. Tucker stepped back, snapped to attention and saluted Jocelyn. "Best of luck sir!" he exclaimed.

"Goodbye Trip," she responded. Stiles turned her back to him and proceeded to board her shuttle. Her security troops saluted her sharply. Tucker had been an officer long enough to recognize something in the red shirts demeanor: Fear. The security men boarded behind Jocelyn.

Tucker stood in the field for several minutes. The hot, dry blast of the departing shuttles' thrusters washed over his face and blew through his hair. He watched as Jocelyn's shuttle became a dot in the sky then finally disappeared. Trip looked around. A few of the shuttles from the other ships were still there. The boat from Trafalgar that had brought him to the surface of Terra Nova was there waiting.

Captain Valdez had granted Trip thirty-six hours of leave. Right now he didn't particularly feel like using it. But his presence on Trafalgar wouldn't speed the repairs any more. Tucker thought of Fenton Mudd's rotgut whiskey: He knew if he went there that he would have a wicked hangover tomorrow. But the pain of a hangover Tucker thought sourly might mitigate the pain he felt in his heart now. Trip turned away from the field and headed into town.

Reykjavik, Iceland, earth Oct 2157

The cold moist air washed over Perrin's naked body. How he hated this corruption of his Rihannsu given name; but Perrin accepted his task as a loyal Romulan should. His companion of the night before was no doubt shivering as she rushed to dress and then to leave. The Tal Shiar centurion would have much rather had the company of a Romulan woman; he found these terran women cold and passionless: Even the ones he had not paid for. Perrin was surprised to feel Kata; no Vigdìs he corrected himself press her nude body against his. Her hands snaked up his chest.

"Be gone woman," he said in a stern voice. He could hear her moan of disappointment. He cared little for her feelings. She was much like the pleasure slaves that he had indulged in at his father's estate. He glanced behind to see her slink away, gather her clothes and make for the door. Perrin turned back to the view of the bay as the sun sank into the gray horizon.

The centurion looked forward to the day when this world would be added to the empire's conquests. Perhaps, though he knew he should not even wish it, he Perex, would be granted the rule of this section of this world. So much like his home on Romulus this Iceland was. He heard the human woman leave and realized that someone else had arrived. The Tal Shiar had trained him well.

"Good evening Karzai," Perrin said to his visitor.

"You do not even bother to clothe yourself?" his visitor replied harshly. "And you soil yourself with these alien awevhoi." Perrin turned to see Karzai cast a glance filled with disgust at where the human woman had exited.

"It is a privilege for subjects such as that to enjoy their superiors," Perrin answered. "This world will one day fall under the empire. It is inevitable." He looked closely at Karzai. Whatever surgeon had altered his features to be more human looking had not been kind. "But I will dress since I offend you." Perrin moved none to fast as he threw on a robe.

"You do not offend me," Karzai declared hastily. "We have a task here. You seem bent on indulging your passions instead of completing the mission."

"I have tried repeatedly to complete the task here!" Perrin snapped. "Instead I am told to rely on political meanderings like we are in court at the Praetor's fortress. If the military wants these terrans neutralized then let me do my job!"

"Mass murder will lead to our defeat," Karzai retorted.

"You idiot," Perrin replied angrily. "Had I carried out the chemical attack as planned it would have seemed like internecine attack. It would have seemed that Glenn and Sheibani had made strikes against one another in a sparking of an old tribal conflict. Remember the words of Careaza: Extend your sword that your enemy might impale himself."

"I would not put much stock in ancient words Perrin," Karzai replied. "These humans seem unaware of the invulnerability of the empire."

"You scoff at tradition Karzai," Perrin growled in his native tongue.

"Do not speak that language here," Karzai bellowed in English. "We must remain hidden away."

"Careaza led our people to the Great Diaspora," Perrin said still using his native language. "He led us though he himself did not escape; instead offering his life that we might survive." Perrin's mother had faithfully read the ancient tomes to him when he was still a child. He believed as Careaza had once proclaimed that the Rihannsu would one day be one again; under the raptor's wings. "Do you not believe the words of he who died for us?" Perrin asked simply, reverting to the terran English.

"He also said that the Rihannsu must labor to achieve greatness," Karzai answered. "It is not granted; only to be worked for by the rulers of all."

"Then grant me the chance to labor here to make our people great," Perrin said. He was frustrated but this time he checked his emotions. "A massive strike against their lands would ignite their deep-seated hatreds of one another. In addition; it would cripple their military as their economy is based mostly on earth."

"Or inflame them against us," Karzai countered. "Admiral Valdore wants to delay them awhile longer; until we have achieved reunification with our brothers. We can no longer hope to win this by force of arms—General Talex is dead." This last Perex had gleaned from human propaganda about the so called Battle of Hell's Gate. Still it was disheartening to hear the words spoken aloud.

"It is our destiny to rule the universe," Perrin declared. "Still you are my superior and I am but a servant of the empire. I will of course follow your words Karzai." Perrin stood humbly with his head bowed before the taller Romulan.

"Very good centurion," Karzai replied. Perrin could sense his leader's skepticism. He watched as Karzai seated himself; never taking his eyes off of Perrin. "Now tell me of this human internal security division."

"They seem quite good at what they do," Perrin reported. "Almost like our Tal Shiar," he continued. Praiseworthy indeed he thought: It just surprised him that humans could be as ruthless as were his own people.

"Who are they working for?" Karzai asked.

"Why Thorpe of course," Perex answered; surprised that Karzai did not know that.

"No: You are wrong," Karzai said firmly. "You forget that I masqueraded as the Vulcan ambassador. I know Thorpe: At his heart he is a naïve fool who believes in the myth of individual freedom. Thorpe would never sanction such an organization under his reign."

The door to the adjoining suite opened at that time. Karzai reached inside his suit coat until Perrin sprang forward to restrain him. "No need for theatrics here commander," Perrin cooed as Kanya Nayyar entered. Her hooded jacket concealed most of her burned face. Surgeons had replanted most of her hair and repaired the worst of the damage. Still, Perrin was not surprised to see Karzai look away in disgust at the woman's face.

"What do you think of those who oppose us Kanya?" he asked the human augment. Perrin was glad that the empire had not experimented thus: But why improve upon perfection he mused.

Nayyar commenced a report of her failed mission and her encounter with the human agent McCoy. McCoy's partner was still unknown and had spared none of Nayyar's team. Perrin interjected his opinion that McCoy's partner was most dangerous. Karzai seemed in complete agreement about that. Perrin had even checked Nayyar for some sort of transmitter believing that the only reason McCoy had spared her was to track her movements: The Tal Shiar would use such a ploy.

"Then it is your thought that we are dealing with renegades, Karzai?" he asked his commander.

"McCoy spared me," Nayyar repeated. "I would not have showed him that mercy."

"That was foolish and was no doubt from a human weakness," Perrin spat out. "Do not forget that Kanya. You forget your own words: They are not your people. You were meant to rule them—under us." Perrin despised dealing with these augmented humans. They were made of the same stuff as that of their creators: That made them weak in Perex's eyes.

"Of course centurion," the woman replied with a bow of her head.

"Yes renegades," Karzai answered. "It cannot be anything else. Work on this McCoy; exploit his weaknesses."

"I know my job Karzai," Perrin answered as Karzai got out of his chair.

"Very good," Karzai said. "I will take over our American operation in the meantime." Karzai backed away toward the door.

"Jolan tru Karzai," Perrin said with bowed head. Karzai merely grimaced in return. He watched as his superior departed. He was silent for some time.

"Karzai is a liability Kanya," he said at last. He turned to the burned woman. "He will have to be excised." He looked sharply at the woman. "See to it."

"I serve the empire," Kanya said automatically.

"I hope so," Perrin replied. "I have become concerned about you since your failure from before. Perhaps this McCoy spared you because he realized how incompetent you are." He cupped her chin firmly and looked into her eyes.

"I will not fail again centurion," Nayyar replied sternly.

"I should not give you this chance," Perrin replied. He released her chin and reached down with both hands to undo her cloak. "But because you have other adequate qualities," he chuckled in the human manner as she stripped before him.

Yes this McCoy was their first lead concerning the human's security bureau. Perrin would squeeze him until more adversaries were revealed. The human's woman would be a good place to start. Or was McCoy, as Perex was in the case of the augment, merely using the woman for his own ends? He was realizing that he had to act as if he were dealing with another Tal Shiar operative. To underestimate McCoy or his organization might prove to be the death of him Perrin knew. His thoughts turned to more pleasant activities as he ran his hands along the human female's firm body.

Sokur Province, Vulcan, Oct 2157

"You cannot do this off-worlder," Syrran said.

"Ultimately you are probably right," Lieutenant Tarang Gupta replied. "But we cannot hope to sabotage that freighter or battle an entire garrison on our own. We were fortunate to have even escaped." Gupta shuddered as he recalled the Romulan Keldar's lapsing into what must have been the spoken language of Romulans. The wounded soldier had begun questioning him and T'Pol in that language. Only the timely introduction of a painkiller from the physician Opulat had saved the duo. The two had escaped still bearing the seal of the Romulan admiral.

"Involving Vulcans in conflict is wrong Gupta," Syrran protested.

The trio was in hiding outside of the makeshift camp where the people of the provincial seat were being held. A tortured series of rock formations concealed the three and their commandeered vehicle. Gupta reckoned that they were a little less than fifty kilometers from the town. Apparently the move had been irksome for the High Command troops who seemed to have settled on this spot to detain their charges. Gupta knew that he needed help and he hoped that some Vulcans would come to his aid.

"You've an obligation to defend your world Syrran," Gupta said. "I know that you are a pacifist but you cannot make that choice for others."

"Tarang is right," T'Pol interjected. "It is apparent why Minister Soval and the rest of ministers were removed from the government. V'Las is facilitating this landing."

"You human," Syrran said drawing himself up; "are using this incident to propagate the war that your people are conducting."

"Bloody right I am!" Gupta answered emphatically, lapsing into English. He returned to Vulcan. "It is my duty as an officer of the United Earth Stellar Navy to prosecute the war whenever an opportunity presents itself." Gupta was practically reciting.

"They will arrest you," Syrran countered.

Gupta planned to illicit support from the Vulcan High Command units that had helped round up the townspeople. He realized that his chances of success were slim; but he was buoyed by the fact that the two soldiers they had run into had seemed declined against V'Las orders. He had another hope as well:

"Perhaps not," T'Var declared. One of the soldiers that he and T'Pol had duped in the very beginning had awoken and after some discussion with Syrran had expressed a desire to join the fugitives. "My unit commander was resistant to this action. M'Viar alluded to illegal orders but concluded that the minister must have a logical reason for his actions," the Vulcan explained.

"If he could be swayed then we might assemble a force capable of laying siege to the town," Gupta said thoughtfully.

"My unit has heavy weapons capable of defeating the freighter as long as it stays grounded," T'Var said.

"We must get to your commander," T'Pol said. "Implore him to release the people he has wrongly relocated and use his soldiers to fend off the landing."

"Come with me Gupta," Syrran said. Tarang followed the Vulcan leader until Syrran stopped behind a column of rock that reminded the Indian of a giant representation of a southwest American cactus.

"You are going to remind me to keep the secret?" Gupta asked. "My people were slaughtered by the millions because of your secret. Without the help of the Andorians and Tellarites who knows what would have become of my world." Even now Tarang worried over what was happening; so many light years away.

"You would see my world destroyed then human?" Syrran countered. "Yet you show caring for one of my people. Love; how little of it there must be in the human heart. You are but a pale version of what we once were; of whom the Romulans are."

"My emotions concerning T'Pol are not a part of this," Gupta replied. "Besides; it seems to me that the Romulans can effectively destroy your world. Do you propose allowing them to land?"

"No," Syrran answered. The Vulcan turned away from Gupta much to the intelligence officer's amazement. "Our two races should not rejoin—yet. But compelling my people to take up arms is wrong."

"You know you are right," Gupta answered. He was tired and dirty and his shoulder still hurt where he had been grazed by particle weapon fire. "This Valdore was a right nice chap," Tarang began in English then continued in Vulcan. "I'll just go and say: "You know admiral, now is not the time for reunification; so why don't you please pack up your troops and equipment and go back to Romulus.""

"I do not believe such a scheme will succeed," Syrran replied without emotion. Gupta sighed.

"Perhaps if you told me this secret Syrran," Gupta said at last.

"I cannot," Syrran answered. "It is enough that one must bear it. I cannot ask you to do so." Gupta was about to walk away when Syrran continued. "If I help you in your plan will you try to drive the Romulans off without allowing the two races to come into contact?"

Gupta's first impulse was to reject Syrran's help. But he knew that Sokur held a high percentage of people who followed the pacifist. The Vulcan leader could perhaps persuade many of them to aid the effort; if only to provide support if they did not fight. On the other hand making sure that the two groups didn't meet was a tall order. They had a little time to implement whatever scheme Gupta could come up with.

Keldar had intimated his frustration that they could not land more troops sooner. The Orion freighter had departed once and returned in the last week. If the practically incoherent Keldar was even vaguely correct the Orion ship had one more flight to rendezvous with the Romulan troop carriers for their last group of invaders. Gupta guessed that they had a day; perhaps two to do this. But what could he do he wondered.

"T'Var has determined where his commander has set up his headquarters," T'Pol said as she stepped out of the shadow of the giant rock formation.

"I wonder what he will say when we tell him that invaders are on his world," Gupta said. "And they just happen to look like Vulcans." Gupta thought for several minutes while T'Pol and Syrran took up another discussion; it would have been an argument among emotional creatures, over tradition and change. It was becoming an all too familiar theme for the two.

"Embracing change does not mean turning away from the path of logic T'Pol," Syrran said. "Logic saved our people once before. We are as yet not ready to abandon that control."

"Not all of us accepted that change," T'Pol countered. When Syrran started speaking of the V'tosh ka'tur Gupta was surprised when T'Pol interrupted the elder Vulcan. "It is not they of whom I speak; it is the Romulans."

"You know I'm puzzled by this whole thing," Gupta uncharacteristically intruded on the two Vulcans' argument. Both Vulcans looked at him expectantly. Gupta felt as if he were delivering a presentation for the Naval Intelligence College again. "These Romulans were forcibly expelled. They have obviously remained who they were. I'm no anthropologist but I'll speculate that there have been changes after all of this time. So why; after all of this time would your descendents want to return?"

"They are related to us," T'Pol said by way of explanation. Gupta was surprised that the usually analytical Vulcan woman would make such an assertion.

"Are they?" Gupta asked. "On my world the descendents of immigrants would go back to their parents' homelands only to discover that they were now westerners or easterners. They were no longer Russians, Indians or Chinese in the cultural sense. An author on my world; writing of Martian colonies long before there ever was such a thing once had his characters, displaced earthers, look into a pool when his child asked who the Martians were."

"Does he always take this long to come to a point?" Syrran asked T'Pol.

"It is a problem," T'Pol replied. "But I have come to find his reasoning skills," she hesitated then added: "Interesting."

"My point is," Gupta started, "somewhere in all of this time the Romulans stopped being Vulcans and turned to being Romulans. Yet this reunification is more to them than a desire to tour the old country. It is," Gupta paused in confusion while he searched for the right concept. "It is almost religious in nature. You knew about the Romulans Syrran; who are they?" Gupta asked pointedly. "I mean you knew: What exactly happened, all those millennia ago? Did the Romulans just decide to leave on their own? You say that Surak was a pacifist; did he just have kind words for the others and they left? None of it makes sense. What group led the Romulans? Who led them into exile?"

"I believe that you were trying to devise a plan to drive off the Romulans lieutenant," Syrran said. Gupta was shocked at the deliberate evasion. He was about to pursue the matter further when T'Var intruded upon the group.

"Sub Lieutenant S'Lelr has escaped," T'Var said.

"Madarchod!" the human exclaimed in Hindi.

"We must leave here—immediately," T'Pol said.

"All of you stand where you are," a voice rang out. High Command troops, particle weapons held before them emerged from both sides of the rock formation.

Gupta was about to put his hands up but decided against it. A Vulcan would remain passive. He had the ears; now he needed to act the part. The plans that Gupta were considering about attacking the Romulans in the town fell to the wayside. He waited passively while the soldiers approached the group of fugitives. The leader, a major ordered several of his troops to frisk the group.

"You are the radical Syrran," the major declared as he examined the screen of a hand held computer. The major turned to Gupta and T'Pol. "You," he said to T'Pol; "are an agent of the renegade Soval. You," he said turning his attention to Gupta, "seem to have no identity. Who are you?" the major asked as he eyed the colt that one of his troops had discovered on Gupta.

Gupta breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow Sremen must be maintaining the illusion that the human was still employed by PanPac. Either that or he had somehow arranged to make it seem that the human had departed for earth. That would not be too hard with Vulcan's refusal to admit allied ships in their territory. Gupta had long known that if he did have to leave under the current circumstances it would have been on a neutral vessel. Such bookings seldom made it back for official record keeping. Gupta had a fleeting thought: He wondered what PanPac's profit margins looked like. Granny Smith apples were in season in New Zealand.

"I am Taurik," Gupta declared; removing the emotion from his voice. Taurik was the name of a customs agent that he and Sremen had experienced frequent run-ins with in the pursuit of PanPac's import business.

"Do you always carry human weapons on your person Taurik?" the major asked.

"The desert is full of dangers," Gupta answered. "The human weapon is adequate for my needs. Are introductions not in order?" Gupta asked calmly. Vulcan courtesy was paramount in their civilization and Gupta had discovered that keeping a potential opponent off balance always seemed to produce good results.

"Though you are being placed in restraint; still you are correct," the major answered. "I am Major M'Viar of the High Command Guards."

"May I ask why we are being taken into custody?" T'Pol asked. "And why the people were removed so that the Orion freighter could land in Sokur."

"My orders come directly from the ministry," M'Viar said. "I spoke to the general in charge of the landing. The action was necessary to relocate the Syrranites until the present crisis has passed."

"Did you know the general?" Gupta asked. He suspected that the Vulcan military, like earth's military, was just too large such that anyone in a uniform could obtain entry into a secure area; or convince an officer of the authenticity of their mission.

"General Shyar?" M'Viar asked. Gupta wanted to smile. It was obvious that the Vulcan had not checked Shyar's credentials and was now considering his mistake. "My orders come directly from the ministry," M'Viar repeated. "I was told that General Shyar would see to the custodial care of Sokur until its residents were allowed to return."

"Did you check his identity against a master database major?" Gupta asked. "It would be dreadfully inefficient were a soldier to not check the authenticity of his orders." M'Viar was silent for several minutes as he punched commands into his handheld. He cast a glance that held neither embarrassment nor relief towards Gupta. "It seems Taurik, that there is a discrepancy in the High Command's files concerning the general. There is indeed a General Shyar assigned to the Fourth Plains Guards." M'Viar looked again at his computer. "His image is inconsistent with that which is in the database."

"Is that all that is inconsistent major?" T'Pol asked joining into the verbal melee.

M'Viar was silent for a long time. Gupta wondered how things would fall out when the officer replied at last: "General Shyar is listed as being deployed to the outer system defense zone."

"It seems as if your orders are in doubt," Gupta said.

"I shall defer to higher authority Taurik," M'Viar answered. "But regardless; you are all dangerous fugitives. Your status shall remain unchanged."

Gupta's heart sank as he realized that they could not appeal to the major's logic. He was not the only one who was not pleased by the major's decision as one of M'Viar's soldiers pointed his weapon at the major. Gupta guessed the woman to be in her twenties in human years. Tarang had begun to be able to guess the ages of the members of the longer lived race that he met. Gupta also realized that she was uncertain of what she was doing.

"It is wrong for you to imprison Syrran, Major M'Viar," the Vulcan woman said. She jerked her rifle around in an attempt to cover those around her. Gupta welcomed allies but he was becoming worried that the woman, in an agitated state even for a Vulcan, might shoot him or one of his companions accidentally.

"Logic dictates that you do your duty Savar," the major said. "We have orders to apprehend Syrran. Those orders come directly from the ministry. Although there is confusion it may be that the ministry has not told us everything."

"We deceived the people of the province to remove them from their homes sir," Savar replied, Gupta thought somewhat nervously for a Vulcan. Gupta supposed that the tight emotional control took years to master.

"Be at peace Savar," Syrran declared as he stepped between M'Viar and Savar. "Do not give in to animal passions I implore you."

"I offer you a chance to escape Syrran," Savar said.

"At the cost of your own loss of control Savar," Syrran answered as he strode forward until the barrel of Savar's particle rifle was against his chest. "That; I cannot permit."

The woman lowered her weapon. Gupta almost sighed until he realized that would be a betrayal of what he was. The major motioned to some of his other troops who took Savar's rifle and sidearm from her. Tarang wanted desperately to break the impasse here; but he did not know how. The major seemed hell bent on performing his duty despite evidence that all was not as it seemed.

"Thank you Syrran. You at least have shown the integrity that I have heard you have," M'Viar said. "You will be held with the rest of those that we are guarding until I receive instructions from the ministry." The major paused then added: "Savar is right. This deception was wrong. Yet I must believe that the ministry is making the right decisions."

Gupta saw any chance of escaping and preventing a Romulan landing slipping away. He had run the gamut of tricks that he thought that he could get away with. M'Viar would rightly check with the ministry concerning the alleged General Shyar. Gupta knew that the major, Vulcan or not, was a duty bound soldier.

"Major is it not your duty to protect the citizenry within the confines of the law?" Gupta asked suddenly.

"It is Taurik," M'Viar replied. "It is not logical that a civilian would question that. We exist after all to provide for the defense of our world and to protect our people from potential adversaries and natural disasters."

"Then why are you aiding a Romulan invasion of your world?" Gupta asked pointedly.

"What invasion Taurik?" M'Viar asked in reply.

"Do not say anything more," Syrran interjected. He paused and added: "Taurik."

"No," Gupta spoke up in as commanding a tone as he could muster. He looked directly at M'Viar. "I am Lieutenant Tarang Gupta of the United Earth Stellar Navy Intelligence Division. I must apologize for my deceptiveness; but I am not being deceptive in what I say: Romulan invaders are landing in Sokur Province. They look like Vulcans," at that he shot a quick glance to Syrran. "I do not have all the information on why that is. But I ask you; as one officer to another to trust me. Do not violate your charge in blind obedience of your orders. I ask you major; is any of what you've been ordered to do logical?"

Gupta waited anxiously for a reply. His mouth was dry. Several minutes of silence passed. Tarang could hear the sound of sand, caught in the wind then blown against the rock formation. He wanted to shuffle about but military discipline overrode the intelligence officer's desire to fidget. Tarang had a growing fear that his mission was over. He hated that he had failed Admiral Soames. But he found that he was worried about T'Pol most of all. What would come of her if the Romulans achieved this unification he wondered?

"No, it is not logical," M'Viar said at last. "Your candor is most welcome lieutenant." He turned to his soldiers. "Lower your weapons. We shall treat with these people further." He turned back to Gupta. "I have an obligation to follow orders. Yet these are strange times. I ask you to come to my quarters so that we may discuss this matter."

"We do not have much time major," Gupta answered. "But this is a matter of great importance and requires further discussion," he added, respecting the officer's concession to Gupta's cause. The group gathered and proceeded to the High Command encampment. Syrran fell in beside Gupta.

"You will undo everything human," Syrran said in a quiet voice.

"I don't know how," Gupta began; 'but somehow I will do as you asked: I will try to drive the Romulans off without their connection to your people being made known. There is just one thing Syrran," Gupta added.

"What is it?" the Vulcan leader asked.

"I want to know what you are hiding," Gupta said. "I want the truth out of you when all of this is done."

"You may find, Gupta that in knowing you will lose all that you desire," Syrran answered at last as he cast a glance toward T'Pol.

Marietta, Georgia earth Oct 2157

Ensign Frank McCoy felt like a stranger even though he was returning to the house that he had grown up in. He had left Eileen Thomas there before him and Brack's adventure on Orbital Station One. Right now Frank would rather have been facing the prospect of dealing with a dozen dangerous augments instead of the purpose for which he was there. Thomas had stayed put although McCoy's widowed father had called him inquiring about why he had dropped off his girlfriend and not returned. Frank observed the elder McCoy sitting on the porch of the small residence. McCoy knew it was early in the day but he suspected that the glass in his father's hand held a mint julep.

"Hello son," David McCoy smiled. At almost ninety years of age the older McCoy had a full head of mostly white hair. The lanky senior was relaxed in a porch glider. A sleeping golden retriever, resting next to Frank's father, opened its eyes momentarily, perused Frank, decided that he must be okay and closed its eyes again. David McCoy reached down and patted the dog's head. "There you go Mogilla," David McCoy cooed to the sleeping dog.

"Hello Dad," McCoy answered. He looked around as the last leaves of the fall made a blazing display against the green lawn of his father's yard. "Did Mogilla have one of those?" he asked nodding at his father's beverage.

"He's just tired because he is getting along in years," David McCoy looked pensive. "Cain't say that I don't share the feelin' sometimes." The older man stood up slowly. "I look out these days and think of your mother puttering around with her flowers; wish to hell I had known the difference between them and weeds."

Frank McCoy chuckled. His father's accidental cutting of his mother's flowers had been an ongoing point of contention in the McCoy household. Frank almost missed his father's next words.

"I'd give anything just to have one of those arguments again son." The old man shook his head. His father's eyes which had been looking elsewhere returned to the present. "Don't die without being that close to someone Frank. In the end all we leave behind us are the people we've influenced." David McCoy stood none too steadily.

McCoy reached out to help his father. "Do you think that you should be drinking—

"The hell with that Frank," his father waved Frank's help away in a dismissive gesture. "My granddaddy didn't fight that progressive bastard Green so you can dictate my life to me like some petty bureaucrat."

"I'm sorry dad," McCoy said pulling his hand back. He stung inside and knew he would sting more soon. The screen door opened with a squeak.

"Forget it Frank," David McCoy smiled. "I shouldn't had snapped at you; goddamned arthritis," the elder McCoy mumbled; sounding out the medical condition as "author-writis." David looked at Eileen Thomas who stood impassively with her arms crossed over her chest, and then at his son. "Reckon you two have a few words to exchange." The old man nodded at Eileen and made his way into his kitchen. The screen door slammed shut after the retriever beat it in after his master. McCoy and Thomas were alone.

"I don't know how to start," McCoy said breaking the wall of silence some minutes later. He looked around at the well manicured yard that his mother had planted: It had always looked for all the world to McCoy like a small park. "Let's take a walk."

"I don't have information for you," Thomas replied. "I'm not laying down for you either. So we really don't have any reason to take a walk."

"Don't act this way Eileen!" he replied hotly. "Okay; I lied to you. This wasn't supposed to happen! Damnit I've never understood this about you: You don't act like one of those stick up their ass Sons' of Terra. I know you don't like aliens on earth but they are here and goddamnit until the Romulans they have done nothing but help us!"

"We aren't humans anymore," Thomas said. "There isn't anything wrong with wanting things to stay the same. You are a historian; how much tragedy happened because change was forced onto people." Thomas shook her head and walked into McCoy's father's yard; McCoy followed silently. "But that isn't important Frank: You betrayed me. You used me. You are a bastard."

"It didn't start that way!" McCoy argued. "Well it did start that way. Damnit Eileen I love you!"

"You have a strange way of showing it," Thomas answered. She sighed. "I'm going back to Baltimore Frank. I don't want to see you—ever again."

McCoy grabbed her arm. "You can't go home Eileen! The people your friends want to cozy up to will kill you. Do you know that Aubrey Tate was letting birdie agents make chemical warheads and missile motors at his factory? Is that the earth for earthers you people want: If you disagree with us we gas you?"

"I wouldn't believe you no matter what now!" Thomas retorted angrily. She pulled her arm away and continued walking. McCoy followed her out into the street.

"Eileen you were there when Loch asked you to break the law," McCoy said. "What kind of people wants that?" She was about to answer when McCoy continued. "These guys are mixed up with genetic augments. You know what wonderful things came out of those people," McCoy was being sarcastic yet a streak of guilt passed through him. Frank still believed, despite Brack's insistence to the contrary and his own encounters, that a shred of humanity existed somewhere in the augments.

"At least they are true to what they believe in," Thomas answered.

McCoy was silent as an express delivery man walked past him and up the walk to his parents' home. It vaguely crossed his mind that his father didn't order a whole lot of anything anymore. "I may be a bastard; yes you are right about that. But don't ever say I'm not true to what I believe in. I lost friends at Salem One to your pals. Most of the guys I enlisted with are dead."

"We don't even know why the Romulans attacked," Thomas said. "Thorpe and the rest of you warmongers couldn't wait to run out and fight."

"That is crap and you know it!" McCoy snapped back. "What; the Romulans attacked us because we offended their wittle feelings? Tell me Eileen; if they are so superior to us warmongers, why didn't they just let us know what was wrong before they started shooting?" McCoy was shouting and was near to tears. He couldn't understand why he couldn't get through to her. McCoy wondered what his father had delivered to him. He headed back to the house.

"Where are you going?" Thomas shouted at his back.

"I don't know—home," he answered. Tears ran down his face. McCoy knew that she was lost to him. Somewhere he realized that she was a security risk now but he could care less. McCoy cursed Erica Soames and the day he had chosen to go to intelligence. He paced back along the walk and to the porch. McCoy didn't look back to see if Eileen followed: He was afraid to say anything to her if she did and at the same time he feared that she wasn't following him at all. He threw open the screen door to see David McCoy rooting through a box at his kitchen counter.

"Sorry boy," the older man said. "This came for you and I didn't see the—

Frank crossed the floor as his father clutched at his chest and dropped to his knees. "Dad!" he exclaimed as he knelt down to catch his father. David McCoy looked into his son's eyes voicing a silent plea as he grunted; trying to breathe Frank realized. Eileen opened the door and came into the kitchen. McCoy lowered his father to the floor and started trying to resuscitate the man.

"Call the hospital!" McCoy roared. Frank knew that his father's health had been failing in general but David McCoy had no serious problems in particular. He looked at Thomas' back as she accessed the communications' grid. McCoy knew that his father's heart had stopped.

"That's weird," Thomas mumbled. "I can't get on the net."

McCoy's head snapped up. He continued pushing on David McCoy's chest. "Come on—live!" he cried as tears of grief ran down his face. Thomas' statemement along with the way his father had collapsed played in Frank's mind. He pulled the tall but thin old man up and proceeded to dragging to the garage entrance.

"You'll get your ass moving if you know what is good for you!" McCoy shouted. He was sweating and puffing as he kicked the door to the garage. It flew open revealing his father's 2125 Daimler-Toyota. Thomas followed him slowly.

"I'll go to the neighbors Frank," she said; her anger replaced with sympathy.

"Forget it!" he exclaimed. "This is your friends' doing!" Frank shouted as he loaded his father into the ancient groundcar. He jumped in the driver side as Thomas took a seat in the passenger compartment beside Frank's stricken father. He gunned the engine to life thankful that David McCoy still maintained the old vehicle which Frank suspected that he used no more than once or twice a year.

"Are you crazy?" Thomas screamed as McCoy slammed the car through the old wooden garage door. There was a flash and the car lurched as it fishtailed onto the street. The home of David and Ellen McCoy had erupted in a fiery blast. McCoy raced through the streets of his boyhood home until he found the local clinic. He drove to the emergency entrance.

McCoy started dragging his father into the treatment facility as Eileen ran past him. Seconds later she emerged with several people. One of those beckoned for Frank to lower the man. The newcomer shouted orders for a gurney as he played a handheld medical recorder over David McCoy's still form. He injected David McCoy then directed his staff to put the old man into the gurney. McCoy followed the procession into the clinic. Thomas accompanied him as well. His father vanished into a room surrounded by the doctor and his staff. McCoy looked on; drained of all but one emotion.

Eileen Thomas took a step back as Frank turned on her. "I swear that I'm going after every one of your treasonous murderin' friends! You want to flirt with the birdies then do it! Go back to Baltimore; get your ass the hell out of here! What; do you want to stay around and report to that backstabbing tool Glenn that your birdie buddies killed my father? I'll see that bastard gets his too!" McCoy wished that the treacherous American president was here now. He kicked at a chair sending it skittering along the floor. McCoy paced nervously only stopping long enough to slam his fists into a wall.

"Frank, I," Eileen started as the doctor; a man twenty years McCoy's junior stepped out of the room. Tears were running down her face.

"Are you two relatives of the gentleman?" he asked with as much emotion as a Vulcan might show.

"It is my father," Frank said. His heart sank: He knew.

The doctor sighed. "I'm sorry sir," the doctor paused. "His cardiac muscle gave out. There isn't anything that could have been done in time." The young doctor's face assumed a pensive look. "Odd too, considering that the muscle seems to be fairly healthy," he added quietly, more to himself than to McCoy or Thomas. He looked up seeming to notice McCoy and Thomas again. "For a man his age," he hastened to add. "I 'spose you'll want to have a service and all. I'll notify the admin folks: They can help you through stuff like this. Maybe your wife here—

"She's not my wife!" McCoy declared viciously. "I'll; I'll get things straightened out," Frank added in a tone approaching reasonable. The doctor retreated hastily obviously wanting to avoid what he saw as a family squabble.

"Frank, I'll help," Eileen said.

It occurred to McCoy to tell her to go to hell. He stared venomously at her. "Just," he paused then continued. "Just go away Eileen." He looked around and noted that the doctor was well out of earshot. "Don't go back to Baltimore. If you have a brain in your head you have to know that my father just didn't have a random heart attack and then his house blows up. I don't know where you can go. I'm a liability though: The birdies are after me now. I'm sorry for all of this."

McCoy made his way to a public commlink. He had an aunt and uncle in Birmingham; his mother's brother. McCoy vaguely remembered his father telling him that Ernie and Jewel would see to things in the event of his death. He punched in their access. The call was brutally short and painful. McCoy promised to help after Ernest Nelson told him they would be there as soon as possible. Frank hated lying: He had to get away from here. It was obvious that the birdies and their agents here were on to him. He finished the call as he became aware that Thomas was behind him.

"I'll go with you," Eileen declared suddenly.

"And do what?" McCoy answered softly. "Turn me in to your friends?" He said it and was instantly sorry that he had done so. "Look; I used you. Somewhere in all of that I fell in love with you. I know you believe in this stuff but some of it," Frank sighed. "Some of it belongs to the days of Colonel Green and his Progressives. I mean do you really think that because someone disagrees with you that," he stopped and waved in the general direction of where his childhood home had been. He saw Eileen about to respond when he added quickly: "Look; you don't trust me. You are right to feel that way. But," He stopped and looked hard at her. "You should go with me; at least until I can get you someplace safe."

"Okay Frank," Eileen said at last. "I can't explain what I'm feeling. I'm hurt because you betrayed me but…" she trailed off. McCoy could tell that she was thinking about what had happened to his father and the man's home. Frank beckoned for her to follow as he made his way to the rear entrance of the clinic: They didn't need to be seen leaving.

"Where are we going?" Eileen asked.

Where was he going Frank wondered as the couple stepped out into the bright afternoon Georgia sun? He stopped at another public net access and called Admiral Soames' office. Frank was aware of her moratorium on their communications but this was after all just his asking for emergency leave for the death of his father. The admiral expressed her condolences for McCoy's loss and granted him fourteen days. McCoy's head was clearing as he bid Soames goodbye. He guessed that the birdies' plan had been to induce a heart attack in him and then incinerate his body in the fire. A single thought formed now: How many birdies could he kill in fourteen days

"We're going to Nevada," McCoy said at last. He had learned how to use a jumble of travel modes to foul his trail. Thomas said nothing but she walked beside him as McCoy made for the Marietta Shuttleport.

Telhava, Capital city of Andor, Season of the Thaw, earth year Oct 2157

Shran was feeling the weight of his position. Shahars' normally spent their time making holiday pronouncements and speaking at joinings and death ceremonies of important Andorians. Shran thought of that kind of life: It gave him pain in his antennae. But leading his people in a great struggle had inflicted different sorts of pain. Shran had to make unpleasant decisions. His partial withdrawal from the struggle with the pirates had been one such decision. Now he might see what move the Vulcans were up to next; although he did not trust in his source.

"Admit our next guests Mavan," Shran told his strategos. The Andorian brigadier had become a confidant of Shran's.

The Shahar stood and walked to the center of his audience chamber. Shran had always been enamored of the grandeur of the Shahar's residence; but he had come to think of it as a museum after living there. Shran pined for the days when he and Ketra had shared a small ice warren with other joined couples. There were two many whispers in the shadows here Shran thought. He assumed an impassive stance; folding his arms over his chest as the human and Vulcan entered.

"My respects Shahar Shran," the human Captain Gordon Albright declared. He had his arms close to his sides, palms turned outward; showing Shran's peoples' form of respect. Shran had come to understand that Albright was from the same land on earth as was the Shahar's friend Thorpe. Shran didn't think Albright shared much in common with his fellow countryman. Whereas Thorpe was as tall as Shran and broad shouldered this Albright was slight. Shran's other caller was a different matter.

Shran recalled Rastan's words concerning the Vulcan heart. He could fairly feel the coldness radiate off of Soval. Shran considered that the Vulcan had not changed much since their last encounter. Shran had, like many Andorians harbored the notion that Vulcans declined quickly in their elder years. He met Soval's unwavering gaze with one of his own. Shran was pleased when Soval turned away first. The Vulcan nodded slightly in what passed for a gesture of respect among his cold people. Shran bid Mavan to leave the group alone. When the brigadier had departed Shran spoke.

"Captain Albright," Shran greeted the human heartily. "You are adding an impressive lineage to my ship!"

"All in a days work sir—Shahar," Albright answered.

"Modesty is one virtue that both of our people share Albright," Shran said. He stared at Soval as he added: "It is a noble emotion; one that all races should embrace as opposed to embracing arrogance."

"The emotional innuendo does not escape me Shran," Soval interjected. The leader of Andor wasn't surprised to see the old anger revived in the Vulcan. Shran knew that he didn't show it; but he also knew that Soval felt it, and repressed it. Shran was surprised though as Soval added: "But you are right. Our arrogance is taking us upon a course of self destruction. I wish to set aside our differences from before Shran."

"Then you are here on behalf of your people?" Shran asked. He betrayed his skepticism in his voice. "The solution to the current crisis is an easy one: Withdraw your vessels from our borders."

"I no longer have that power," Soval answered.

"Then why have you come here?" Shran asked pointedly.

"I believe that a negotiated solution may be possible," Soval answered. "Vulcans' communications' array is currently under the High Command's control. President Thorpe's messages," here Soval stopped then added; "and yours as well have gone unheard by most of our people. I believe that if my people knew about the situation the present government would fall under scrutiny. A mission could be dispatched in the interim."

"How do you plan on getting past the High Command Soval?" Shran asked. "It would play into your hand if a mission; as you refer to it was to be intercepted in your space. Perhaps you are here to as the first overture in an alliance with the Romulans. I do not believe that such a ploy is beyond you. You Vulcans have sat by impassively and watched behind that wall of so called noninterference. But now you are being surpassed. A Vulcan-Romulan alliance would once again restore your confederacy's power in this section of the galaxy."

"That is the very thing that I am here to prevent," Soval protested. "V'Las seems to be moving as you have suggested. The ministers who were expelled know nothing about the Romulans except that they've demonstrated aggressive tendencies. This is antithetical to Vulcan civilization."

"Fatal as well," Shran said. Soval, Shran knew was no fool.

"There are those in the High Command who question V'Las' policies yet are not Syrranites," Soval looked around. "They theorize that Thorpe's people—and yours will attempt a decisive strike against my world."

"And it will succeed," Shran said. "You may sit Soval. I know that you are elderly for one of your race," Shran was satisfied at Soval's look of consternation over the comment. "Sit as well captain," Shran told the human.

"My age did not prevent your people from doing despicable deeds before Shran," Soval said as he seated himself around a massive oval conference table. "Are you going to resort to torture again?"

"Minister Soval was a guest of the Imperial Guards Security section once upon a time," Shran said in answer to Albright's look of confusion. "In time of war answers must be forthcoming. Minister Soval's party was captured as the negotiations mediated by your people were drawing to a close."

"I wasn't aware of that Shahar," Albright replied simply.

"Vulcans never show their true hearts," Shran had seated himself adjacent to his guests. "They have enshrined their desires behind the church of logic. A Vulcan will lie if it is expedient; or should I say logical? We feared that the peace negotiations were a ruse. I personally conducted the minister's questioning," Shran concluded.

"You obtained your answer," Soval said bitterly. Shran was surprised that he had let his emotional mask down that much.

"Yes I did," Shran answered. He had wanted to bait the stubborn Vulcan; and he had succeeded. "Which is why I believe you now; I do not believe you would put your arm in the snaga's mouth again without good reason."

"Even you Shran can be logical at times," Soval countered. Shran smiled at the insult. He knew that he had unsettled the Vulcan.

"Still, you may unwittingly be doing V'Las bidding," Shran said.

"V'Las has never demonstrated that level of," Shran was amused by Soval's pause. "That level of guile."

"The dossier we have on V'Las supports you Soval," Shran said. "But the issue remains: What can we do for you? If your High Command is censoring inbound transmissions, there is little that we can do about it from here."

"The humans may be of help," Soval said. Shran watched as the Vulcan interlaced his fingers before him. "They have an agent on my world."

"Now I begin to doubt my assessment of your honesty Vulcan," Shran said hotly. Had the Vulcan outmaneuvered him he wondered? "We have no agents on your world and I doubt that Christophur has placed any there." Shran believed in Christophur Thorpe's integrity if nothing else. "So if this is some scheme to admit to the presence of infiltrators when there are no such; I suggest that you try another plan."

"I," Soval drew himself up, "asked the earth president to put an agent on our world. I had seen Thorpe's operative before I departed for Andorian space. He has accomplished much. It is possible that he might be able to sabotage the network so that the truth might be known to my people."

"I'm no spy that sounds like a lot for one man," Albright said.

"I was hoping that President Thorpe could be persuaded to send more of his people in," Soval said. "The words of a human commander would carry much weight in such a request."

"Why should the humans solve your problems Soval?" Shran asked.

"President Thorpe wants a formal alliance; this federation," Soval explained. "It is no secret Shran, that you and many of your followers on Andor are compelling your politicians to such a conclusion as well. The same is true of Tellar. At one time I accepted the notion of Vulcan isolation; of an advisory role only. But I was wrong."

"Among humans," Soval turned to Albright, "you have a thing called intuition. It is not quantifiable on terms that a Vulcan could accept. Yet after being among you I have found that insight is often helpful. I cannot explain why but I think that our interests are better vested with this federation and not with the empire."

"Excuse me sir," Albright interjected. "How many ministers could you count on for support? It sounds to me as if you want us to aide you in a countercoup."

"Less than one-third," Soval replied. "I reason that others will join us as the illogic of V'Las' course is revealed. Most follow him now because our logic precludes the idea that a leader would act illogically."

"I would employ the human aphorism; narrow-minded," Shran said chuckling. Soval was here he thought. Despite Shran's misgivings about the Vulcan's intentions he had come to know a little of Soval's mind after leading the minister's interrogation. Shran realized that the stubborn Vulcan would not be here now unless he truly wanted what he sought.

"I am aware of the meaning of that term," Soval replied sharply to his barb. "Yet there is truth in it as far as our conduct has been of late." The Vulcan turned his piecing eyes onto Shran. "Will you aide me Shahar Shran?"

Shran stood up and walked to large double doors. He opened one. It swung open easily despite its weight. The last rays of the setting sun were peering through the steam thrown up through the vents of the geothermal power system. Shran recalled standing in the same place with Rastan. That seemed to be an age of Andor ago. Those were simpler times he thought. The Chinese humans mentioned living in interesting times: These were that Shran thought. Shran noted the human captain's presence beside him. His antennae sensed movement behind him. He knew that it must be the Vulcan.

"What is the status of Kumari?" Shran asked. The Shahar walked out onto the balcony. He saw the stars as Rastan must have seen them so long ago. Were his people on the cusp of a new age he wondered? Or did every generation forge out in a new direction after a great conflict? Shran wished that he had his old leader's counsel.

"I am resupplied and rearmed Shahar," Albright answered.

"You've done an excellent job commanding a vessel of beings alien to you Albright," Shran said. "I believe that I will command on this mission. It will be good to stand on a bridge again."

"Sir, Kumari is needed on the border—with all due respect," Albright said.

"The High Command will be more restrained until they discover the nature of your new weapon," Soval said.

Shran turned suddenly. He wasn't aware of any new weapon. He was about to ask the Vulcan what he meant when the human cleared his throat loudly. Shran had been among pink-skins long enough to know that Albright was using some sort of subterfuge.

"I'm afraid that I had to reveal the existence of our photon missiles Shahar," Albright said. The human coughed and cleared his throat again then added. "Sorry; the cold must be getting into my lungs sir."

"It would have happened sooner or later," Shran replied. So, he thought; that was how the human had repelled two Vulcan cruisers. "I will lead a delegation to earth to meet with Christophur, Soval." Shran led the way back into the warmth of the residence. "But the mission will have one of two possible outcomes based upon your actions Vulcan."

"I cannot guarantee that Vulcan will support your alliance militarily Shran," Soval said.

"Because of your pacifistic stance," Shran said. "Yes, so might a vrenax claim to be an herbivore, until prey strays close," Shran added. "I wish you, Soval, to endorse Vulcan's membership in Thorpe's federation. If you do that then I will assist in any help that Thorpe's people can give to yours. The second outcome is based on your resistance to change: In that case I will support whatever action Star Fleet command decides to take to minimize the threat of a pirate allied Vulcan."

"I see," Soval replied. "I either do as you bid or my world faces destruction? You know that even if we expel V'Las that I cannot speak for the new government."

"You carry as much influence as does V'Las," Shran said sharply. Deep down, he distrusted the Vulcan: They had after all been caught spying on the Sovereignty.

"For my people I will do as you bid," Soval said at last. Shran watched as the Vulcan lowered his gaze. Shran didn't trust Soval. But he had grown up distrusting Vulcans. He hoped that the next generation of Andorians would not have to do that. Shran himself could not see how that could be, but then again he had grown up among elders who had proclaimed that Andorians were the only sentient beings in the universe.

"See that you do Soval," Shran said. "I will see you aboard Kumari in the morning. In the meantime the strategos will conduct you to a living area—one warm enough for even you minister." He turned to Albright. "Please stay awhile after captain." Albright nodded in turn.

"My thanks Shahar Shran," Soval said. The Vulcan bowed his head and after a short pause straightened his arms at his sides palms outwards. The Vulcan turned and left in the company of Shran's aide.

"We'll warp out for Sol in the morning captain," Shran said. "You will assume the duties of my first officer for this trip. Sorry captain but as your people say: Rank has its privileges. If I have to preside over another ceremonial kawanga feast I may wither and die." Shran stared at the human's forehead until he noted Albright's discomfort.

"Is all well Shahar?" the human asked.

"Photon missiles?" he asked mouthing the unfamiliar human term. "I was just checking your forehead for carotha marks: The first marks denoting the growth of antennae among Andorians."

ShirKahr City, Vulcan earth year Oct 2157

V'Las examined the latest reports from his ships stationed on the Vulcan-Andorian border. He had hoped that the normally emotional Andorians would cross the border in an unprovoked show of audacity. Unfortunately the earth president's guiding influence seemed to be restraining the Andorians. If reunification were a fact then he would not have to rely on manipulation of public opinion. Would that more Vulcans were educated about their long lost ancestors V'Las thought. The zealots of logic had picked Vulcan history clean of its Rihannsu heritage. The sundering had saved his race but it was time to reunite.

The ministers who had replaced the dissidents were already questioning V'Las' logic. He wanted to tell them that their brethren were here on Vulcan now. But they were, as of yet not ready. But it would not be long he knew. V'Las knew that Admiral Valdore needed only a little more time. That would present no problem as V'Las had a firm grip over communications. He knew that Vulcan society had always been an open one politically. As long as he could silence open questioning of what was happening then he could retain control.

The First Minister of Vulcan rose and looked at a three dimensional map of his world displayed against a back wall. Most of the regions infected with Syrranites were under control. His bombardment of their sanctuary had been logical. V'Las knew that most of the leaders of the Syrranite movement should have been there. V'Las checked his timepiece: He would have visitors soon. He was satisfied that he had time for a brief indulgence: V'Las keyed a code into a wall mounted panel. The topographical map shown changed from a ruddy red world to a green one: Romulus.

V'Las had been fortunate in being allowed to go there as a young scholar. He had never forgotten his time there with his brethren from afar. Though each society had taken different paths it was apparent to V'Las that those paths were ready to join. V'Las believed that their two people had grown from the seeds of a greater race; so it was that it was time for the Vulcans to become the parent race. V'Las had little patience when it came to the upstart races of Andorians, Tellarites and men. The first minister regarded them as little more than uncouth brigands; no more than flashes of minor brilliance in the night sky V'Las thought. But they would all be outshone by the elder races, no, race he corrected himself.

V'Las' outer entrance warning chime sounded. He quickly changed the image of the wall map back to the image of his homeworld. V'Las walked back to stand impassively before his desk as ministers Kuvak and T'Lir entered. The two ministers greeted their chief with due deference. V'Las acknowledged them both.

Kuvak was a young politician who was some years V'Las' junior. Still the wiry Vulcan had amassed a great deal of power in his time in the ministry. V'Las had been pleased to discover that he had earned Kuvak's support. Better that than to have made an enemy out of the minister V'Las thought. T'Lir was different though V'Las thought: A patriot of sorts but more of a follower. Her logic compelled her to accept the notion that V'Las was making the best decisions for his people. Of course ultimately he was doing so; but the first minister knew that he had to obfuscate somewhat to lead his people to reunification.

"I expect that you are here to report on citizen protests?" V'Las asked his ministers.

"There have been questions arising out of the bombardment of the T'Karath Sanctuary," T'Lir started for the two politicians. "Knowledge of the incident leaked out despite our efforts to conceal it."

"I do not understand what is happening," Kuvak said; pensively V'Las noted. He knew that was the minister's favorite form of attack in ministerial meetings. "These Syrranites seem harmless."

"But are they so minister?" V'Las asked in turn. "They are spreading dangerous ideas: mind melds and reflective meditation—and pacification."

"Some would say that the teachings of Surak encourage such activities," T'Lir said quietly. V'Las was surprised: T'Lir was normally complacent and accepting of his ideas. The first minister considered that he would have to ask Sub Lieutenant Stel to investigate T'Lir's recent activities.

"Ah the imaginary Kir'Shara," V'Las turned his back on his guests and returned to his seat. He bid the two ministers to sit opposite him. "Have you seen the Kir'Shara T'Lir?"

"No first minister," she answered. "It is reasonable to assume that the Syrranites are basing their beliefs on something however."

"Such as a cult of personality surrounding Syrran?" he countered.

"These notions were handed down from antiquity V'Las," Kuvak interjected. "Before Syrran's time; scholars have suspected that there was a basis for them in fact."

"Do you believe thus?" he asked Kuvak. V'Las realized that the human like insinuation would unsettle Kuvak's logic.

"My beliefs first minister, are not the issue," Kuvak replied carefully. "But what the average Vulcan believes is the issue. This move at suppression has the public questioning your leadership. I do not say this to defame you. I do not seek your position; merely I wish to advise you."

"I see," V'Las answered. He should have trusted to his fellow minister's loyalty. Admiral Valdore had told him much the same concerning his handling of the Syrranites. Neither the admiral nor Kuvak really understood the parameters that V'Las had to operate in. His leadership would be the driving force that would usher in reunification. Only someone who could see the magnificent shared destiny that the children of Surak and Careaza had could hope to facilitate the changes that would take place. "What is your advice then, Kuvak?" V'Las asked at last.

"Make a conciliatory statement," Kuvak replied. "Try to find Syrran. Surely logic suggests that your two opposing viewpoints should have a point of intersection."

"That may be a difficult proposition," V'Las answered.

"He will go to Mount Selaya," T'Lir said. "It is the only logical course that Syrran could follow."

"I tend to agree minister," V'Las answered. "I have ordered that the entrances to the mount be sealed off."

"Why not allow him to go there?" Kuvak said. "You could confront him before our people. The confrontation would be seen by many via the secondary network. You could debate Syrran and unveil him as an opportunist."

V'Las considered the possibility. But rather than confront Syrran he wondered about the possibility of giving the follower of Surak an opening through which V'Las might capture him. He had perhaps learned some Romulan guile from his stay among his brothers and sisters.

"An excellent suggestion Kuvak," V'Las said. "I shall see to its implementation."

"I realize that it is not on the day's agenda but I must ask: When might the people of my province be allowed to return, first minister?" T'Lir asked. "I have sought information on the ancient nuclear device found buried there and I have discovered nothing."

"That unpleasant reminder of our past is best left shrouded minister," V'Las answered. There had been a radiological device discovered in the outlying mountains there. Stel had sent an advanced team to secure the weapon. The old bomb; a leftover from Vulcan's past had been made safe but the Syrranite issue had taken preeminence and had drawn Stel's team into other business. The old nuclear bomb had fortuitously become the reason to compel the evacuation of Sokur. Still it seemed now a good opportunity to succor T'Lir's concerns. "I shall notify the on scene commander to finish securing the weapon: A tragic remnant of a past best forgotten." Except that it would not be forgotten V'Las knew: It would be rewritten.

"My thanks first minister," T'Lir replied.

The trio finished running down the business of governing. V'Las was distracted as his inner mind turned to the task of capturing Syrran. Perhaps a confrontation was in order: In any event that might satisfy Admiral Valdore's edict that V'Las not turn the leader into a martyr. It rankled V'Las that he had to take orders from what he saw as the mostly rigid, military minded Valdore. Talex had been far better in his handling of political problems.

V'Las wondered briefly how his society would react to the Tal Shiar. He realized that the state police of the empire would be needed to facilitate the impending reunification of his people. But he did not expect his people to deal well with the situation. Eventually though as the two races melded into a greater they would all come to see the wisdom of V'Las actions.


	20. Chapter 20

Converted freighter Jade Queen, near Topaz, Oct 2156

Captain Donald Townsend was losing his umpteenth game of chess to his first officer. It was worse that the thrashing was occurring in public. Margaret Sadler seemed to be able to anticipate and block whatever moves Townsend could come up with. The Queen Bitch's crew, gathered in the galley at that time was enjoying the sport. Townsend could hear a few bets being made and realized that he was the long shot; again. He wished he could bet as well: He would bet on Margaret.

"What's it going to be skipper?" Sadler said softly. She smiled and took a drink of coffee. "Do you sacrifice your rook or the bishop? Do you want to know what I would do?" she asked with a victorious grin pasted on her lips.

"Not really," Townsend replied. He made a dusky contrast to the slight pale skinned Sadler. "What is the bet again; a five hundred of Kentucky bourbon?" meaning a half liter bottle of the smooth amber substance.

"Tsk, tsk, sir," Sadler cooed. "Now you know it was a thousand. I know you squirreled extra rations aboard skipper."

"Damn," Townsend cursed, "are you maintaining surveillance on my quarters?" He stopped to poke his fork into what the Stellar Navy had told him was a lima bean; it was either that or an gasket for a spacesuit Townsend mused. He bit into the bean and concluded that his gasket theory was correct.

"Sun Tzu was taught at the Point as well skipper," Sadler answered. "Know your enemy and all of that. I always made it a habit to apply that in everyday life; including knowing my CO." She noticed his obvious dislike for the vegetable portion of his concentrates. "You know I just finished reading an article by some fellow who claims that in the future food and clothing will be made directly out of energy."

"That sounds as likely as me winning this match," Townsend answered. He suspected that the cagey Sadler was trying to distract him. Don wasn't a chess master but he understood that not even intense concentration would save him now. He therefore took Margaret's bait. "Okay so he gets this energy from, whatever, and he rearranges it so that it turns into real lima beans?"

"Doctor Erickson calls it pattern replication," Doctor Phlox interjected.

"I suppose he says he can send people around too?" Townsend asked, rising to the conversation. "Just beam them around like a radio transmission, huh," he said as his rook was taken. He wondered if the move was the least damaging of the two courses he had seemed to have had opened to him, or that it just didn't matter.

"As a matter of fact he has written another paper on that very thing," Phlox replied.

"I didn't think that sort of thing would interest you doctor," Sadler said as she toyed with her pieces. "I thought your medicine involved electric worms and such," the Queen Bitch's first officer said as she slid her bishop across the checkered board.

"I have an osmotic eel commander," the Denobulan answered. "I hadn't heard of an electric worm though." The Bitch's doctor seemed to be lost in thought.

Townsend eyed the Jade Queen's newest crewmember. Although Denobula had entered the war it had only done so in a limited way. Few Denobulans had volunteered for service aboard Star Fleet ships and those who had seemed to gravitate to the large cruisers and carriers; not to smaller vessels like Townsend's converted Bison class freighter. He recalled Phlox's explanation of wanting to be around humans in a high stress situation.

The raider's crew certainly had that, Townsend thought. But no more so than on the big capital ships he mused. The Bitch had lured four Romulans to their destruction in as many months. But it was a dangerous game that they played whereas the big boys of the taskforces seemed to be enjoying a degree of invulnerability. The birdies had been given a severe trouncing at Hell's Gate. Townsend's long range reports spoke of Star Fleet ships making virtually unopposed strikes against Deneva. As much as Townsend would have liked in on that action he had to admit that he would miss the thrill of the hunt he got from his raider.

"I think that is checkmate skipper," Sadler said. She leaned back in her seat and sipped her mug of fragrant tea. Earl Grey, Townsend recalled: He thought that it smelled as if a pair of his athletic socks were boiled along with some soap.

"Looks like it," Townsend declared, grinning sheepishly. He had wagered his last bottle of Jim Beam. "I suppose that you can't make a substitute for bourbon doctor?" he asked the Denobulan.

"My Tellarite balloon bat secretes alcohol that turns out to very tasty," Phlox replied.

"Secretes where?" a crewman asked.

"Why; in its urine of course," Phlox answered to the collective moans of the gathered humans. The doctor looked around; startled. "It is quite natural I assure you."

"Captain to the bridge," Lieutenant Marshall Davies voice announced over the ship's PA. Townsend could detect a note of tension in his chief engineer's voice. Sadler had as well Townsend could tell as they both stood up together.

"This doesn't get you out of paying up on your wager skipper," his first officer said.

"Of course not," Townsend answered with a straight face. He acknowledged Davies' call and then the two of them set off for the bridge of the converted Bison. Damn, Townsend cursed inwardly: He had been hoping that whatever problem they ran into would cause the commander to forget their bet. Well, as his dad had told him on more than one occasion: The day ain't over yet.

Marshall Davies seemed about to bolt out of the seat as the bridge hatch trundled open admitting Townsend and Sadler. Donald knew that the red-haired American was anxious to get to his engine room. Davies had not wanted to be a bridge officer; but Townsend was minus an operations' officer. The captain needed an extra hand at the bridge watch while he and Sadler waded through the administrative minutiae that plagued all ships' captains and their execs.

"What have you got Marsh?" he asked the engineer as the pudgy engineer vacated the command chair.

"Inbound birds sir," Davies answered. "Sensors read the mass as possible refueling tankers. There is also the mix of cruisers along with them."

Davies detailed a list of thirty-three Sabinus tankers along with twelve escorts; a mix of Sabinus and Veronus class cruisers. Townsend's craft had been sent to Topaz to observe the birdies' farthest holdings. Jade Queen hadn't needed to resort to its disguise as a Denobulan freighter to penetrate the Romulan held system. Townsend had managed to take advantage of the star's spurt of unexpected solar activity. He had parked the Jade Queen in the rubble that had been Topaz's fourth world amid an almost impenetrable sea of electromagnetic soup. The interference had cleared last week. Townsend knew that his Bitch's exit from the system would not come easily.

"They are making a fleet movement somewhere with all of that deuterium," Townsend said. He realized that the bridge crew was looking at him. It was decision time. "We'll continue surveillance and report back when we have a clear exit path."

"Sensor contacts tracking on our position," Chief Paul Aarons reported crisply. "Four cabbages sir," the chief added.

"Get to engineering Marsh," Townsend told his engineer. Townsend wasn't one for ceremony as he assumed his seat. "Do they see us chief?" he asked; following up the sensor operator's report.

"I don't think so sir," Aarons answered. He was bent over in the sensor alcove peering intently into the hood of his visual display. "No, it looks like a random search pattern." The chief paused then added: "Something had to draw them here though sir."

"They know we are here," Townsend said quietly.

"Ever since the birdies acquired subspace sensors we've lost the advantage of being invisible," Margaret Sadler declared.

The large distances that subspace scanners could look over had indeed given the Star Fleet the ability to silently shadow their opponents unobserved. Townsend cursed the birdies luck in getting the same technology. The captain had to remind himself though that his own side was as aggressive in acquiring new weapons and technology. It was wishful thinking Townsend mused, to expect the birdies not to do the same.

"Put it on the screen Paul," Townsend ordered.

"Four more have broken off from the main group sir!" Aarons exclaimed.

Townsend watched the shifting display. It created the illusion of fast moving vessels but Donald knew the reality of the times involved. The ships would converge on his position in about three hours. He knew that he could not warp out in the thick debris field; nor could they fight long against eight Romulan cruisers. Once Townsend put his ship under power the birdies would spot him instantly. The Jade Queen was trapped. Townsend wondered what could have given the raider away then shelved that: He had to deal with the situation at hand. If they lived then Townsend could write up the fault for other Star Fleet captains. He watched the display focus again and again: It was Chief Aarons correcting for the fast moving pieces of rock in the asteroid field. Townsend recalled the time they had getting into the filed with just forward looking radar.

"It won't be much of a fight skipper," Sadler said. "I'd have to say we are checkmated here sir."

"Chief Aarons," Townsend asked as an idea formed in his head. "Based on what you know: Could birdie sensors spot a shuttle launch?"

"From what I've read of our guesses about them," the sensor chief straightened up as he considered his captain's question. "No, unless they've made a breakthrough sir; some of these fragments contain heavy metals. It would be a wonder if we could even see our own shuttles."

"Do you have an idea skipper?" Sadler asked.

"Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat," Townsend quoted softly remembering something his somewhat eccentric Uncle Derek liked to say. He grew serious. "Did I ever tell you how much I hated chess Margaret?"

"Only when you are getting beaten sir!" she exclaimed.

"I can't tell you how many times I wished we had acquired a billiards table; now there is a game I'm good at," Townsend said. Acquire being the euphemism for steal as the controversial under funded raider program had left few credits for creature comforts. "Paul, adjust the scanners to show the relative motion of the smaller asteroids," he directed, turning his attention from Sadler back to the viewscreen.

"There," he said; looking at four particular pieces of planetary debris. "Prep the shuttles Margaret." Townsend turned to Chief Matthew Prescott at the gunnery alcove. "Matt; get down below. Take the warheads off of half a dozen narwhals and load them on the shuttles." He turned to Aarons. "Chief, get me a comprehensive report on the asteroid debris. I want mass and velocity readouts: Time to rack 'em up."

Washington DC, the old United States, earth, Oct 2157

Fall was drawing to a close in the capital of the old United States. This time of year frequently reminded Admiral Erica Soames of her home in Ipswich. It was cool and pleasant. The last red and gold leaves had fallen from the trees two weeks earlier. Soames had taken a little time to tour the area including the mountains of Maryland. Despite her workload she realized the need to get out and blow off steam. But no amount of touring seemed to make her tired enough to face the night. Marlin Killian waited for her in her dreams; begging for his life over and over again.

Maybe she should have returned to England. The evening transatlantic shuttle could make it to London in a little under an hour. But no, her parents would know that something was wrong. Soames could ill afford any slipup now: She was in too deep. She ruminated instead on a night in America's District of Columbia. Forrest was many light years away and they did have an open-ended relationship she knew. Erica wondered if some male company might not assuage some of her feelings. Soames doubted it; but it would be fun trying she thought. The pulsating sound of twentieth century jazz combined with late twenty-first century classic big band spilled out into the Washington night.

Erica heard the introduction of some Andorian and Tellarite influences in the music as well. She chuckled softly as she recalled an article by a Tellarite statesman proclaiming the incursion of dangerous human ideas into their arts and sciences. She must be getting old Erica thought; she looked back on the changes made in her lifetime and wondered if she would even recognize earth one hundred years from now? She went into the dimly lit club. A man that Erica judged to be in his twenties had heard her soft laugh; he leered at her thinking he humor was directed at him. Not her type she thought.

The man's dark hair looked to not have seen any cleansing products for a week. His companions matched him in that area Erica noted. She was not really surprised that they were, with the exception of one of them wearing Sons' of Terra pins. Then again she was stunned: The Sons' had staged their protests as the news of earth's greatest military victory had come over subspace. What should have been the day's biggest story had turned out being reported as almost an afterthought in light of the Battle of Hell's Gate: Except for Carson Maclaren's service. Erica's thoughts turned dark as she considered that something needed to happen to the vid service executive.

"Care to share the joke with me baby?" he asked Soames. She wished that she had worn the skirt type uniform that was available to Star Fleet women. It was short and appealing but at the same time probably would have acted as a repellent for the man.

"Nothing really," Erica answered. She decided not to be nasty. She wanted to relax and maybe have some fun. Soames decided on the course of short contrite answers coupled with general lack of interest.

"Want to come over and have a drink with me and my friends?" the man smiled and persisted. "Mac over there," he waved his hand at a red haired young man who looked just old enough to drink; but not any more so. "Mac over there is a Brit too. I mean I guess you are from over there?" he asked. Soames noted that he was actually waving his hand towards the west.

"No thanks," she smiled and continued towards the bar.

"Oh come on," he said interposing himself between Erica and where she wanted to go. "We are nice fellows. We are students at Georgetown and wanted to show our friend around." He waved towards Soames' supposed countryman again. "My name is Steve. It is better than drinking alone," he added hastily.

"I'm meeting friends," Erica insisted.

"That would be fun," he declared. "You could introduce us to your friends."

"Joyce!" a man about Erica's age exclaimed. The man was a good twelve to fifteen centimeters taller than Soames. She thought that she detected a trace of a British accent. "The rest of the gang will be here shortly. I have our regular table." Definitely British Soames was pleased to discover.

Steve relented after a few curt but kind words to Soames. Erica suspected that it had a lot to do with the stranger's demeanor: Although smiling, the newcomer was well built and projected an attitude of one used to being obeyed. Soames thanked her rescuer and hoped that he would not turn out to be a mistake.

"You're welcome admiral," he replied quietly.

"May I know how you know me?" Soames asked. She had been surprised that the man knew who she was: She could not recall ever having met him.

"I have observed you from afar," he answered with a grin. He ran his hand through a thick head of brown hair. "But come admiral; I do have a table here." He ran his eyes down her body. "I'm not out for that: I don't mix business with pleasure."

"Maybe I'm just here for pleasure," she countered. Soames wondered if she would be better off in the hands of Steve and his friends.

"I suspect that is the truth," the man said. "You must need to relax after you get done managing your job in intelligence and Mister McCoy's ventures."

Soames looked around casually. "Ensign McCoy?" she asked innocently. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play coy with me admiral," the man said; still grinning.

"Who are you?" she asked pointedly. She allowed him to guide her to a corner table.

"Major Malcolm Reed," the man answered. "I am with the NIS."

Soames stomach dropped as if she had just performed a high gee pushover. She was caught if the Naval Investigative Service was looking at her. She sat down carefully opposite the major. Soames smiled as a waiter passed. She ordered drinks after asking Reed what his beverage of choice was. Soames was slowly recovering her composure.

"Very good admiral," Reed said. His grin was gone. "But I'm not surprised: Your record indicates that you are good under pressure."

"What pressure is that major?" she asked.

"I'm not here to arrest you admiral," Reed said. "May I call you Erica? I've always fancied addressing a superior by their first name." Reed looked intently at her. "Let me tell you a story Erica. It's a story about a Star Fleet admiral who has been accessing the secure database making some interesting inquiries."

"Maybe the admiral has a variety of interests major," Soames answered coolly.

"Call me Malcolm please Erica," he grinned slightly then resumed his hard expression. The waiter sat a gin and tonic before Erica and a Guiness Stout before Reed before leaving with his credits in pocket. "Thank you for the drink Erica." He smiled and sipped at his beer. "How was your Italian vacation Erica?"

"Just a short visit really," she answered.

"Long enough to kill the people in the gondola—and Mister Killian," Reed said. "Look Erica; we can sit here and play games all night." Reed slid an old styled envelope over to her. "There is a wafer detailing my findings about you and McCoy. You two have done well—but you need some professional help. The Italian job was done sloppily."

"I don't understand any of this, Major Reed," she said deliberately not taking him up on his offer of familiarity. She slid the envelope back to him. She was about to say more when he put a finger to his lips indicating that she should be quiet. He turned up their table pickup. A news flash had crossed one of the club's vidcasters.

"—again it is confirmed that media mogul and announcer Carson Maclaren and his pilot were the only victims of the tragic aircar crash. The limousine; under oceanic traffic control had apparently been given a course change that diverted it into an Atlantic squall. Traffic control authorities are investigating further but suggest that this was simply a tragic software glitch. Maclaren's widow Arianna—

"Enough of that," Reed turned the audio off and smiled. "You've allowed the propaganda arm of SOT too much leeway Erica." Hid smile faded again. "Let me tell you another story Erica: It is about an NIS agent uncovering some highly illegal action on the part of a Star Fleet officer. But rather than turn that officer in as duty demands he chose instead to follow her activities. The agent found that the officer was doing a worthy job of counterespionage: A task otherwise being left unattended by the regular agencies."

"A story is just that Major Reed," Soames answered carefully. "A story," she concluded.

"Examine the contents of the wafer," Reed said; sliding the envelope back to her. "There is a network contact number for me in the envelope." He sighed. "I want to help you and McCoy. He will be especially in need of help after his father's accident," Reed said putting a sinister connotation on the last word.

"Did the Romulans…" Erica trailed off. Had this suave Reed lured her into saying more than she should? Had this man assassinated Maclaren? Soames had expressed thoughts along the same line just a few minutes before. But now confronted with the reality she was bulking at the idea of murder.

"McCoy exposed himself," Reed answered. "It was likely that opponents would strike out at what they could see." Reed looked away from her as his eyes tracked a young blonde. He took another drink of his beer. "We aren't going to get anywhere tonight Erica. Here is my bottom line: I wish to join your little band. I hate to be blunt but you were near to being caught after Italy. If I hadn't masked certain events Erica; you would most certainly be sitting in prison in Landsdorf or Gloucester; you and Frank McCoy that is."

"Are you saying you murdered Maclaren?" she asked pointedly.

"You'll want to keep your voice down Erica," Reed answered. "No more than you admitting to me that you have been conducting covert operations against private citizens in direct violation of the World Charter Erica," Reed replied to Soames' outburst. "It seems to me that a parasite had a fortuitous accident is all," the major concluded.

"Okay Reed," Soames said taking the envelope and depositing it in her handbag. "I'll play along."

"Excellent," the Englishman declared. He eyed the blonde again who cast a furtive glance back towards him. "I really must be running along Erica. Enjoy the rest of your evening." Reed got up and left Soames by herself. He crossed the floor and started a conversation with the blonde.

Soames made a wry face after sipping at her drink. She suddenly found that it wasn't sitting well on her stomach. She wished that she could forget Marlin Killian's pitiful last few minutes but knew that she never would. But she had thought, wishful thinking she now realized, that few if any humans would have to be killed. Those few who were hurt by her and McCoy's actions would be collaborators she had thought. But now, with Killian's murder weighing on her and now Maclaren's Soames was beginning to wonder if she had made a deal with the devil. The trouble was; she could use someone like Reed and the help he could bring. Erica pushed her drink aside, rose and made her way out into the cool Washington night. She had a wafer to review.

Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen, in the remnants of Topaz's fourth planet, Oct 2157

The bridge displays along with the viewer were the only light sources on the raider's bridge. Captain Donald Townsend still found the displays exceedingly bright even while knowing that someone stepping on the bridge would be in relative pitch blackness. Townsend had even ordered the viewscreen to be dimmed. It showed him his potential killers tightening their web. Just as you should; he thought.

"The last of the shuttles is back on board skipper," Commander Margaret Sadler declared. "Ozzy is still worried that his calculations are off," Sadler said meaning their resident astrophysicist Lieutenant Oswald Kremer.

"If he is even close then it should count," Townsend answered. He was an advocate for a military Stellar Navy taking scientists on expeditions; but not making crewmembers of them. Townsend was beginning to rethink his belief about that now.

"Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades captain," Sadler said.

"We'll see about that," Townsend said. He thumbed the ship's intercom. "Bridge, engineering; go to full on the mam," he said to Marshall Davies. He watched as the engineering interface on the bridge lit up. "They know we're here now." He turned to Matthew Prescott at the gunnery position. "Target the lead cabbages and prepare to fire on my order."

"They are slowing their approach captain," Chief Aarons announced. "The staggered cruisers are moving up."

"They'll try blast this rock to bits with their plasma cannons," Townsend said. He was relaxed despite the impending battle. "Wait just a few seconds longer," he said softly as he watched the distance display count down. "Take us out Margaret," he ordered his first officer.

"And us along with it," Sadler said meaning the asteroid that the Queen Bitch was parked on. "Release docking struts and thrust away," Sadler said to Lieutenant Stephanie Mirren. The navigator's delicate fingers played over the navigation console.

"The Bitch is free and clear to navigate," Mirren said.

"Holding targeting solution sir," Lieutenant Prescott said.

"Fire," Townsend said simply.

"Firing and away!" Prescott shouted.

Two flashing indications appeared on the viewscreen. They raced towards two of the eight Romulan vessels each peeling off along separate vectors. Townsend was not surprised when one of the flashing lights disappeared short of its target. The seconds felt right Donald thought; he ordered another salvo of narwhals away. The remaining indication for the first pair of missiles vanished short. The two new pulsing lights sped along until one of those vanished. The second Townsend realized was going to make it through the Romulan antimissiles and laser fire.

"Looks like they lost the toss and I break," Townsend said as he thumbed a stud on his armrest.

The viewscreen display lit up with several new power sources. Graphs depicting power and magnitude of the new returns increased rapidly and then dropped off toward zero. Symbols representing chunks of high speed rock increased in size. The safe corridor through which Townsend had navigated his Queen Bitch through became a rock strewn tunnel. Unfortunately for the birdies Townsend thought evilly, they had chosen the same course. Townsend watched as the narwhal hit home sending a Romulan crew to whatever afterlife birdies went to. Townsend thumbed a second stud as two cabbages vanished after being crushed by debris.

More of the small asteroids became unguided missiles. Two of the larger bodies had broken apart creating a shower of deadly shrapnel. Just as Kremer had calculated Townsend thought as he smiled wickedly. The defiant little Queen Bitch had already taken out three of the Romulan cruisers. Two more vanished from the display; battered to pieces by repeated asteroid impacts. Townsend ordered one last salvo of narwhals. He needed to conserve his antiship missiles now.

"It's all yours Steph," Townsend told Lt. Stephanie Mirren. The navigator's fingers danced over her panel. Townsend's head swam as the artificial gravity worked to keep up with the tall brunette's inputs. He hoped that his raider's structure could keep up with it.

Kremer had calculated some alternate exit paths for Townsend's ship. Mirren was flying the Jade Queen through one such safe corridor now. It was now a race to see if the Queen Bitch could make her way to free space and engage her warp engines. Their opponents still had four cruisers waiting for them on the other side of the debris field. Townsend looked on as he watched the remaining two attackers of the eight, fall to a combination of narwhals and rock.

"One plus fourteen till we are clear for warp sir," Mirren reported.

"Enemy convoy, turning too," Chief Paul Aarons reported. Townsend watched as the man's fingers played sightlessly over his console as he stared into the hood of his sensor display. "Estimate they will come to IP with us as we clear the field."

"Anymore rabbits in the hat skipper?" Sadler asked.

Townsend shook his head. The Romulans could afford to wait outside of the asteroid belt and make a plasma cannon strike as the Bitch emerged. Donald knew that they could blast more rocks making a thicker debris field between them and the birdies but that would forbid them from going to warp. They could try hiding on another of the larger bodies but the birdies were scanning them. It would only be a matter of time before a Romulan mambo, the narwhal's counterpart, would make its way through the flying rock to destroy Townsend's ship.

"Move some narwhals to the shuttle bay Matt," Townsend said. "We'll try to throw some extra darts at them." He turned to his first officer. "Get with Marsh and see what we can get out of the old girl. We have that new hull plating; maybe we can survive a hit or two before we go into warp."

"I'll get right on it," Sadler answered. She departed on her way to engineering. Prescott followed her for the armory. Townsend knew that the man wanted to get his hands dirty along with those of his technicians. Donald thought that he would make a fine captain someday: If he lived that is.

Paul Aarons had a three week ski vacation planned for his next leave. Townsend asked the sensor operator about that since Aarons was the least busy of the bridge crew save for the captain himself. Donald preferred vacations where he could get a suntan but he still found the idea of speeding down a mountain on polished boards interesting. Even Mirren managed to tear herself away from navigating during a long straightaway long enough to relate a skiing story of her own. Townsend was glad that the reclusive New Englander was coming out of her shell somewhat. The hour and fourteen minutes was whiling away. Sadler returned to the bridge.

"We can't max boost until we are at least twenty thousand K from the asteroid field," his first officer reported.

"Sir, I'm getting some odd reflective readings from the edge of the field," Aarons spoke up. Townsend knew other captains would snap out an order for more detail. He was glad that he knew his crew well enough to expect the best out of them. He was not disappointed when Aarons continued. "I think there are ships there—four of them. I wish we had pointie sensors. They are clustered on two of the larger outer asteroids. It's a guess sir, but their power signatures don't read as Romulan—or ours. Power spikes! They are powering up--missiles on the fly!"

"At us?" the captain asked immediately.

"Negative," Aarons answered. "Towards the Romulans sir!" the chief exclaimed.

"Matt, work a firing solution," Townsend ordered. He thumbed the stud connecting him to engineering. "Marsh; push her up. I want to be clear of this mess in thirty seconds or less; damn the shielding."

"Damage to 'b' deck, section three," Sadler reported almost as soon as the Queen Bitch shot forward through the rubble. The commander held her hand over her earpiece as she listened to reports pouring in. "Decompression near shuttle bay two. The section is clear of personnel."

"We are clear of the debris field sir," Mirren proclaimed. "We are free and clear to navigate; warp drive at your command sir."

"Standby on that," Townsend answered. "Guns do you have a solution? I don't know who jumped into this fight but I plan on helping them!"

"Targets locked!" Prescott exclaimed. Townsend ordered narwhals launched against the remaining three Romulan cruisers: The new arrivals had been busy.

"Anything else on these guys?" he asked Aarons.

Townsend watched as the Bitch's narwhals sped away toward their targets. A blip representing a spider area defense missile disappeared as it intersected the beam from a Romulan plasma cannon. That was fortunate as the raider had incurred a good deal of damage going through the end of the asteroid field. Still Townsend counted him and his ship lucky: The Bitch was still spaceworthy. Two more of their adversaries were not so lucky: Townsend watched as missiles from the Jade Queen joined what he guessed was rail gun fire from the new arrivals. The display denoting the Romulan cruisers vanished. The final Veronus class cruiser was destroyed but not before taking one of the strange ships with it.

"Long range video shot sir," Aarons replied. Townsend nodded at the chief who put the frozen slightly unfocused image on the main viewscreen.

Donald thought that it looked like the end of a broad-headed spear. A stubby head sat atop a tapered neck. The warp nacelles were slung beneath the wider section which Townsend guessed contained the alien's engineering section. He thought that the craft looked to have been made for war. The unusual number of weapons attached beneath the ship's wings as Donald thought of them, fortified that notion. He was willing to bet that the extra hardware made the ship ungainly to handle in sublight. Of course Townsend thought; the Jade Queen was not exactly a nimble ship. It maneuvered he thought; much like the whale that it somewhat resembled.

"The birdie tankers are making for their base on Topaz sir," Aarons reported. "Reinforcements are warping out to our position here. Ten ships: ETA in thirty-six minutes." Aarons' voice suddenly became agitated. "Unknowns are turning toward us; increasing speed."

"Firing solution sir!" the gunnery officer shouted. Townsend could hear the fear in the man's voice. He was feeling some of that himself.

"Standby!" the captain said firmly. Townsend was wondering why the strange vessels were well into the Bitch's observed firing arcs as well as the range of their own weapons while not firing. The distance closed; Townsend was not surprised when the automatic collision alert sounded.

"Chicken skipper?" his first officer asked. Townsend hadn't grown up in Sadler's Texas yet he was still familiar with the ancient game of nerves.

"They are on a collision course!" Aarons exclaimed.

"Standing by evasives," Mirren said calmly. Donald looked over her straight shoulders and saw the young woman's hands flinching in an obvious desire to push buttons.

"Relax Steph," Townsend said calmly, "ahead, one quarter impulse." Mirren's head jerked around. Townsend gave her a reassuring nod. "One quarter impulse; engage," Townsend added softly.

He watched as Mirren inputted his orders accelerating the lumbering freighter along its present vector: Straight at the alien ships. The collision warning translated into an audio tone started pulsing. Donald gripped his armrests as the tones grew closer together.

"Three thousand meters, two thousand, one thousand," Aaron's voice grew tenser. "Hold on!"

Useless Townsend thought, but he wasn't going to fault the man for his outburst. Donald guessed that if his chair was made of weaker stuff that the armrests would be ripped out now. The aliens assumed a relative stop according to the information presented on the viewer. Townsend ordered his ship brought about and halted.

"I think we might need a new paint job on the port side skipper," Sadler said.

"Did you think I was going to flinch, Margaret?" he asked his first officer.

Townsend's first officer was silent for several seconds. "I guess I need to read up more on you captain," she said at last.

"We are holding relative to the aliens, sir," Mirren said; "one thousand and thirty-two kilometers sir."

"So do we sit out here and look pretty or what?" Sadler asked quietly. She glanced at the sensor display. "Looks like we'll be having the birdies over for dinner in twenty-five minutes," she reported.

"Damn!" the captain cursed. He had read that subspace sensors would one day be able to present a visual representation of a ship several thousand kilometers distant. Townsend would've liked another peek at the newcomers but at that range they would be nothing more than well-defined specs.

"Ensign Maier," Townsend got up and walked over to the communications' alcove. The red haired German had been carefully monitoring her displays until Townsend had spoken to her. The captain suspected that pretty ensign had also been monitoring Matthew Prescott: Very little escaped the attention of the person in the center seat.

"Yah sir," she replied. Her accent was still thick despite four years in San Francisco.

"Prepare a linguacode text." Townsend scratched his chin as he considered how to convey thanks in the number based language text.

"Sir I'm receiving a transmission from them," Townsend watched as the girl's eyebrow's arched in obvious surprise. She played her fingers over her console: A piece of paper slid out. "The text is in standard English," she said.

That explained her astonishment Townsend realized. He reflected that paper still had a place after all of these centuries with computers. It was then his turn to be surprised as he took up the paper and started reading. Sadler joined him. He knew that she needn't have studied him for any length of time to tell that he was staggered.

"Klingons," he said to Sadler.

"New allies?" she asked expectantly. The message was lengthy and it took some time before Townsend could answer her question.

He shook his head; "depends on the Romulans: Looks like they've been sending expeditions into Klingon space causing the empire to respond. This raid was a warning to the birdies. There is a lot of high brow diplomaticese but the message emphasizes in several places that this raid does not change the empire's status in this war with regards to us."

"The Klingons are sitting it out, protecting their interests," Sadler said quietly. Townsend knew that his first officer was an avid follower of politics. "One thing is for sure: Whoever wins this thing might well end up being the power in this part of the galaxy. That leaves the winner and the Klingons."

"Yeah," Townsend answered. "All the while; if they act along the lines we expect, they will be building up their navy." Townsend had to remind himself that alien motivations could be far different from human ones. Then again he thought how spooky it was when the motivations were exactly the same.

"What else?" Sadler asked flatly. Townsend realized that his first officer was indeed acquainted with him. He sighed as he examined the last few lines of the message again.

"I think I need to reread this to make sure of the translation," Townsend lied: The communiqué had been excellently rendered into English. "In the meantime Kristina," he said to Maier, "patch together a linguacode sending my thanks—or as close to a thanks as it'll allow to Captain Kurn." He eyes the message again. "Open an audio channel; same frequency." Hell Townsend thought; his instincts had been right so far. He would now either send out an olive branch or go down in history as the man who had started an intergalactic war. He had been right about the Klingons' playing chicken with his raider: He was right about this.

"Linguacode transmission complete; channel open kapitan," the ensign reported.

Townsend looked at the strange word or phrase or whatever it was, again. He was playing a hunch and his hunch said; say it with gusto. "Ka pla!" he exclaimed; hoping he had not just told the Klingons that he taken advantage of one of their mothers or sisters.

After a few moments Maier said: "Nothing sir." Then the bridge speaker burst out with a digital preamble.

A hearty laugh then: "Ka pla!" the reply was short.

Minutes later Aarons informed him that the Klingons had gone to warp and the Romulans were now less than fifteen minutes out. Townsend knew that it was time for them to leave as well. He looked at the message that he had folded over neatly in his hand. Townsend wondered what the politicos would make of it.

Sokur Province, Vulcan, earth year Oct 2157

Gupta looked at the ancient weapon thinking that it looked more like a dirt encrusted boulder instead of a radiological bomb. Thousands of years in the red sands of Vulcan had taken their toll on the device. Gupta stepped forward and carefully chiseled away at a point under which Major M'Viar's weapon officer had indicated the mechanism's controls should be. Gupta was thankful for his foray into archeology; he was careful in his search for the access panel. He put down his tools as he neared the casing choosing a water spray to wash off the final millenniums of dirt.

"I do not believe that this is a wise course," T'Pol said as she stood behind him in the tent that had been set aside to house the bomb. The two were alone; at least for a minute. "The armory officer can remove the plutonium: You can," she paused then added in English: "Bluff."

"These aren't Vulcans," Gupta answered and was instantly sorry that he had said it. No he thought; the Romulans were closer in some attitudes to his people than to T'Pol's, Gupta lamented.

"What if you have to detonate the device?" the Vulcan asked. "Some sort of remote detonator would allow you a chance to escape."

"And allow the Romulans to either take the detonator or disarm the bomb?" Gupta asked.

"Sub Lieutenant Sezla should be here before you remove that," T'Pol said as Gupta scraped at one of the access cover retaining bolts. "I do not want you to die Tarang," she added suddenly. Did he imagine it or had her voice choked? She coughed. "This is not a logical way to proceed."

Gupta stopped. He hadn't really thought of dying. Gupta's plan of the moment had consisted of driving the bomb into Sokur then threatening to set it off. The resulting radiological output would contaminate Sokur and render it unusable for a troop landing. The alternative was for Major M'Viar to strike at the Orion freighter with heavy particle cannons. That would bottle up any further Romulan landings; and reveal the nature of the Romulans to the Vulcan soldiers who would engage those left on the ground. Gupta hadn't considered his escape if he went with his scheme. He just supposed that it was a given that he would get away.

"I hadn't planned on dying," he said as he worked the cover plate off. Sezla had told him that the bomb; designed to throw a plume of plutonium into the air was a relatively simple device. He felt her hand caress his neck lightly. He worked at the last fastener.

"Major M'Viar can attack Sokur," T'Pol said. "He can achieve the same results. In fact he would likely win a battle against the Romulans. Your plan is risky and therefore illogical."

"If he does that it won't be long before M'Viar's High Command troops find out whom they are fighting." Tarang carefully pried at the plate. He could see some of the mechanism beneath.

"The true nature of the Romulans would be revealed eventually," T'Pol countered. He felt the heat of her skin through his shirt as she rested her hand on his shoulder. "You seem skeptical of Syrran and yet you pursue this course of action to appease him."

Gupta removed the panel and saw as Sezla had predicted; that the mechanism looked relatively simple. He turned around to face T'Pol. She released his shoulder then reached out tentatively for his hand. Gupta took hers in his. He had so much that he wanted to tell her. But she was entitled to an explanation. It was too bad that Gupta really hadn't quantified why he was doing this deed.

"Syrran," he started awkwardly. "I believe him. I don't why; perhaps it is his," Gupta looked sidewise at her; "his faith in what he believes." Gupta looked away from her. "I also am concerned." Vulcan was not a language to express feeling in he thought; that was for sure. "I do not know what would happen to you if this reunification occurred." He was using English. "I care very much for you. I…"

"Ah you have removed the access cover lieutenant," M'Viar said as he pushed aside the tent flap and strode in. Syrran followed the major along with the armory officer Sezla. The short Vulcan moved past his commander and Syrran to examine the bombs inner workings. He produced a small handheld device and started playing it over the weapon's interior. The major looked first to his officer then to Gupta and T'Pol. "Were you two discussing a private matter?"

"The human wants to complete a mating ritual with her," Syrran said in the same tones a university professor might calmly announce the proof of a mathematical theorem.

"I see," the major said; his left eyebrow arched. "Have they mated before? I believe that a human and Vulcan have never attempted that."

"I do not believe so," Syrran answered.

"We a, we a need to discuss," Gupta stuttered in English then Hindi.

"The weapon's circuitry is unstable," Sezla announced. Gupta breathed a sigh of relief that the topic of discussion had turned. Then he realized the import of the officer's words.

"The weapon has been buried for some time," M'Viar stated.

"It might be possible to detonate it," Sezla stated. "But it seems highly unlikely. It has become more of a relic rather than a weapon."

"Can you install a new detonator?" Gupta asked.

"The technology is incompatible," Sezla relied.

"Our weapon is gone," Gupta said. He had nothing to drive off invaders now. He looked at Syrran and for a brief second realized that the two were thinking the same thing. There seemed to be only one option to prevent the invasion of Vulcan.

"You said that Surak went to the warring parties," Gupta said to Syrran. Actually he had told Gupta briefly and privately that Surak had gone to those who marched under the raptor's wings. Gupta didn't think that element needed to be repeated before the major and Sezla. "Can your men clean this up sir?" Gupta asked the major in reference to the ancient bomb. He thought that the weapon could still prove useful although a niggling feeling clutched at him just outside of reach.

"To what end?" he vaguely heard M'Viar ask. "I should instead organize for an attack."

"Which you would win," Gupta mumbled. He considered the few things that Syrran had told him about the people called Rihannsu. They would die rather than surrender which had added to the ferocity of Vulcan's wars. Their descendents had shown the same martial fury in their refusal to be taken captive. They also had demonstrated that they would retreat when they were overwhelmed. "What is logical?" Gupta asked softly.

"An attack is not warranted," Syrran said. Gupta could read Vulcans well enough now that he knew that Syrran wished he could recall his words.

"Why not," the major asked.

"It is logical to seek a peaceful solution," Gupta said, coming to Syrran's aide.

"You came to me seeking aide Gupta," M'Viar stated. "If not military aide then what is it that you expect of me?"

"I don't know," Gupta struggled for words. "For some reason I feel that the military solution is wrong here. The Romulans need a reason to leave," Gupta stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Why would they do that?" M'Viar asked; "unless a superior force threatened to engage them. V'Las has sent the High Command fleet to the outer edges of the system."

"He is using this war between the worlds to manipulate the situation," Syrran said.

"Major did you tell me that the High Command is in charge of planetary communications?" Gupta asked. The Vulcan officer replied in the affirmative. He turned to T'Pol. "You said that the soil in this area contains a mineral that confounds sensors?" She replied with a very human nod. "So the Orions cannot see out in effect?"

"Very limited range," T'Pol answered.

"Do you have an idea Gupta?" Syrran asked.

"No," Gupta answered, "but you do." He smiled at Syrran's look of confusion. "Look, the major here represents the High Command. You have a receiver transmitter that downlinks from your communication network?"

"Of course," the major answered.

"Which the Romulans are probably monitoring," Gupta said. "Can you co-opt the signal so that you can transmit to the uplink and take control of the downlinked transmission?"

"I will consult my communications' technician but that sounds possible," the major answered. "Why should I do such a thing? It is not logical."

"I wonder what the Romulan commander would do if an invading Star Fleet taskforce was preparing to attack Vulcan?" Gupta asked the group.

"There is no such human," M'Viar stated; "unless you are lying about your motives here."

"That is where you are wrong major," Gupta answered. "There is a large taskforce; in fact it is attacking now." Gupta smiled at the major who looked skyward for a brief second.

"How do you know this human?" the officer asked.

"Because we are going to manufacture it ourselves," Gupta answered.

Utopia Planitia, Mars orbit, Sol system, Oct 2157

"This thing is big," Augustus Kirk said. The presidential shuttle's observation lounge afforded excellent views to the people looking out. "I've seen pictures of course but they don't really do it justice."

Thorpe watched as Kirk marveled as they passed beneath the skeletal beginnings of a warship. The president guessed that it was one of the new conqueror class warships. He looked at it with trepidation: The allies needed the new cruiser but he did not want a fleet of the things. Thorpe knew that they had but one purpose: The destruction of enemy fleets and subjugation of antagonistic worlds. If all went as Thorpe planned however a glut of these ships would force the federation members to slash their military budgets in favor of explorer ships like Daedelus.

Daedelus was long overdue. Thorpe was losing hope. He wondered how he would handle informing the families about the deaths of their loved ones. Most of Cromwell's crew had few relatives; but enough that questions would be asked. He wanted something more than "died in the performance of their duties" to go on their stones. Thorpe had spoken to Archer who indicated that late November should be the cutoff for holding out any hope that Cromwell and his crew still lived.

Captain Jonathan Archer looked slightly uncomfortable, Thorpe thought as the officer surveyed the damaged portion of the shipyard. Thorpe was just thankful that the Romulans hadn't attacked Sol with the force they had mustered against Wolf 359. Forrest had reported it as a blunder. Thorpe wasn't sure since he had never met a living Romulan. Perhaps their opponents had a reason for the course that they had pursued. He would give himself another of those nagging headaches he was getting as of late if he thought much more about it. The president looked at Archer's protégé: Ensign Crusher was visibly nervous. Thorpe approached the two officers.

"So this is the wunderkind I've heard so much about?" Thorpe stuck out his hand to Archer and Crusher. "I don't put my pants on the same as you ensign," Thorpe declared in a stern voice to Crusher. He could see the young officer tense up. "At my age I have to grunt and groan a few times to get my legs into the cuffs!" Thorpe smiled. Archer laughed and seconds later so did Crusher. "So, you plan on building the warp seven starship?" Thorpe asked Crusher.

"I'd like to try sir," Crusher answered. "I think when we incorporate fields into the hulls of ships we will be able to design ships to handle higher stresses. I think we might be able to build ships that can make warp eight."

"First the world then the galaxy," Thorpe said quietly.

"What do you mean sir?" Crusher asked.

Thorpe was pleased to see the man relaxed. "Speed ensign," the president answered. "It makes the universe smaller."

"It'll be awhile before we get there Mister President," Archer said; "Some warp physicists theorize that there is an upper limit. Right now our engines are the limiting factor; past warp five we don't know what kind of relativistic effects that we might encounter."

"What happens when we do that?" Augustus Kirk asked the designer. The stocky man had joined the group. "Will our eyeballs explode?"

"There would be noticeable effects on the passage of time for our crews," Archer explained. "It's possible that they might not be able to interact with the normal way we experience things as far as the passage of time goes. Also we are talking about the theoretical upper limits for the current engine designs—even with the new mam reactors." The designer grew thoughtful. "We are only just now working with dilithium. Its promising but even a gross mathematical model proposes only so much engine efficiency. Dilithium will break down over time."

"Unless it could be renewed while the starship is cruising through space." It was Crusher's turn to look pensive. "Then the next hurdle would be that upper limit; an asymptote where physics begins to break down; at least the physics that we know so far."

"What about this upper limit?" Kirk asked. "What happens when physics break down?"

"No one knows," Crusher answered. "Time could pass at a wildly slow rate for the people riding the bubble of the limit. Or it could accelerate wildly; a person could find themselves at all points in the universe at once."

"Talk about getting around," Kirk replied with a grin. "But the speed of light used to be a barrier; well, here we are. Do you think there will ever be some bypass for warp speed?" Kirk eyed the two ship designers.

Thorpe watched as Archer seemed hesitant. His companion however seemed to have found his legs. "I read an article suggesting that a tunnel, like a wormhole, could be opened in subspace."

"Wormhole?" the councilman asked. "What is that? The only worms I'm familiar with go on the end of a hook."

"In warped space it would be like a trans-spatial conduit," Crusher explained; "call it a transwarp tunnel."

"And I wouldn't be everywhere in the universe right?" Kirk asked.

"No sir," Crusher answered.

Thorpe listened as first Crusher, and then Archer turned to the language of mathematics. He decided that it was time to rescue Kirk who was beginning to look frustrated. Thorpe knew that feigned interest was a politician's purview but everyone had limits. "We are coming up on our docking point Augustus," Thorpe said taking the councilor in hand.

"What exactly do you want out of me Mister President?" Kirk asked.

"You've been running with this federation idea," Thorpe answered. "Your offices have been laying much of the groundwork; how alien and human agencies will interact and such. I was looking for a point man for this whole thing; someone to take this thing on the road to our allies."

Kirk looked around. "You know this is my first time off-world," he said quietly. "Sir with all due respect there have to be better people to do this. I'm not a xeno," Kirk said using the human slang for alien haters. "At the same time though, I'm just a farmer who wanted to dabble in politics. I'm no ambassador. Why; I'm not even sure where my pinkie goes when I drink tea. Do I stick it out or in? And if it sticks out is that the Tellarite version of the finger? As a matter of fact; I don't even like tea."

"Which is what makes you the perfect man for this Augustus," Thorpe said. It was the president's turn to look around. Ebenstark saw his glance and ran some interference to keep the conversation between Thorpe and Kirk private. "Look Augustus; I can get a thousand ambassadors for this. They'll each know how to hold a teacup. But I don't want that! I believe for this to work someone has to go out and speak from his heart; like you did that day in the council chambers."

"Debra always said my mouth was just big enough to get my foot in it," Kirk smiled. "What if I screw up?"

"Then you screw up," Thorpe answered. "Maybe the federation wasn't meant to be—yet. But just maybe you'll start the dream of something better."

"I've got a better idea: You sell the allies and I'll be president."

"Truthfully I'd do that if I could Augustus," Thorpe answered. How he wished that were possible. He gave the councilor a serious look. "I'm asking you to do this Augustus. It won't be history making; you'll be the man behind the scenes; if anything you'll just be a minor footnote. But I need your help on this."

"Okay," Kirk agreed after almost a minute. "So how do I get around? Or do the aliens come to me?"

"Our carriers weren't hit," Thorpe answered. "We'll have to wait till late next year or even fifty nine before we see the conqueror though. But Admiral Forrest thinks we have a sufficient number of carriers."

Thorpe escorted Kirk to a better vantage point. The shuttle was slowly cruising by the two hundred and thirty-four meter length of a Yorktown class carrier. The surface was still bare metal. Thorpe gestured at the nearly completed starship.

"I said behind the scenes," Thorpe said. "I've ordered this carrier to be refitted. This is the ship that will take you to the various worlds Augustus. You'll have only three fighter escorts so the extra space will be allocated to conference rooms. The cabins will be upgraded as well for dignitaries."

"All that?" the councilor asked. His face held a look of incredulousness. "All that for me?" he asked again.

"You and your diplomatic team sir," Thorpe answered; "language and cultural experts."

"To help me figure out how to hold my teacup?" the councilor asked.

"Something like that," Thorpe answered. He was pleased with his choice. "I think you are a man who likes a full hand at the card table Augustus."

"Cards sir?" Kirk asked grinning. "You mean like poker and such? Never played the game; but if you'd like to show me Mister President…"

"Uh, no thanks," Thorpe answered. "My retirement is going to be slim as is."

The two made small talk for several more minutes. Finally Kirk excused himself to speak with his wife via subspace radio. Thorpe stood looking on as the shuttle completed its rendezvous with the diplomatic ship to be. Thorpe caught Jonathan Archer out of the corner of his eye.

"Good man Crusher," Thorpe said. "We will need builders and explorers, after all of this is over. There will be too damn many soldiers I'm afraid. But they'll have a place too."

"Speaking of places sir I was curious," Archer said. The captain continued at Thorpe's slight grunt and raised eyebrows. "This Earth Space Probe Agency; do you think the allies will buy off on us running things there?"

"I hope that Kirk will be able to sell that," Thorpe said. "Shran has already assented: He understands that we will be doing the paperwork while his people on Star Fleet ships will be reaping the benefits. I imagine the Tellarites will follow suit."

"I thought we were going to share with the races in this federation," Archer countered.

"It is a concession to the Sons' of Terra's puppets in the council." Thorpe sighed. "The real power will be in this federation council; when that is established. The administration of exploration will still be largely a Star Fleet; therefore a council matter."

"I see sir." Archer turned to the carrier and sighed. "So she is going to be called the Serendipity?" he asked.

Thorpe nodded. "We struck the intended designation. It might've been okay but since the ship's mission is diplomatic…" Thorpe trailed off. The shuttle was passing busy dockworkers as they etched off the last letters of Serendipity's original moniker.

"I guess Enterprise wasn't a good name for a diplomatic ship?" Archer asked.

Sokur Province, Vulcan, earth year Oct. 2157

"Our equipment was never intended to perform this function human," Major M'Viar said. Gupta had been working with the major's communication technician.

"We have to pirate the downlink," Gupta said to the technician. "But we also have to do it so that those monitoring the uplink aren't aware of what we are doing." Gupta translated the major's statement: Vulcans would never consider using the equipment for the purpose that Gupta intended. Gupta looked around the tent at the assembled group. Syrran was there with Major M'Viar and the latter's communications' officer. T'Pol was there as well. Gupta wished he could have finished what he had started to say to her.

"Pirate?" the technician, a rather plump Vulcan replied. Gupta could see the confusion behind the Vulcan's logic. He had been getting into the habit of introducing human concepts and words into an alien language; sometimes with unintended consequences.

"It is a form of," Gupta hesitated. He was somewhat embarrassed. "Theft," he explained. The human looked through the operator's logs. He was stunned for a moment as he thought of how far his language skills had come: He was seeing the Vulcan letters and recognizing them for their words without first translating them into English. His amazement changed however after he skimmed past a section of the electronic log. "What is this gap in time here?"

"Routine maintenance checks," the operator answered. The technician looked at his superior.

"Tazek, you may explain to Lieuntenant Gupta the contents of the logs," M'Viar assured his subordinate.

"Periodically we interrupt our signal to run programming checks on the encryption modules," Tazek explained. "The solid waveform you see is a signal that is substituted for our primary one until checks are complete."

A dummy signal, Gupta thought. He thought that they would have about ten minutes during this window. He consulted the technician further until he was satisfied that the new transmission they sent would: Be able to takeover the downlink as well as be undetectable. Ten minutes would not be enough Gupta thought.

"Can you interrupt the signal any longer?" Gupta asked. The operator indicated that was impossible. Gupta was silent for several minutes before continuing. "What about a computer virus?" he asked. Both M'Viar and Tazek seemed confused when the concept of a logic machine was intertwined with an organic creature.

"It is an algorithm made to replicate itself in a computer program," T'Pol interjected. "I studied your history including the so-called cyber wars that preceded your last world war," she said in answer to Gupta's questioning look. "I believe," she continued addressing them all, "that I could create such a program; especially since it is evident that the security lockouts are bypassed."

"You have security protocols in place and yet do know about viruses?" Gupta asked.

"We only recently installed security software since our encounters with your people Tarang," T'Pol said. "We found your computational devices very sophisticated given your people's level of development."

Gupta had not known that. He had always assumed that Vulcan computer systems were superior to their own. He recalled a conversation between him and T'Pol about the twentieth century computer magnate Henry Starling. Gupta had dismissed the Vulcan's interest as that of a learned professor's interest in an ancient science. That was an interesting bit of tactical knowledge he thought.

"Then if you do that we may have more time," Gupta declared. He was still worried. If he had a few hours he could convince Valdore that superior enemy forces were on the way. But then again too much time seemed to invite too many questions. Gupta looked at Syrran. The leader of the Syrranite movement looked back.

"You will have to show them a human presence Gupta," Syrran said.

"A ruse?" the Indian asked the Vulcan; rather surprised that Syrran would be the one to put forth such a plan. He told Syrran as much.

"Your plan will cause the Romulans to depart with perhaps no violence or killing," Syrran replied. "I am interested in peace. It is logical for me to advocate for a peaceful solution."

"Vulcan dress uniforms are close to the same color that Stellar Navy Marines wear," Gupta said. He was thinking out loud.

"My technicians have a red work uniform," M'Viar said. "It matches the color that your Star Fleet troops are wearing."

"Really?" the human asked in English then repeated the question in Vulcan. Gupta had seen the new uniform. He inquired further to discover that most Star Fleet personnel were wearing the jersey and black pants combination. It shook Tarang to realize how long he had been away.

"You have been gone from your home long human," the major told him.

"Yes," Tarang answered simply. "Do you have any weapons that might be comparable to Stellar Navy ground weapons?" Gupta asked. He preferred to speak of anything but earth right now.

M'Viar detailed a list of mortars, laser rifles and projectile weapons that were still used by High Command troops. Gupta knew it wouldn't be much. But with M'Viar's help he soon had thirteen Vulcans schooled in a variety of Standard English, Andorian and German of all earth languages. Tarang knew though that even these thirteen were thirteen too many.

"An assault consisting of a limited number of troops should be conducted from here," the major pointed out a section of the city on a holographic chart. "This will yield slightly higher ground Gupta."

"The goal is not to succeed," the Indian answered. "I will write a script for your troops major. The important thing is that they sound like humans."

"Me and Tarang could reenter Sokur and sabotage the alternate communications' station the Romulans sat up," T'Pol said. "That should," she paused, "confuse things further. I have completed the virus."

Gupta looked at his chronometer and coordinated a time with Tazek to take over the downlink. M'Viar parted with his soldiers to secure the proper weapons. Syrran excused himself to meditate. Gupta, with T'Pol's help pieced together some computer files for his upcoming presentation for the Vulcans. He wrote out some scripted phrases quickly and made some copies for the Vulcans to play at being human. When all was complete he left with T'Pol in tow. He realized that she wanted to speak to him.

"You were resistant to me returning to the city before," Gupta began, "now you propose both of us going."

"It would have meant your death before," T'Pol replied. "What I proposed is still dangerous and we may well die. But I believe we will fair better if we are together. We have done so several times already."

"Ah I see," Gupta answered. "It is just that we work well together."

"It is more than that Tarang," T'Pol answered. She seemed about to speak, refrained then started to speak again. Gupta extended two fingers of his right hand as T'Pol had shown him in the capital. The Vulcan did likewise and the two of them touched. Tarang could sense something that he called an otherness in him. They were between tents and about as alone as they could be given the circumstances. Gupta felt a warm set of lips touch his. The moment ended.

"I wanted to say," Gupta began when T'Pol moved her fingers to his lips.

"Perhaps now is not the time," she said. "When all of this is over then we can talk."

"Agreed," the naval officer said. He withdrew his colt, checked its charge and headed for the small tent that he had been assigned. Gupta needed a moment or two to think. He was also, as silly as it might seem going to treat himself to a washcloth. He wondered how developed the Romulans' sense of smell was. He looked after T'Pol who reentered the communications' tent.

Gupta had crawled up near the first paved street of Sokur. The Indian had thought that entering the city would be as easy as their exit had been. Foolish he thought in retrospect; of course the Romulans had established electronic frontiers to protect their investment. Gupta was only glad that the thin metallic tubes, inserted into the ground and running around the city winding, had been easily visible. He rolled over onto his back and looked into the rapidly darkening sky.

"First check," he declared.

"Our time is limited here," T'Pol said. "The weakness of the devices may lay in the haste in which they were installed."

"You're right," Gupta answered. He looked around and finding a suitable sized rock threw it at one of the electronic trip wires. He missed by over ten meters.

"What are you doing?" T'Pol asked quietly.

"Testing their defenses," he answered weakly.

The craft created a sandstorm where it touched down. T'Pol had been careful to hit the electronic sentry several meters from the first one she had struck. Romulan troops were barely visible as flashes on their gold and silver helmets. Gupta wondered how one could see out of the headgear which was obviously made to give the wearer a raptor like look. The Romulan landing party swept the immediate area. Gupta noticed that they did not stray too far in their endeavors. He wondered how many other nuisances they had responded to. Gupta counted six ground troops as they completed repairs to the electronic fence and then boarded the copter. The craft rose away into the desert night.

Gupta had counted about five minutes from T'Pol's stone until the rotorcraft had touched down. He supposed that they had not had time to install video surveillance gear. Gupta had gambled on as much; the Romulans hadn't been in Sokur that long. The two scrambled out.

"It is a long walk into the city center," T'Pol said.

Gupta realized that she had picked up on his thought: They could merely run through the fence until they found a hiding spot in the first houses. It looked to Tarang to be a little over a hundred meter run. They could make it he reasoned but who knew how many other detectors the Romulans had in place. They needed some sort of alternate means of getting into the city. Still Gupta thought that it would be better if they were past the first frontier. He said as much to T'Pol.

The two crawled out from hiding and took off on a dead run. The Vulcan easily bested Gupta despite Tarang's youthful participation in track and field. But Gupta's body was adapting to the atmosphere. A few months before, he would have been heaving and probably vomiting halfway through such a dash. The Indian saw the search lights of the rotorcraft as he and T'Pol ran into a modest dwelling. The two looked out from the house's veranda as the copter circled once again then slowly tracked along the length of the fence. Gupta breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that they had not been captured.

They had a little time before they were to attempt to sabotage the Romulan communications' building. They both turned to peer into the house's dimly lit interior. Gupta was a little taken aback at the home's disheveled condition; especially for a Vulcan residence. T'Pol was obviously curious too. The home's subdued night lighting; still functional since it was powered by the Vulcan sun, showed a household that was a virtual wreck.

"The major said that no one was taken by force," Gupta whispered quietly. It was the only explanation that the human could come up with for the home's condition.

"I do not understand it," T'Pol said as she looked around. Gupta watched as her eyes focused on a bracket. Tarang found the object familiar: He had seen a similar one in T'Les' home only that one had small, artfully carved tablets attached to it; some maxims of Surak's Gupta recalled.

"Many things are missing," T'Pol said quietly.

"Knickknacks," Gupta declared. The common household dust collectors seemed to Gupta to be a constant for all species. He looked around and realized that the little things he had seen in T'Les home were not in evidence here.

The two looked at one another. "It is possible that the Romulans are burglars." T'Pol looked around. Gupta supposed that could be. However some part of him resisted the notion. The Indian remembered the stern Admiral Valdore: He did not profess to know the Romulan but the admiral hardly seemed like a pirate. The two tensed at the sound of metallic treads clacking on the permacrete street.

Gupta moved along a wall to peer out the residence's large front window. An armored vehicle moved steadily down the street. A searchlight cut through the night illuminating the houses in the small neighborhood. Tarang had at first thought they were caught until he concluded that the vehicle's operator was looking at individual houses and not into those houses. The vehicle jerked and stopped. Gupta could see the boxy vehicle with the aid of Sokur's in-ground illumination system. He wondered how long earth cities would continue functioning after their denizens had departed. Perhaps the Romulans were maintaining the power grid the Indian thought. Whatever he thought was quickly driven from his mind as first two of the green Orion crewmen emerged from the carrier. But it was the third person who exited the vehicle who brought Gupta up short.

Gupta recalled his older brother showing wide eyed fourteen year old pictures of what Bharata termed "loose women". Gupta had that same feeling now that those women had engendered in him then. The humanoid woman was green-skinned; blatantly so. Her wide hips accented the rest of her well proportioned body. Her head was topped with a thick mane of loosely flowing black hair. Gupta became aware that most of her garment was a cover in the loosest sense of the word: There was nothing left to his imagination.

"An Orion slave woman," T'Pol said quietly. Gupta could visibly detect her disdain.

"Is that right?" he replied as he leered. He was brought back to reality when she nudged him hard in his ribs.

"They have been observed secreting a pheromone that makes them especially attractive to males," T'Pol explained. "And obviously in your case they do not need to be that close."

"It is just that I, a," Gupta sputtered in English. "I have not seen a woman in awhile," he declared at last; returning to Vulcan. He realized the dreadful mistake he had just made as if his words had physical form and he could see the last one uttered slip from his mouth.

"Indeed," T'Pol said as she arched an eyebrow at him.

Gupta recalled his mother's warning to his father when the two would quarrel that he had said enough. Tarang found himself wanting to slink away. He remembered his father doing that very thing after a domestic argument.

"I will spare you further blunders Tarang," T'Pol said. "I believe that we have a way to enter the city proper now."

The Orions, to Gupta's amazement were in the process of robbing the neighboring house. So that is why the home that he and T'Pol had entered looked ransacked: It had indeed been despoiled. Gupta guessed that this was a clandestine venture on the part of the green skinned aliens. He still could not put his finger on it but he believed that a being so concerned about the wounded Keldar would not allow this looting. Clandestine or not he saw T'Pol's scheme.

"They are not Vulcan," he said. The duo had a few of the auto injectors remaining. Gupta knew that they would anesthetize a Vulcan and probably a Romulan; but he was unsure about Orion physiology. He looked hard at T'Pol as he considered the other option. "You mean we…" he trailed off. He could not say the unspeakable, thieves or no.

"Kill them," she answered promptly, finishing his question. "No, I too find that option distasteful. Their physiology is such that the agents that we have will slow them down sufficiently."

Gupta breathed a sigh of relief. They observed the robbery for a few more minutes before deciding on a plan. It was obvious that the Orions felt confident in that they would not be harassed. T'Pol led the way to the armored vehicle. The city was so quiet that Gupta imagined his footfalls were echoing. The trio of thieves was in the home. Gupta and T'Pol had observed them forming a chain as the carried their stolen goods out. One of the Orion males emerged first: He was carrying an armload of silky looking garments. It occurred to Tarang that nothing seemed sacred to thieves.

The robber carried his booty into the vehicle. Gupta promptly entered behind him after first seeing that the others were still busy in the house. He stabbed down with the auto injector slamming it home in the being's neck. The Orion spun around. Gupta brought both hands together hitting the alien across his face. Tarang dived onto the Orion. Gupta wondered how effective the injection was when the alien wriggled out of Gupta's hold. But Tarang soon had an answer as the Orion's voice croaked in an attempt to warn his colleagues. The alien swayed and collapsed.

Gupta nearly screamed as he felt T'Pol's mouth next to his ear. "I'll deal with the woman," she whispered.

He soon saw why she had said that as the woman made her way toward the armored vehicle. Her accomplice followed. Gupta realized that they would have to dispatch the two quickly. He wondered why T'Pol had decided to take on the woman. She really was quite lovely he thought. Gupta could see her clearly now. She was less than five meters from the vehicle. She called toward the truck's hatch. Tarang thought that she must be frightened out in the night like this. He wanted to go and comfort her. The green woman turned and shouted back toward her companion. Gupta was vaguely aware of T'Pol pushing him aside.

He watched as she reached out toward the green alien's neck. The Orion woman's head snapped around. Tarang watched spellbound as the green woman's teeth sunk into T'Pol's hand. The Orion male leaped into the fray. Gupta started moving out of the armored truck but it was as if his feet were encased in cement. He was aware of T'Pol's voice prompting him to act. Something reflected off the floor of the armored car. Gupta reached for it as he exited.

The auto injector stuck out of the green alien's neck as T'Pol wrestled her to the ground. The remaining Orion rushed at Gupta. A great throbbing rocked the Indian's skull. He swung the object that he had recovered from the truck; it made a resounding crack as it contacted the side of his attacker's head. Gupta sank to his knees as did the Orion. He saw the green woman hit the pavement. The male was reaching into a belt pouch when Gupta saw T'Pol's bloody hand seize the man at the base of his neck. The Orion looked surprised; then he collapsed in a heap at the Vulcan's feet. Gupta sucked in a great draught of air.

"Fortunately the cargo compartment is separate from the control area," T'Pol said. She was pressing one hand over her wounded hand. "That should screen any odors from the female."

"You're hurt!" the human exclaimed. Gupta felt as if he were several pages behind the action. His head was clearing. The night seemed to get brighter as Gupta's awareness came back. He dropped what he realized was a Romulan battle helmet on the ground and went to T'Pol. She handed him a piece of torn cloth from her cloak. "I'm so sorry," he concluded lamely.

"Hold this," she instructed while she used her free hand to start wrapping the cloth around the bite. "I did not realize the effect that the Orion would have upon you. Vulcan males experienced similar reactions including a false onset of Pon Farr. We were too hasty in this approach."

"I'm sorry," Gupta said again. "It was like I could not move. I felt that I should be helping the Orion woman in fact."

"I will not hold you at fault," T'Pol answered. He was amazed when she kissed him fully on the lips. "Just do not let it happen again," she told him after she ended the kiss.

The two discussed possible courses of action as they made a quick perusal of their captured vehicle. The Orions had apparently been robbing their Romulan clients as Gupta and T'Pol discovered enemy military equipment and uniforms among the loot. They discussed possible plans as they tied the Orions up and drug them into the passenger compartment. They quickly discarded the idea of masquerading as Romulans when T'Pol speculated that the Romulans might be freer in the use of their native language now that the Vulcans had been removed from Sokur. Gupta fished through an ornate pouch which had looked decidedly non-Vulcan. He found a small jar of greenish powder.

"How far do you think you can make this go?" he asked as he handed the Vulcan what he guessed was some sort of makeup for the green woman.

"You are not serious?" she asked as she examined the container's contents.

"The two males have headgear of sorts," Gupta answered. He had long since adjusted to his surgically altered ears he thought. "Your hair is thick enough to cover your ears."

The two had a brief discussion with T'Pol reluctantly suggesting that they go through one of the empty homes to find items to extend the Orion woman's makeup. Gupta made a final check of the prisoners before following the Vulcan into the recently ransacked house. Tarang checked his chronometer. The night was wearing away. The simulated attack would occur just before dawn.

Gupta smoothed his hair beneath the headdress. He smiled as he recalled reading The Arabian Nights. He fancied himself looking somewhat like one of the characters from that book. The green paste that Gupta had made did an effective job of turning him and T'Pol into Orions. They boarded the armored carrier and headed toward the landing pad.

"I did not know that you were familiar with such items," T'Pol said in reference to Gupta's coming up with a makeshift skin covering.

"Thank Lieutenant Crosby," Gupta explained. He paused to wonder how Al Crosby was. Had he married his pretty French fiancée Tarang wondered? What had come of Chief McCoy; as a matter of fact what had come of all of his coworkers and family lately. He saw T'Pol's arched eyebrow. He explained further. "An officer I served with invited me to a western celebration. They call it Halloween. I had to come up with a costume."

"The human holiday originating from the Samhain Festival," T'Pol responded. "I studied a variety of human festivals and traditions. I always wondered how the festival devolved into humans spending one night a year pretending to be someone else." She paused before continuing. "Tarang, why have you been avoiding looking at me?"

Gupta was thankful for the face paint. It concealed a deep blush. T'Pol had changed into the unconscious Orion woman's clothes. Gupta had been quite pleased with what he had seen. He had also been quite embarrassed at the thoughts that he had. He collected his thoughts finally telling T'Pol that he was avoiding the sight of her in an attempt to protect her dignity.

"I do not believe that is the case," The Vulcan answered. "Does my body offend you in some way? That could be a problem were we to engage in sex."

"I hadn't thought about that," Gupta answered tersely.

"You hadn't thought about sex between us," T'Pol asked pointedly.

"No, yes, no," Gupta said in Hindi. He took a deep breath. He felt her hand on his arm.

"I must confess that many of us Vulcans have asked ourselves why the need for total logic," T'Pol said. "But seeing the human reaction to a simple natural function explains part of Surak's reasoning with regards to that."

Gupta laughed despite their danger. "Our ways must seem," he paused; there was no Vulcan word for silly. "Strange," he said at last. "Our rituals have evolved over time. Some cultures are quite open some are not. You have to admit T'Pol, your culture still advocates combat to the death to settle love triangles."

"That happens very seldom anymore," T'Pol said.

"It looks like a topic for another day." Gupta was being optimistic. They were pulling up to a roadblock. He hoped that their passengers were still covered up. The Indian speculated that the Orions had some sort of arrangement with the Romulans in regard to this looting. He doubted that the Romulans would permit the Orions an armored vehicle to roam about the city unless something had been negotiated. Gupta stopped the vehicle. A golden helmeted guard walked to the door and after a cursory look at Gupta he turned his attention to T'Pol. The Romulan uttered something in what had to be his native tongue.

"Sorry I do not understand," Gupta said. He hoped since the Orions had previous contact with Vulcans and that the Romulans had been required to study Vulcan that his ignorance of the soldier's language would pass.

"These N'elosaer don't understand you Gelna," another guard declared as he joined the Romulan who had stopped Gupta and T'Pol. Gupta reckoned that this new arrival was an officer of sorts. He had heard Tomalok and his companions discussing their arrain.

"These do not look like the same N'elosaer that passed through before arrain," Gelna said in halting Vulcan.

"All of these aliens look the same Gelna," the arrain answered. "Although I would give a S'khaidera whaenra to see the slave woman more closely."

"That could perhaps be arranged," Gupta replied slyly.

"Where is your companion; the third?" the uhlan Gelna asked.

"Sleeping in back," Gupta answered while hitching a thumb toward the cargo compartment. He made as if he were intoxicated as he added: "Too much wine."

"More likely drugs," Gelna answered. "Why we rely on you criminals is unknown to me. I will look in back."

"We really must be moving along," Gupta said as slowly and calmly as he could. If the guards discovered the unconscious Orions in back there would be trouble. He daren't reach into the thin silk like shirt for his colt. "It would be costly for us to be late with our bounty".

"My post ends on the morn Elosaer," the arrain leered at T'Pol. "Bring the woman by segment 12. I am Arrain Balecava of the Fourth Khellea." Gupta smiled cruelly in turn at the arrain. He agreed heartily and thanked the officer for his cooperation. Gupta prepared to start up the vehicle when Balecava's arm shot through the window. The arrain seized Gupta by his collar. "Make sure she is there Elosaer—or else!"

"I am in your debt arrain," Gupta answered. "I shall see that she is there." The response seemed to satisfy the officer who released Gupta. Tarang said a silent prayer until he realized that the Romulan was staring intently at him. Somehow the intelligence officer knew that something was amiss.

Balecava reached into the cab again and knocked Gupta's headpiece off. The human's surgically altered ears were plainly visible. Gupta snapped back surprised, while reaching into his blouse. Time slowed down. The arrain reached down for his sidearm as Gupta swept the colt out and started blazing away. Tarang saw a flash and explosion of green where Balecava's head had been. He looked ahead to see Gelna leveling his rifle at the transport. Gupta reached up with his free hand and slammed the accelerator forward. There was an explosion of plasticene accompanied by a crackle as the laser fire narrowly missed the human. Tarang smelt rather than felt anything. Gelna vanished beneath the treads of the vehicle. Gupta felt hard impacts on his head; he realized that T'Pol was slapping at him. The skin on the side of his head burned.

"Are you alright?" T'Pol asked.

"Quite right!" he returned in English. Gupta was vaguely aware that his hair had been on fire. The thought of that paled as he watched Balecava's head explode again in his mind's eye. He felt T'Pol's hand in his; thinking it was for comfort she was steering the carrier because he was not.

"I am well," he proclaimed weakly in Vulcan.

"Turn here," she said. He felt her nudge his hand. Gupta realized where he was at.

"We are cutting it close." The time had been going by all the while. There was a flash. The carrier swayed from the concussion of a blast. "They are starting the attack too early!"

"No," T'Pol said. "It is we who are being fired upon by the Romulans."

Gupta swerved the vehicle over the road; at least as far as the ponderous, heavy vehicle could be driven evasively. He had seen enough weapons' firing to realize that the birdies were dropping mortar shells down on them. The intelligence officer was thankful that the Romulans seemed to be deficient in that regard: The Stellar Navy's version had a seeking warhead that acquired and homed in on its target on the way down. Gupta nearly rolled the carrier as he made for a bridge. The permacrete structure, a walkway over the road would not protect them for long.

Gupta slammed the carrier's brakes on. The vehicle was still rocking from the sudden stop as he and T'Pol moved to the cargo compartment. Gupta guessed that they did make a good team in so far as they each seemed to guess what the other was thinking. Gupta sorted through the thieves' bounty until he came up with a Romulan tunic and helmet. T'Pol knelt to uncover the Orions. She untied them. The aliens began stirring. T'Pol meanwhile dressed herself in recovered Romulan garb as had Gupta. The two bolted out of the carrier.

"There will be questions if those Orions remain behind," T'Pol said.

The bridge exploded. Gupta cried out in pain as shards of permacrete pelted his back. The carrier exploded next. "Perhaps not," he puffed out as the duo sprinted towards a narrow alley. A pang of regret ran through the Indian as he thought of the helpless Orions. Gupta reminded himself that this was war.

Gupta followed T'Pol through the maze of alleys. His ears rang from the concussion of the mortar blasts. Spots danced before the Indian's eyes when the two finally stopped. Gupta watched as T'Pol wiped away at the thick green makeshift skin-covering. He did likewise. Not a hard task he thought: The Romulan helmet allowed for very little of his face to be exposed. The explosions had subsided. They were replaced by others.

"It's time!" Gupta exclaimed after checking his chronometer. The first rays of dawn crept across the sky. Gupta noted that T'Pol had unerringly led them within site of the Romulan's makeshift communications' hut.

Gupta listened into the earpiece of the small micro communicator that M'Viar had lent to him. The group attacking the Romulans was apparently having communications' problems; allowing bleed-over to be heard by all. The Indian winced as he listened to the staged wooden voice of a Vulcan declare in steady plodding English: "There are the dirty bastards now."

He knelt down beside T'Pol. The two flung their light packs off and opened them up. Gupta had carefully memorized the steps necessary to build the small shoulder fired missile launcher. T'Pol annunciated the procedure as the two quickly assembled the pieces. They finished assembling the device within a minute.

"Do you know how to fire this?" he asked T'Pol as he eyed the assembled launcher. Gupta had turned to other tasks after M'Viar's instruction.

"I thought that you had learned the necessary steps," she answered. The two looked down at the weapon. Gupta knew where the business end of the launcher was. He just did not know what the two triggers and three guarded switches on the side were for; except for one. "This is the safety."

"We need to move quickly," T'Pol tapped him on the shoulder and pointed.

Gupta followed the direction of her pointing finger. Several Romulans were setting up some sort of heavy weapon on a tripod. The weapon was pointed at him and the Vulcan. Gupta thumbed the safety as he picked the launcher up.

The flash blinded the Indian. The launcher kicked back as a plume of dust exploded before the two. Gupta felt the abrasive sand against his face. He was glad that the flash had caused him to shut his eyes. Gupta's breath was knocked out of him as he was tackled. He supposed that T'Pol had knocked him down. He remained flat in the dirt.

"That was not the safety," he heard T'Pol say.

Gupta's eyes cleared up. He peered out from behind the wall of a rock garden. The communication hut the Romulans had set up was gone as was the weapon and its crew. Gupta cursed happily, drawing an inquiring glance from T'Pol. Explosions pock marked the landscape between the Vulcan and human and the landing field. Gupta felt a painful vibration starting in his chest. Several blinding explosions sent a series of concussive waves through the air. Gupta wondered what had caused those: M'Viar had agreed not to use his heavy weapons. The Indian's curiosity came to a halt however as he watched the giant form of the ungainly Orion freighter claw its way skyward. They had apparently won for now. Gupta looked over at T'Pol. She was staring transfixed at the freighter. The Vulcan turned to him.

"We have succeeded," she said simply.

They had done so Gupta thought. The Indian reflected that over a year had passed since his arrival on the desert planet. He and T'Pol had survived when the odds had been against them. Gupta wondered again why Soval had chosen him. He was after all almost a child in Vulcan terms. Gupta wondered how much T'Pol had influenced the elder Vulcan's decision. He looked at T'Pol as he recalled then Captain Soames advice concerning alien and human relations. Perhaps Soames was right; but Gupta realized that if he said nothing then he would never know.

"I love you T'Pol," Gupta said at last.

"I love you too Tarang," she answered. A fine film of dust gathered on them as they rose cautiously. Gupta stared into the blistering Vulcan sun; climbing over the horizon as the first of M'Viar's High Command troops started pouring into the city.


	21. Chapter 21

Combined Star Fleet Taskforce near Deneva, Nov 2157

The ships flashed into existence. Aeons departed from the graceful two hundred meter long tube of the Romulan sensor buoy, forming up quickly into a battle formation. A flight of stubby Minotaurs raked through the flight of spherical fighters. The result was devastating as many of the small Aeons were reduced to molten slag. The Minotaurs continued toward the cylindrical sensor buoy. A flash of plasma erupted from a dish on the station neatly intercepting and destroying one of the small allied fighters.

The remaining Minotaurs plowed ahead. Amazon missiles cleared the tubes of the attacking Star Fleet fighters. Three of the amazons fell to anti-missile defenses. The rest did not. The station erupted into the expanding sphere of a nuclear reaction. The victorious Minotaurs turned about each turning on its axis to face the returning Aeons. Another of the Minotaurs was destroyed in a suicidal collision before the last of the Aeons were swept away.

Liquor and beer flowed freely in Trafalgar's mess. Trip Tucker did not consider that he was a slouch when it came to that. However he had not drunk since his experience with Fenton Mudd's bootlegged whiskey on Terra Nova. The painful experience was still fresh in Tucker's memory. But the rotgut had cleared away even more painful emotions regarding Jocelyn Stiles. Tucker supposed the homemade hooch had served its purpose there. Then again after a heart-to-heart with Fenton Mudd, a man who seemed cursed when it came to women, Tucker thought that maybe he was lucky. The man's sage advice came back to Tucker's mind: Why do men die sooner, laddie; because they want to.

Tucker ran into a thoroughly drunk Chief Carl Webb. He was glad that the engineer was taking a break. Tucker admired the man's doggedness but also realized that life existed outside of an engine room. The engineer was staggering about with a glass of blue Andorian ale in hand. One of the younger female engineers likewise seemed to have Webb in hand. Trip knew that the man was married: He also knew that a blind eye was turned to many things after too many months in space.

"Good of the ice-heads to give us this ale!" the Trafalgar's Tellarite first officer declared. Commander Valz was nursing his own mug of the frothy blue liquid. The Tellarite swirled the ale around.

"A little celebration before the battle," Tucker answered. "God knows we are going to need that." Tucker looked around the room. He wondered how many of those in attendance of this event would be alive next week.

"You pinks have no gramga in your intestines," Valz countered. Trip recognized that the commander was, in a Tellarite fashion, trying to cheer him up. "The pirates lay defenseless; our forces are massed."

True, Trip thought. The destruction of the last Romulan sensor buoy meant that Deneva lay open. The Romulans would have no advance warning until Star Fleet was in the system. What they would find there was still much of a mystery. Sensor drones had detected massive fortifications where human settlements had existed before; coupled with that was what appeared to be a fully operational orbital defense network. Captain Valdez had concluded after studying the data, that the birdies were reducing their reliance on their plasma cannons in favor of mamba and moolah antiship missiles.

"They've shown that they have tricks up their sleeves before," Commodore Leonard Zimmermann said. Tucker had briefly met the newly minted commander of Taskforce 17 at the operation briefing that had combined seventeen with the survivors of Tucker's Taskforce 33.

"We will rip their sleeves off and tie them around their mahengas!" Valz declared fiercely.

"I just hope we can figure out where their mahengas are commander," Zimmermann retorted.

"The ground pounders will do that," Tucker said with some trepidation. He knew as many others did that Jocelyn Stiles was right about one thing: The Star Fleet ground forces would be thrown into a meat grinder. Tucker had already been witness to that on Tarod.

"Yes," Zimmermann answered quietly. Tucker could see that the commodore shared his thoughts.

"Why not wait till Topaz, or hell even Cheron to capture some birdies," Tucker said. "Maybe they might be in the mood to surrender by then." It amazed Trip that he was able to think about an invasion of Cheron. Last year the Stellar Navy had seemed like a punch drunk fighter on his last legs.

"I agree somewhat commander," Zimmermann answered. "I know our people may be mangled but at the same time we have to think about the long term implications."

"This federation your people are slobbering over," Valz started. "At the end of this the quadrant will look different. With the combination of three races our influence will spread."

"That is true," Zimmermann said. "But consider this: What if the Romulans joined this federation?"

"You gotta be kidding!" Tucker exclaimed. He considered Zimmermann's assertion. He could see that the Tellarite rather than being as shocked as Tucker actually looked thoughtful.

"I know that it's staggering but consider," the commodore explained. "Consider a western nation of our world willingly entering into an alliance with an Eastern Coalition member. We think nothing about it yet one hundred years ago Premier Gnedov publicly declared that the world wouldn't be safe until the every easterner was dead."

"Well it'll take a hundred years before some of the hard feelings die down," Tucker answered. Elizabeth's service had been what had become known as a hollow burial; meaning that there was no body to put in the ground.

"Our children and grandchildren will write the future," the Tellarite said thoughtfully; "not us fools."

Tucker and Zimmermann looked at the Tellarite to make sure that he really was who he presented himself as; so uncharacteristic a statement coming from the alien. Tucker had to agree though; the hatred would fade away for most. Most but not all he thought: Tucker wondered about Jo-jo ancestors to be. Would Stiles' hatred consume them as well?

Zimmermann was about to say more when Jocelyn Stiles entered the mess. Tucker was surprised that she would deign to come to a social event. Rumors abounded about the iron-fisted discipline in Stiles' taskforce. Trip smiled in spite of their last encounter. He guessed those feelings he had for her might never go away. He only wished that she felt the same.

"Speaking of the future," the Tellarite started moving Zimmermann away from Tucker. Trafalgar's engineer's romance with a commodore was an ongoing saga aboard the cruiser. "Why don't you get a hair replacement commodore?" the Tellarite asked. "There is no reason your head has to look like an egg."

Tucker watched as their new taskforce commander took up the challenge of Tellarite human relations. But he didn't watch for too long as Jocelyn Stiles joined him. There was an awkward moment of silence.

"Can I buy you a drink sailor?" she asked Tucker last.

"Not if it comes with a slap in the face," Tucker answered seriously.

"Look Trip," she answered slowly. "I am sorry. All of this has been," she gestured with open hands. "I kept thinking of all the wonderful things you did after," Stiles fell silent. "I don't know where things are at but I'd like to think you would wait."

"I told you I would Jo-jo," Tucker said. He was becoming aware of several glances thrown at the couple. No surprise Trip thought: Shipboard romances made for juicy gossip.

"I got a few letters from my mother," Stiles said. "Thanks for writing to her Trip. She is as busy as can be. The local vet took an extended vacation; his daughter was on Virginia. But she is happy to hear from us; well you mostly." Tucker knew that he had written more to Stiles' mother than Jocelyn had written to the woman.

"Lots of people taking those kinds of breaks at home," Tucker answered. The Stellar Navy officers and NCOs of the graves' registration section were busy these days. Many people had received the dreadful message. Things were better Trip knew but he sensed that the war still had a long time to play out.

"True," Stiles answered. The silence was thick between the two. He thought that if not for the war he would never have met her. Ironic, that the very thing that had brought them together was the same thing keeping them apart. "Someone once told me that starships will have arboretums on them one day. Be nice to have one here."

"Damn," Trip said with a grin. "We'll have to be botanists and engineers." He held out his arm to her. "We have a few rubber plants in wardroom two." Tucker was glad to see that she accepted it; even if hesitantly at first.

Trip Tucker was sleeping soundly. Jocelyn Stiles felt his chest rise and fall from under the warmth of the blanket they shared. Despite her blissful afterglow she could not sleep. She slid out from the cover of Tucker's arm. The man stirred. She bent to kiss him lightly on his cheek. He rolled over tiredly. Jocelyn guessed; knowing Trip as she did that he had been working steadily since news of the invasion had come. Stiles stood up and found her hastily cast off uniform jersey. She pulled it over her head covering part of her nakedness with it and left Tucker's small bedchamber.

Stiles was restless. She had tried to sleep after the couples' happy lovemaking but thoughts of munitions and taskforce wide drills had preoccupied her thoughts. She took a seat before Tucker's desk in the small outer room of his quarters. What a contrast this Tännhauser class was to her Bison class Beagle; with the exception of her self no one had a cabin to his or her self. Captain Minford, much to his chagrin Stiles thought shared a cabin with her Andorian operations' officer. Stiles touched the items on Tucker's desk. They were purely Trip she thought: Several photos from his frequent scuba dives off of the Florida Keys and the Great Barrier Reef, a baseball from the US Naval Academy; an ongoing joke between the couple as that sport was seldom played these days. A photo of his deceased sister dominated the small work area just to the left of Trip's computer display.

Stiles' eyes flitted lightly over the information displayed on the screen. It was a dreadful breach of security but Jocelyn guessed that Tucker had overridden the system to keep his display active through periods of inactivity. Stiles' eyes drifted back to the picture of Elizabeth: Murdered for no good reason; just like her father. Then she looked again at the display: Trafalgar's computer codes and challenge response access information rested under a displayed tab. Hackles rose on Stiles' back. She looked behind her and listened: Tucker was snoring lightly. Stiles muted the control panel and entered commands.

She knew that Trip was not the best housekeeper. She searched quickly through a stack of data wafers. She found one marked A. Queen. Stiles inserted the wafer into the slot of the engineer's computer terminal. She had guessed correctly: The two dimensional images of a twentieth or twenty second century video played out. Stiles fast forwarded through the wafer's contents. A bedraggled man in an equally raggedy boat sailed down a river in the company of a tall lovely red head. Stiles reckoned that Tucker would miss the old video but would mark its loss down to misplacing it. She erased the brave couple's exploits.

She paged through Tucker's files. Trafalgar's codes, if they adhered to Star Fleet policy, would not roll over for another week. The fleet would be over Deneva before that. Stiles was not conscious of any plan on her part; she just wanted the codes. Trafalgar would be part of Zimmermann's force that would lay siege to the birdies orbital platforms. Stiles was still bitter over Forrest's decision about that. She knew that she should be leading the first wave. As much as she admired the president she knew that wishes didn't translate into reality. The birdies were not going to lie down and be captured. They would fight to the death and Stiles would be only too happy to facilitate that. The download took less than thirty seconds. Jocelyn heard a stifled sound behind her.

Her snapped around: Trip must be getting up to find out where she went she thought. Stiles found her cast off slacks while she quickly ejected the wafer. The wafer was neatly deposited into a small pocket of her black uniform slacks. She tossed the clothing back on the floor and switched the display back to where Trip had set it before her intrusion. Stiles sat back and tried looking relaxed.

"What's up?" Trip Tucker asked as he walked up behind her. He laid a hand affectionately upon her shoulder.

"Sorry Trip; I couldn't sleep." She turned in his seat and smiled at Tucker. Stiles remembered her parents looking through her when she would try to conceal things. "I thought that I would sit out here. I'd just roll around and wake you up anyway."

"Maybe I'd like that," Tucker said bending to kiss her neck. Stiles felt a sharp stab of guilt as it occurred to her that he must not have seen her theft. He noticed her hesitation. "Are you alright?" Stiles could hear the concern in his voice. She really did care about him. She wanted to tell him about the wafer.

"Just havin' a blue moment," Stiles cooed. She turned to kiss his mouth. She stood up and the two embraced. Jocelyn reasoned that she wouldn't make use of the information she had gotten from Trip's mistake. Stiles stepped back and slowly pulled the jersey off of her dusky body. "But you can fix that Trip." She moved back into his arms.

ShirKahr City, Vulcan, Nov 2157

Valdore was furious. He had ordered V'Las to secure planetary communications. The First Minister had questioned the admiral's logic. Valdore was seriously starting to wonder just how far the races were sundered. Even Talex would have ensured that Vulcan's vast communication array was under control before moving against the planet. But Valdore could only fume now: The damage had been done. A more serious development had spared V'Las' life however.

"Has the general responded to any of your messages?" Vrax asked. The older Romulan looked uncharacteristically angry to Valdore's piercing gaze. Even the patient Vrax had his breaking point when it came to Tal Shiar perfidy Valdore thought.

"General Wlix has seen fit to block transmissions." Valdore paced about the small office. Simply adorned Valdore realized that the blank cubicle would afford the least chance of surveillance equipment. Old habits died hard in an empire increasingly dominated through fear and intimidation.

"But to disobey an Imperial Edict…" Vrax's voice trailed off. It was unthinkable Valdore agreed: Unthinkable for traditional Romulans who served the empire to bring glory upon it; not the new breed of self-serving plotters who saw war as a way to move through the ranks of government. They were the ones who had started this; leaving the end for those who had stood fast. Valdore realized that the senator was speaking. "If the members of the Triple Alliance find out about our relation to our brethren," he hesitated. "If our brethren find out," he started.

"They will resist reunification," Valdore concluded. "If there are any Vulcans left when the Andorians, humans and Tellarites discover the truth." Valdore studied the transmissions which had misled him into abandoning his foothold on Vulcan.

"Perhaps Wlix is preparing his troops for the end," Vrax said. Valdore knew that senator's strength lay in his ability to conciliate. But Valdore knew that nothing would mollify this situation. The Tal Shiar general on Cosaba was going to surrender to the Triple Alliance. There could be no other explanation for the silence from the conquered world that Valdore could conceive of.

"Perhaps I should have withdrawn those legions," Valdore said quietly; "put a more able commander in place with them to ensure that the Tal Shiar troops would do their duty."

"It is not like you to have regrets old friend," Vrax said. "You made the correct decision. Who would have believed that the Tal Shiar would go to a low like that? They might as well be human."

"Do not underestimate those aliens Vrax," Valdore replied. "Therein lays our hope for maintaining this charade." Valdore explained further when he noticed the senator's confusion. "We do not know who will lead the attack. If I were Forrest I would remove the batteries in place over Cosaba first. Next; I would land ground troops after first destroying any major ground weapons I might have discovered. I would use my most aggressive, experienced commander to lead the initial assault; someone who is familiar with Cosaba."

"Stiles?" the senator said.

"My thought exactly." Valdore wondered how many humans were on Vulcan as he carried on his explanation with his companion. "As you know from what the Tal Shiar lackeys on earth tell us; their leader is pursuing a policy of enlightenment. They want to discover our nature. Their troops would land; and after a bloody battle achieve those ends."

"Unless," Vrax ended. Valdore knew that the senator could read his nuances. In some circles of the empire such scrutiny of a superior could become dangerous.

"If there is an organized resistance against the Triple Alliance then Stiles will surely annihilate the legions on the surface." Valdore knew that Stiles had lost a parent in the bombardment of earth. She had been seeking revenge ever since. Of all the alliance commanders human, Andorian and Tellarite Valdore felt that he understood Stiles the best: He thought her motives and methods were almost Romulan.

"You have enough loyalists in place then?" the senator asked.

Valdore was about to answer when the external alarm buzzed; warning of someone coming into the cubicle. The admiral gripped his sidearm despite the fact that the visit was expected. Vrax and Valdore were silent as the cloaked and hooded figure closed the door behind it. V'Las threw back his hood. He gave both Romulans that Vulcan analytical stare. Valdore returned the appraising look. He was satisfied to see V'Las look away first. The First Minister handed a data crystal to him.

"We believe that human agents are indeed operating on Vulcan," V'Las said without ceremony.

"It is a little late in coming V'Las," Valdore said. "The damage is already caused."

"My former assessment of the situation, based on President Thorpe's character, was flawed," V'Las explained. "I do believe he has much sway over the Andorians and Tellarites. Where appropriate I have ordered the High Command to maintain surveillance on those species on our world. But I had not believed that the earth president would condone espionage against our world."

"I do not believe that either," Valdore answered.

"But Minister Soval has no such qualms," V'Las said. Valdore watched Vulcan's first minister look around, probably for a chair.

"We do not seek comfort minister. We are Romulans." Valdore stood expectantly.

"Very well," V'Las replied. "I believe that Soval invited human agents onto our world. He knew that his power in the ministry was diminished and that he would soon stand alone. His only alternative would have been to seek help from an alien power."

"You have begun expelling the humans?" Valdore asked.

"All save for a few," V'Las answered. "Those who are still at large are cataloged on that crystal admiral."

The images of round pinkish faces cascaded past Valdore. Their identities and reasons for being on Vulcan were displayed beneath their image. A smirking bald headed human was there to compile material for a book while another was there to study Vulcan history. Anyone of them could be an agent or none of them could Valdore thought. An import agent hawking terran fruit could be exactly as he seemed. The admiral pressed hard stopping the moving display. He vaguely heard Vrax's inquiry as to what he was looking at.

"Tarang Gupta," Valdore annunciated the terran name slowly. The name was not from the humans' western culture he thought. Valdore thought the human looked young for one of his kind.

"Why do you suspect that one?" V'Las asked. "He is operating his business. Security forces have tracked his movements."

"Strange, given that I spoke to him in Sokur Province minister." Valdore remembered the young soldier in the company of the Romulan female. He realized now that woman must have been a human as well; or perhaps a Vulcan collaborator.

"I will move against this alleged import business then," V'Las declared.

"No!" the admiral answered. This Gupta was alone or part of a team of terrans operating on Vulcan. Surely the humans would send their most professional and cunning agents on such a mission. Romulans would do as much and in this regard the admiral suspected that the humans were not unlike his people. He looked again at the human's face. The sort of individual who could infiltrate an enemy encampment and successfully escape must be very dangerous indeed. "We must not alert the humans that we know about their presence." For so it must be Valdore thought: Only a team of highly trained specialists could have manged what had happened at Sokur.

"I see," V'Las said at last.

"Surely we must heighten security admiral." Vrax had been content to observe up until now. But that was a façade Valdore knew: The senator was a collector of information when it came to adversarial situations; information that had adverse effects on the older Romulan's opponents.

"See to that minister," Valdore said. "When can you send the High Command home guard ships off again?" Too many questions had been circulating through the High Command about Orion freighters. V'Las, much to Valdore's surprise had concocted an elaborate explanation about alliance probes resulting in the bulk of the Vulcan forces being redeployed to the edges of the system. V'Las fable had however, grown stale: The Vulcan cruisers were back in orbit above them.

"I need another pretense," V'Las stated. Valdore reflected that the terran agents had nearly handed the minister just that; had the simulated invasion bled over into the command networks Vulcan might well be at war with the Triple Alliance. Valdore realized that V'Las was addressing him again. "It is obvious now that the humans were the ones who helped Syrran escape. It follows that the humans are trying to ensure that the Syrranite philosophy dominates everyday Vulcan life. I would prefer that you would allow me some leeway in dealing with Syrran admiral. Martyrdom is after all endemic to those who cannot control their emotions. We Vulcans have moved beyond that."

"To use your own concepts minister: It would be logical for your people to question the death of Syrran." If there was any credence to the theory that Vulcans could be blinded by their own logic then V'Las was certainly an example of the Valdore thought. A thought occurred to Valdore. "This Syrran is making for Mount Selaya. I told you earlier to plan on apprehending him there. Continue with that minister."

"To what end admiral?" the first minister replied. "I had planned, under your auspices to incarcerate Syrran again. This time the imprisonment would be kept a secret. There would be no questions as the memory of Syrran faded."

"That in itself presents questions," Valdore said. "No; the Vulcan thing to do is to pursue the path of logic."

"Convince this Syrran of our peaceful intentions?" Vrax spoke up. Valdore smiled. He wished in some way that he could execute V'Las and replace him with the senator. The admiral watched as the senator pontificated. "Of course! We could not only present our ambitions we could also implore Syrran of the logic of rejoining the sundered race."

"It is possible," V'Las said after some time had passed. Valdore wondered yet again how the minister had achieved his position.

"Station your people about Mount Selaya, V'Las." Valdore's tone turned to one of the stern commander. "Do not underestimate this Gupta or his cohorts. So devious; they seem more like our Tal Shiar without the decadence. Make it so."

V'Las bowed his head in deference. Valdore had commanded ships where he had to become a disciplinarian. He had used that pitch to instruct V'Las. The minister turned to depart. Valdore threw up his hand in the uncomfortable split-fingered salutation.

"Jolan tru minister," he said simply.

V'Las turned, obvious somewhat disconcerted. He returned the salute. "Live long—Jolan tru admiral, senator." He spun around and departed quickly.

Vrax noted Valdore's following gaze. "They are of us; we of them my friend. In time that will become evident."

Valdore agreed with the senator. His thoughts were different however. He thought of his adversaries; Forrest, Stiles and Oulette. All dangerous; yet Valdore felt a closer kinship to them than he did to the Vulcans.

Las Vegas, Nevada, the old United States, earth, Nov 2157

The sensation of déjà vu was doubly disconcerting for Micah Brack. He had been here before: The smell of burnt hydrocarbons assaulted his nose. The Packard was new and shiny unlike the men it carried: Old men who seen the spoils of sin and wanted that wealth. Their young compatriots did not disguise their desire to replace the oldsters. But Brack wanted to lose himself. Wild Bill Donovan had begun to ask too many questions of his mysterious agent. Where better to disappear, Brack thought, than among men who wanted to hide beneath society's veneer. He had done so many times before.

The new technologies and the mass production of motor cars would turn the desert city into a hub for gamblers. It would also put Brack close to the site of America's new rocket and jet engine testing facilities. He had always leaned forward with the foresight to have an escape. From positioning himself to push out with the first travelers to the new world to helping to build the first fleets of steamships to carry him away from potential dangers; Brack had always made himself a bolt-hole. But he had seen that terrible bright sun over Japan's cities. Brack had realized that the bolt-holes on earth were no more.

He shuddered: The other intruded. Brack stood on a blazing hot plain. A harsh monstrous sun shined through a red sky. He was surrounded by robed figures while another figure stood atop a raised dais and spoke. A tight fisted control gripped the other's hold on his emotions. The supplicants' curiosity turned to shock as the speaker relayed a revelation. Mistral was seated in a beat up old chair; his back turned to Brack.

"I like it better here of late," the Vulcan said. A blurry black and white image on the television showed a thin man with antennas rising out of the back of his head. Mistral turned to the story and watched. Brack judged the room typical of America—in 1965.

"What were you told; that day on the mountain?" Brack asked. He had felt the younger Mistral's dismay through his web of emotional control.

"Uh-uh," Brack could only see Mistral's arm. The Vulcan was wagging a finger of caution in the air. "Some things should remain secret. Detective Brennan discovered that."

The ancient chemically charged firearms cracked; first once, then again finally one last time. Brack was a respectful distance away from the mourners. The coffin was empty of course; the deceased was atoms floating somewhere out past Deneva Brack guessed. The twin flags of the old United States and the United Earth Stellar Navy were draped side by side over the empty casket. Brack looked around the green, well watered cemetery. He had always avoided these places whenever he could. Today was no exception save for his covert surveillance of Eileen Thomas.

Brack was watching the woman while Frank McCoy cleared up some final personal issues. The long-lived Brack knew that his friend was grieving; yet he could not really feel much sorrow as he had seen thousands of friends and family die. That Thomas had been made aware of McCoy's betrayal could not be good for the naval officer. Brack had known that this day would come for McCoy. He knew also that the knowledge did not make it any better. Thomas noticed him.

He cursed his unwelcome mental visitor as Thomas boldly walked up to him. Brack had been too busy surveying the area for potential dangers to really look at McCoy's girlfriend. He thought that she looked rather rundown. Brack gave the woman a friendly fatherly smile.

"Good day ma'am," he said conversationally. She looked apprehensive as she finally greeted him in turn.

"I," she stopped; at a loss for words. "I couldn't help noticing that you are not part of the group. Mind if I ask why you are here?" Thomas waved her hand towards the departing funeral goers.

"No reason really," he lied. "Respect for the dead."

Brack watched as she seemed to look inward. "They wouldn't have to die if we hadn't been kicking around in space." He barely heard her mumble. "I suppose that you are for this war?" she asked him. Micah could hear the bitterness in her voice.

"Only a fool is for war," Brack replied slowly putting an emphasis on the word for. "I support the effort to defend ourselves if that is what you mean. War is sometimes necessary to ensure freedom ma'am."

A crying woman walked past them supported on either side by an older couple. A small boy, Brack guessed that he had just started walking, was being escorted by the female half of the older couple. Brack doubted that the lad understood what was going on here. The entourage flowed past Brack and Thomas.

"That boy won't have a dad now," Thomas said; "all for a cause; not like other wars. I know sometimes people had to fight."

"You have the luxury of history miss," Brack said. Brack explained when she cast a puzzled glance at him. "The Crusades, civil wars, the world wars; all of those have been encapsulated for you to digest now. What you read in the few passes of a computer screen took years. People back then didn't know when the wars would end even if they would end in a victory for their side."

"Maybe they shouldn't have fought them at all," Thomas said quietly. "All of that death and here we are at it again."

"You're American?" he asked. Of course he knew about her; more so than she might know herself at this moment Brack guessed. He continued at her answering nod. "What if your forebears had decided that British rule was alright? Or if in the dark days of Valley Forge General Washington would have said: Let's just forget it and go home boys. The British have us at the short hairs. Remember they didn't have the luxury of knowing how it would come out."

"The ends justify the means?" she replied skeptically.

Brack sighed. He had heard that argument all too many times and she was right. "Not all of the time. But we can only judge with the evidence at hand. History will in turn judge how we acted. Earth never asked for this war. It might surprise you to know that most in the military are the strongest advocates for peace."

"Yeah I have a boy—a friend who says the same thing." Brack could see the flash of anger cross her brow. "It's too bad that Thorpe is all about war though."

"Really?" he retorted quickly. "Prior to March of '56 how did you feel about President Thorpe? Did you think that he was guiding us towards war?"

She looked thoughtful before answering. "No; but the Sons' of Terra unearthed things that he was doing. He covered up the disappearing ships."

"Did he?" Brack asked in turn. "I recall reading about missing freighters in '55; funny how all of the things unearthed were in plain sight all of the time."

"Frank says the same things," Thomas answered. She covered her mouth with her hand. "I think I need to back to my apartment. I'm feeling ill. Excuse me sir." She turned to walk away.

"Have you been to a doctor about your condition?" Brack asked pointedly.

"How do you?" she asked and stopped suddenly then turned back to him briefly. "I'm fine thank you." She turned her back upon him again.

Brack bid her ado and watched surreptitiously as she made her way to the small adobe bungalow that he had set up for her and McCoy. The line of small homes bordered the cemetery. Brack became lost in thought. He lost the sense for the passage of time.

"You and Mistrial at it again?" the skeptic laden voice asked. Brack realized as he peered into the gathering darkness that at least an hour had passed.

"Just remembering this place when it was new Frank," Brack lied. The lights of the main city started to glow as the sun's rays departed. "She has mixed feelings Frank." Brack knew what was on McCoy's mind.

"She pretty much let me know that mix didn't include me," McCoy answered. "At least she accepted living in the safe house for awhile. Thanks for doing that Micah." McCoy gave him a startled glance.

"She doesn't know who I am." Brack reassured McCoy. "We spoke out here earlier."

"I don't think she'll give us away," McCoy said. "She has an idea of how dangerous the people are she has hooked up with."

"That is a good thing Frank," Brack replied; "she has a lot to protect; or at least I believe that she does." Micah had seen women ill like that before; all too many times. He wondered if McCoy knew.

"You think she'll be okay here by herself?" McCoy asked. Given his tone Brack suspected that he did not know.

"I've gotten some help from some people I know," Brack answered. "They will watch out for her." Despite years of prosperity, security and freedom a small amount of criminal activity still existed on earth. Brack had always kept tabs on those people: They came in handy when one had to disappear. "Does your admiral have any leads?"

The trail leading to the Romulan agents on earth had grown cold. Save for the attempt on McCoy's life they had been silent as far as he and McCoy could tell. Brack still had some questions about the attempted assassination; but he had become too busy indulging his sources for information to follow up. Perrin's trail had ended in Reykjavik: The Romulan had been there where he had met another unknown to either Brack or McCoy then moved on. Only quick action from Soames had allowed flights from the north western United States to be tracked on the day the old missile silo had been destroyed. A few anonymous inquiries of Icelandic innkeepers had yielded a little more information. But after that there had been nothing. Brack hoped that McCoy's admiral could find some leads but he had to admit that Soames was stretching her probing fingers far; perhaps too far.

"She got word that an undersea freighter out of Iceland bound for Fujairah picked up some last minute passengers." McCoy answered.

"Interesting," Brack answered. "It points to another chemical attack." It was also interesting that Soames had come by that information Brack thought. New security restraints, self-imposed after the last Romulan attack had destroyed a third of Utopia Planitia, had tied up most of the traditional and even some of the clandestine information networks. In his role as industrialist and inventor Brack had even found himself locked out of confidential files in his own company. That situation had been rectified in short order: There was nothing like being the king Brack mused. So it was that he wondered how Soames had come by her information.

"Why not just nuke us?" he heard Frank McCoy asked as he considered the possibilities regarding the Star Fleet admiral. "What makes you think they'll try making gas again?"

"Eh," Brack forgot his mental meanderings concerning Admiral Soames and the recent events. "Sorry Frank; I was thinking." Thinking that secrecy is indeed the beginning of tyranny; the inner voice spoke to him reproachfully. And you knew Machiavelli?

"Just in passing," Brack said aloud replying to the inner voice. He realized that McCoy was eyeing him warily. "Chemical weapons are easy to make. Many operatives like this are put ashore with just a modicum of equipment; sophisticated no doubt but I doubt the Romulans landed here carrying nuclear warheads with them. This quite possibly explains their interest in Glenn and Sheibani: Perhaps they wanted access to those weapons here."

"Fujairah," McCoy stroked his chin thoughtfully. "That was an augment controlled area? Any chance that there are nukes laying around there?"

"Honestly Frank there are probably nuclear bombs all over this world." Brack sighed. The litter of war remained for decades the only difference being the deadliness of the discarded weapons. "That area held a large Sarin manufacturing plant though. The Romulans could go anywhere in the world with a nuclear warhead."

"Did she give you anymore details?" Brack asked.

"No; but I'm satisfied that Perrin is there," McCoy said. "I want to tell Eileen not to do anything foolish then I want to get going." Brack nodded and was not surprised when McCoy grabbed him on his shoulder. "Perrin is mine. So is that augment bitch; if she is alive."

"We should at least try to find out if there are anymore here." Brack countered. McCoy nodded enthusiastically: He knew that Brack meant using whatever methods necessary to obtain answers. It saddened him when he recalled a time when McCoy had been horrified at the idea of torture. "This will all be over one day Frank. Don't let this consume you. I know that you are angry—

"You're goddamned right I am!" McCoy shouted. "These underhanded bastards made this personal."

"I have some questions about that," Brack replied thoughtfully. He shelved that however and quickly moved forward with his other speculation. "Talk to Eileen before we leave Frank. I believe that she will have some news for you."

UES Daedelus, nearing Ross 128, Nov 2157

Captain Michael "Oliver" Cromwell was taking a circuitous route to his bridge on this day. He had never been a personable man but armed with the advice of Doctor Trudy Schultheiss he was discovering just how much his visible presence meant to the crew of the starship. While certainly not the largest craft built by man and his allies it was still big. But eight months in space had seemingly reduced the interior space such that it was telling on the crew. Food was at a premium and nerves were frayed. Cromwell was glad that they were just under ten days from their destination. He hoped that his gamble would pay off: The information that his crew had uncovered would be invaluable toward the war effort.

At least there was still a war on though Cromwell wished that perhaps it might've been resolved in their absence. The badly distorted subspace transmissions Daedelus had received last week was still being circulated among the crew; like the old news on papers from the ancient days Cromwell thought. The situation looked bad as an attack on the Tellarite moon of Zandor along with a Vulcan buildup on the Andorian border seemed to have led to earth being isolated. Cromwell had to remind himself that the news was several months old now. The true nature of the Romulans was apparently still a mystery as far as public knowledge was concerned.

Cromwell wondered how much of the Vulcan problems were the result of enemy agents on Vulcan. Cromwell shuttered inwardly as he considered the possibility of an alliance between the two powers. It followed from the Romulan Commander Aranel's recovered journal entries that the Romulans would have infiltrators on Vulcan. Would the Vulcans reject the descendents of their ancient ancestors or join them? Speculation was rife among the few who shared the secret.

"Going to the bridge?" he was startled out of his revelries by Trudy Schultheiss. He greeted the woman and nodded. She fell in place beside him as they transited the connecting tube between the engineering hull and the command section. Cromwell was becoming a little embarrassed over the crew's discussion of him and the doctor's shipboard romance. He looked around to see who if anyone was watching the couple even while taking in a quick look at her lean body. "Did you hear that Custis picked up signals showing life forms on the second planet?"

All thoughts of embarrassment or romance came to a halt for Cromwell. "When did this occur?" he asked sharply. Their flyby, made months ago had shown nothing like that.

"Mary Porter told me," Schultheiss explained. "She was on the bridge when Custis ran the transmissions through analysis."

"Well that explains it," Cromwell retorted with a grin. "The grapevine is at it again. Why; the next starship design board I sit in on I'm going to suggest doing away completely with the shipboard communications network. Why spend all of those credits when a lovelorn nurse can relay information much faster?" Cromwell supposed that Porter's pursuit of the communications' NCO was as much an item as were he and Trudy. Schultheiss followed him into the command section lift.

"Studying a new species will provide Herr Bashir with something to do," the doctor remarked. The small cylindrical lift was empty save for him and the doctor. He was glad: The psychiatrist was becoming a problem. He had begun questioning Cromwell's decision to conceal their discoveries concerning their enemy.

"He is entitled to his opinion of course," Cromwell said. "I just see it as knee jerk fear of secrecy. I don't claim a grasp of human relations that he has; but releasing our findings to the public at this time could prove damning. Anyway the politicians will decide. That is all that I'm asking him to do: Wait until Thorpe and Shran and Zarn have a chance to mull over things."

The lift was nearing the bridge when Schultheiss said: "You are right about his fear of secrecy. He once told me that the western nations knew of an alien landing in the twentieth century and concealed it."

"That old saw eh," Cromwell answered. "I suppose that it takes all kinds; even Archer once told me that things like that might have a grain of truth to them." The lift doors parted. The couple proceeded down the short gangway to the bridge hatch.

Commander Lisa Somers was hunched over Chief Peter Custis' and his communications' console. The older man was busy punching commands into his panel and examining the small display there for results. He looked at Somers who nodded at the chief as she acknowledged Cromwell's presence.

"Looks like primitive radio signals sir," the commander said.

"How could our probe have missed this?" Cromwell asked.

"The waves stretch out as they propagate outwards captain," Custis supplied. "Our probe made a scan from a distance where it didn't recognize the longer wavelengths." He turned back to his panel. "I don't know what they are saying; probably routine stuff for their planet. If it was human I'd say news and entertainment."

"What is your best guess as far as their level of technology chief?" Cromwell asked as he assumed his seat.

"Stuff like this started beaming out from earth in the early twentieth century sir," Custis answered.

"We can't assume that all of their technology is at that level though," Ensign Sam Ward jumped into the fray. He looked around sheepishly as he realized that all eyes were turned to him at the navigation station. "Sorry sir," he said shyly. "I wrote a paper on first contact at Annapolis."

"Quite all right ensign," Cromwell answered. "That is what we should be out here doing." Cromwell found it ironic that his starship's construction would probably still be hanging by a thread were it not for the war. Political fortunes change and Cromwell realized that Thorpe would not have been reelected save for the war. Cromwell decided to pick Ward's brain some more. He figured that if the ensign was that passionate then he probably knew his subject. Thus far man had encountered no primitive species. "How would you go about first contact with these people ensign? Should we contact them?" Much was based on what-ifs of course. Cromwell could not help but to play those possibilities out to their ends though.

"We should assess them first," Ward answered obviously warming up to his subject. "The Vulcans believe in a hands-off approach while some groups have theorized that a controlled type of contact could take place. This being a prewarp civilization we are talking about of course."

"I have them on audio sir," Custis interjected.

"Damn, man put it on speakers," Cromwell ordered. The thought of encountering a new species, a primitive species at that, was enticing to Daedelus' captain. That was one of their reasons for being out here: Before the Romulans that was, Cromwell reminded himself bitterly.

A series of hisses and sharp pops exploded over the bridge speaker. Cromwell looked at Schultheiss. She mumbled a question about rather the sounds could be a language when a series of melodious sounds emanated along with the noise. Cromwell soon realized that he was hearing a voice; possibly more than one he thought. He turned in his seat as Mariel Picard entered the bridge. She had taken to wearing a nondescript blue Stellar Navy jersey and pants rather than the jumpsuits that many of the civilians had chosen to wear.

Cromwell spun around in his chair. "Just in time Miss Picard," he said as he looked up at the bridge speakers. "We are receiving this from—

"From the second planet," Picard grinned as she replied. Michael watched as her attention turned to the alien voice.

"I suppose you received a report from Ensign Porter as well?" Cromwell asked. The captain could see Cutis' face redden out of the corner of his eye.

"No sir," Picard answered. "Marcel told me after he was told by Chief Matsui."

Cromwell pivoted in his seat. The oriental sensor operator grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. "Like I said: Why do we need all of this complicated circuitry for communicating when gossip travels at warp speed?"

"I am stating the obvious to say that it sounds like a language," Picard said. "I will start reviewing it and try to decipher it sir. Do we have any video to accompany the audio?" she asked expectantly. Cromwell guessed that visual clues would help to solve the audio puzzle.

"No ma'am," Peter Custis sat back in his seat. "I haven't come across anything coded like a video transmission. I doubt anyone using signals like this would be at that stage yet."

"So we study them," Cromwell said turning back to Ward. "Do we land then or what? Should we announce ourselves to the population?"

"Most researchers lean towards contacting someone in the sciences," Ward answered.

"Probably after months of study," Cromwell lamented. Daedelus did not have the luxury of months. He had no doubt that he could put a team ashore to procure food—provided that it was compatible with human, Andorian and Tellarite physiology; and there was no guarantee of that at this point. But that team would have to act stealthily. Cromwell considered the benefits of a cooperative civilization.

"Years are recommended sir," Ward replied. "Research teams could be hidden behind sophisticated camouflage while they observe the local populace."

"What kind of life could be on such a planet?" Picard asked. "It is orbiting a red dwarf."

"It is closer to its star than most Minshara class worlds and less massive," Schultheiss took over the conversation. "Its gravity comes out to about ninety five percent of earth standard. That means a variety of life forms could have evolved there. The atmosphere is breathable for us as well. But then again for all we know the dominant life might be aquatic. Our probe recorded several small seas. The light trails off into the infrared so their vision may be quite different; if they use vision at all."

Cromwell grunted. "We shall see." He knew that the speculation would go on as the days winded down. The tasks of discovering the secrets of the new civilization would occupy the crew. Cromwell was glad of that.

"I've reexamined our original findings sir," Chief Matsui interjected. "We recorded energy readings that environmental wrote up as areas of thunderstorms. It is also possible that those readings are low level power generation indications from cities." The NCO looked around; obviously embarrassed. "Sorry I missed that sir."

"Think nothing of it chief," Cromwell answered. "This is new ground for us all. We have some time during the approach to plan." Cromwell examined the image of the cloud covered gray looking world. He assumed that Somers had it put on the viewer earlier. He wished this change of course to this world was their primary mission. War wouldn't last forever he thought; once this conflict with the Romulans was over then there would be time to explore worlds like these. But now was not the time Cromwell thought bitterly.

UES Serendipity, in orbit around Mars, Nov 2157

"A presidential sendoff," Augustus Samuel Kirk said to Karl Ebenstark. Kirk wished that he had remained silent that day in San Francisco. He had hoped to finish his council term and really retire. He looked forward to riding horses again. Kirk wished that he could take the wild rides that he had as a youth but at his present age a gentle jaunt into the forest for a picnic would have to do. He smiled as he recalled several of those that he and Debra had went on through the years.

"Of a sort," the short powerfully built German answered. Kirk was surprised that a man who held an office job still had a physique like that. "There has been a change of plans sir. President Thorpe is finishing up his proposal for next year's military appropriations. He will be here shortly."

"So he sent you to warm me up," Kirk said directly. He suspected that Thorpe's aide had something on his mind.

Kirk was seated behind an eloquent polished oak desk in his combination of quarters and office. He truthfully thought that it was a little garish for starship décor. But what did an Iowa farmer know about space he mused. He folded his hands over his expansive stomach. Ebenstark folded his hands behind his back and paced in front of Kirk's desk.

"Early in the war we needed an edge," Ebenstark started the explanation. "The colonies were gone and we had no bases from which to attack and certainly not the ships to do it."

"But," the single word uttered by Augustus hung in the air between the two men.

"Certain sympathetic elements in the Vulcan government gave us sensor data of the Romulan system," Ebenstark took a deep breath. "It surely meant the lives of those who went. But we hoped to buy some time—and to show the birds that we could fight back."

Kirk waited. He knew that prompting was not called for now. "Months went by and we heard nothing. Nobody made it back to the rendezvous."

"They were written off," Kirk declared flatly. Augustus counted his ability to appraise others as one of his talents. "You were in the military Mister Ebenstark?" He listened as the presidential aide recounted a short biography. Ebenstark was winding up when President Christophur Thorpe entered the office. Kirk stood up as well as quickly as age and bulk would permit. Kirk was surprised to see Thorpe in the company of two others. It was not seeing the president with traveling companions, Kirk corrected himself; it was who those companions were.

"Good to see you again Augustus," Thorpe said as he stepped forward and seized Kirk's hand in a firm grip. The president released Kirk's hand and turned to one of his entourage. "Councilman Augustus Kirk; meet Soval, a former minister of the Vulcan government."

Kirk couldn't remember the protocol for Vulcans. Did they shake hands he asked himself? "Ah hell," he said at last extending his hand. "This is worse than tipping waiters on earth," he groused as the Vulcan took his hand firmly. The Vulcan merely looked, well, like a Vulcan he thought. Soval bowed his head slightly but remained silent. Kirk turned to Thorpe's other company.

"This is your special envoy?" Shran asked Thorpe. Kirk had seen holovids of the Andorian and realized that the blue-skinned alien was something akin to an emperor.

"Envoy yes," Kirk interjected; "rather I'm special or not is debatable. My wife says she only keeps me around to clean the manure out of the stalls and shovel snow."

Kirk was surprised when the Andorian uttered a very human laugh. "Something our two people share in common: The women rule the home."

Kirk shook the Andorian's hand. He recalled that Shran had been their ambassador to earth before the war. That probably accounted for many of his human gestures. The Vulcan stood impassively. Kirk could detect neither boredom nor frustration on Soval's part. Truthfully he found it somewhat disconcerting.

"Somehow I don't believe that we are here to talk the womenfolk in our lives though," Kirk said. "Could it have something to do with the attack on Romulus?"

"Karl has been speaking to you," Thorpe said. He looked at his aide but the look was not reproachful. Kirk realized that the two men had argued over this very topic.

"Not everything," Kirk answered. "I take it that those who went were found; or something on that order?"

"They made it to Klingon territory," the president said. Thorpe sighed. Kirk could see that this issue was weighing on him.

"It would appear that they were caught in an internecine dispute," Soval spoke up for the time since coming to Kirk's chambers. "Klingon society is loosely ruled by a chancellor who in turn receives support from various houses or clans if you will. Your crew was captured by a ship of the Duras house Mister President."

Thorpe quickly painted a picture of the raider Jade Queen's encounter with Klingon forces near Topaz. Kirk knew little of the Klingon Empire save for the stories and legends that circulated about it. Given the amount and the stories Kirk guessed that much of it was untrue.

"So this Kurn is a Mogh?" he asked the group.

"The House of Mogh," Soval said. It was the first time the Vulcan's demeanor had changed. The councilman thought that he could just detect a bit of frustration on the Vulcan's part. "It would appear that they are in opposition to the House of Duras."

"So what now?" he asked. Kirk made his way over to the drink dispenser. He had been sure to ask that a liquor cabinet be installed. He offered his guests their choice of drinks.

"We must get our people back!" Ebenstark spat out.

"Karl, please," Thorpe started.

The German's arms were rigid against his sides and his fists were knotted. Kirk walked over and handed the man a glass of whiskey. The act seemed to calm Ebenstark somewhat. The aide knocked back the entire shot. "We cannot abandon those people sir. Sure it was a suicide mission; but some escaped. We owe it to them to retrieve them; no matter the costs. If we don't then we are just as bad as the birds!"

"War with the Klingon Empire?" the Shahar of Andoria asked pointedly. "You know that I sacrificed much to help your people Christophur. But I can't sanction a war with the Klingons."

"You wouldn't abandon them if they were ice heads!" Ebenstark roared. Shran moved quickly toward the aide who threw his glass down sending it bouncing along the carpeted deck.

"Now wait a damn minute," Kirk imposed himself between the two. "Why does war have to be the only option?" Kirk could feel the tension between the two. Ebenstark started to raise his arm until Augustus put a firm restraining hand on his wrist. He could see the German's look of surprise. "Deb also keeps me around to split the wood. It is great exercise."

"It is not," Soval said.

"Whatever you do Christophur I must tell you that I have deep reservations about allowing the minister to mediate for the release of your people." Shran threw a dubious glance towards the Vulcan. "We would do whatever it took to get our people back pink-skin," the Shahar said to Ebenstark. "But I cannot commit my entire world to doing that for others. I am sorry."

Ebenstark's arm relaxed. Kirk released the aide's wrist. "You need another whiskey."

"I need a boot in my ass." The German laughed bitterly. He turned to Shran. "My apologies Shahar Shran; I started out as a soldier. I suppose some part of me still is."

"So what is the plan smiley?" Kirk asked Soval.

"First of all I have to tell you that this is going to be dangerous," Thorpe interjected. He shot a glance towards Ebenstark. "Soval will help us translate; in return you, Augustus will go to Vulcan and attempt a dialogue with V'Las."

"Right," Kirk answered. He had heard screwy ideas before but most like this were voiced during periods of drunkenness or delirium. "Haven't the Klingons sealed their space?"

"They still welcome diplomatic and trade missions," Soval said. "They are extremely violent but honor dictates them attacking a worthy prey. They would most likely not destroy an unarmed ship."

"Most likely?" the sarcasm was piercing in Kirk's voice. "How about not destroy—I like that better."

"The Serendipity will be flagged under the Denobulan fleet for this mission," Thorpe said. "The Klingons are allowing their freighters and liners into their space."

"Okay," Kirk answered. "So you get me there; then what?" He held up a hand as Thorpe started to speak. "I'm not asking you how to negotiate. I've bought livestock before; same thing I'm guessing. No; what is the carrot and stick for the Klingons?" He took a sip of sour mash before continuing. "Will we go to war to get those soldiers back sir?"

"I'd rather not." Thorpe paused and sighed. He waved a quieting hand toward his aide. "But I will not abandon our troops. They did their duty. We will do ours towards them." The president looked sharply at him. "It's your job to see to it that we get them out of there without starting war on another front Kirk."

"Okay that is the stick then." Kirk was thoughtful. He suspected that threatening war would cause that very thing. He decided to disregard the rumors and stories concerning the Klingons and start from zero in his dealings with them. "What is my carrot to be?"

"The Klingons are a warlike highly militaristic race," Soval explained. The group turned to him. "They are extremely aggressive; though their tendencies are tempered by a code of honor; almost like a religion to them."

"Much like logic is to Vulcans," Shran interjected. Kirk clearly saw a sour look cross Soval's face and then vanish as fast as it had appeared. So they did have emotions he thought.

"Our logic prevented us from destroying one another," Soval answered in what Kirk thought of as a tight lipped response. "Unlike your peoples we learned to restrain our barbarous emotions."

"Yes; our peoples as you call us didn't need to impose an artificial control upon ourselves," Shran retorted. "We merely outgrew that stage of our development. Your race is stunted by your logic."

"Okay this is getting us nowhere." Kirk could see that this was an old argument between the two aliens. He grinned. "Let's just agree that we are all human."

"I find that notion disquieting," Soval said flatly. Kirk watched as Shran roared with laughter.

"I shall relent then Kirk," Shran said as his laughter died off. He fingered his antennae. "I would hate to lose my other senses though." The Shahar looked at Soval. "Please continue with your scheming minister."

"No; let me guess," Kirk spoke up. Soval's comments pointed to a horse trade. "A bunch of clans and we are going to offer one of those clans; hell maybe two or three some technology," the question hung in the air.

"You see much Kirk," Soval declared. "The High Command assessed the Klingons at a very low level of technology although they have had access to warp drive for some time. It has taken them human centuries to develop it."

"How is that?" Kirk asked. He was beginning to think that these Klingons were not much of a threat. He listened as Soval explained how the fledgling race of Klingons had been conquered for a time by aliens called Hur'q. Kirk marveled when Soval mentioned that invasion occurring almost one thousand earth years ago.

"It took them that long to develop their warp drive?" he asked the Vulcan.

"Klingon society embraces the way of the warrior," the Vulcan explained. "Becoming a scientist or engineer is disdained. It has taken their technical people this long to adapt Hur'q technology. The conflict between the houses has helped slow things as well: Knowledge developed by a technical team of one house is seldom shared with the other houses."

Kirk would have to pick the Vulcan's brain concerning these Klingons but he already liked what he was hearing. These aliens might be hard asses he thought but they would also be straight shooters. His only reservation was being made part into some internal Klingon dispute. Kirk was about to ask for more detail when his cabin chimes sounded. He looked at Thorpe who nodded. Kirk walked over to his desk and hit the entry button. A short red haired freckled woman dressed in command gold entered. Kirk guessed that the woman; a command officer he judged by the number of stripes on her cuff, was in her late thirties. Rather than being nervous she folded her arms across her chest assuming an all business stance. Kirk inhaled sharply as it occurred to him that the woman looked familiar.

"This is Captain Marissa Morgan," Thorpe said by way of introduction. "She has just received command of this vessel."

"Thank you sir," Morgan said to Thorpe. "I take it we will be taking Councilman Kirk to Qo'noS?"

"You know me captain?" Kirk asked. Kirk scratched his head. "And just where or what is Kronus?" he asked.

"Qo'noS sir," Morgan answered putting an emphasis on the pronunciation of the alien word, "is the homeworld of the Klingons and the seat of the Klingon Empire." She eyed Kirk directly. "Yes sir I do know you: Me and my husband attended a rally for you along with my parents in Bloomington."

Kirk snapped his fingers. He remembered. "Your mother is the mayor there. How is she?"

Morgan lowered her eyes. "She passed away last year sir; Synthecoccus Novae."

"Talk about putting my foot into it," Kirk said. He recalled her now. The disease was supposed to a product of high technology. Morgan's mother had been one of its first victims. "Helen Janeway right?" he asked.

She nodded. "No need to be embarrassed; you could not have known sir." She looked up and her stern military bearing asserted itself. "That is water under the bridge. I'm prepared to take you where you need to go councilman."

"Okay, good," Kirk answered. Looking at Morgan he got a sense that the ship would get where she wanted it to go. The question he asked himself was could he hold his end down? "So I save the universe once then we go to Vulcan where I will do it again." He cast a gaze towards Soval. "I don't suppose the Denobulan trick will work there smiley?"

The Vulcan pursed his lips and looked to the earth president. "My hope is that the political climate on my world will have changed by the time we return from Qo'noS; with more of your help President Thorpe." Kirk was clueless as to what sort of help that Thorpe had provided to start out with. He had a feeling that he was about to find out.

"V'Las is threatening war under the pretense of alien agents on Vulcan." The president walked over to Kirk's bar and poured another tall glass of blue Andorian ale. He took a swig before continuing. "Gupta is already a liability in that regard. He has not been caught I'm sure or else V'Las would've let us know. I'm loath to send more agents off-world for that purpose."

Soval looked at everyone in the room. He pulled a small handheld computer out of the pocket of his cloak and handed it to Thorpe. Kirk, never one for ceremony walked over and stared unabashedly over the president's shoulder.

"Inquiring minds want to know." Kirk smiled. Thorpe looked at him and shook his head. Kirk looked at the image on the small computer's video screen. A group of Vulcans were standing around a shattered stone wall. The councilman wondered what the significance the image held.

"The image was transmitted through the High Command's network before it was cut off." Soval explained. "The accompanying message reports the exploits of a Major M'Viar who reportedly repelled a Romulan landing on Vulcan. If you will examine the background Mister President," Soval instructed.

"Lieuntenant Gupta," Thorpe said quietly.

"Where?" Kirk asked simply. He saw a lot of Vulcans standing around. One was a pretty but harsh looking female he thought. Thorpe pointed to the image of one of the aliens.

"As you can see he has had cosmetic surgery," Soval stated. "I believe that it has significantly improved his appearance."

Shran had come over to join Kirk and Thorpe. "Gods! I hope that it is reversible!" he exclaimed as he studied the image on the handheld. His antennae stood straight up.

"I can send a trained agent minister," Thorpe said. "But we have discussed that before. What will another agent or agents accomplish save to ignite a war if they are caught?"

Soval bowed his head slightly before continuing. "I believe a human like Gupta is called for in this situation as well. I resist what you refer to as a trained agent sir. I believe that Gupta's strengths lie in an unorthodox approach. It is imperative that communications be opened up to my people. I realize that task may be daunting for Gupta and T'Pol."

Kirk watched as a worried Thorpe sighed. "I'll see who I can come up with Soval." Kirk took a final sip of his whiskey as the president turned to Morgan. "When can you get underway captain?"

"Three days sir," Morgan answered. "My XO says the last amazons won't be loaded until Tuesday."

Kirk watched as a wicked grin crossed Thorpe's face. "Karl, arrange a meeting between me and the dockmaster in say," the president checked his chronometer, "an hour. We'll have you out sooner than Tuesday Captain."

Taskforce 25, UES Fearless, near Deneva, Nov 2157

The image on the viewscreen showed the blackness of space. Commodore Pierre Oulette knew the tactical situation. His Taskforce 25 was inbound along with that of his old friend and former XO's Taskforce 33. They would be over Deneva within three hours. Romulan resistance had been piecemeal at best. The combined Star Fleet taskforces had thus far encountered only two cabbages. Those enemy ships had beaten a hasty retreat back to Deneva.

"Sensors are clear ahead commodore," the Andorian Talas reported. Oulette noted the blue-skinned female's professionalism in light of the fact that Lieutenant Commander Sutton was in his position on the bridge as operations' officer. Communication between the two was at the highest level of military protocol. Grizzly hated it.

"Guns have the crews completed the final warhead check?" Oulette asked Lieutenant Sylvia Moran.

"Two narwhal warheads had defective fuses sir," Moran reported. "They are in the final stages of being replaced. The loaders are running checks now sir. I've ordered the remainder of the gunnery crews to stand down until we get closer."

Oulette nodded his approval. He liked his crew to exercise independent judgment wherever possible. The commodore also knew that the fire control crews, along with the rest of the pilots, engineers, sensor operators, medical people and the myriad number of others who made a warship function would soon be busy. Grizzly turned slowly in his chair and surveyed his bridge. All was as ready as it could be. Oulette could feel the tension given life. Something would have to be done.

"How are you and our first officer making out?" he asked Sutton pointedly. His third officer had been bent over the hood of Chief Traz's sensors. He saw Sutton straighten up suddenly his back still turned to Oulette.

"We have not copulated yet," Talas volunteered suddenly; "although we plan on doing so on our next shore leave." Oulette was pleased that his little trap had work. He heard various snickers from some of the bridge crew and an outright snort from Lieutenant David Guerrero who was manning the Fearless' helm.

Sutton looked around sheepishly. "I think the commodore meant: How are we doing in general."

"Ah, another human double entendre," Talas answered. "We are doing well sir." Oulette saw that she was about to continue until her attention was drawn to Lieutenant Peter Wilson's communications' alcove. The officer was frantically punching buttons on his panel. Oulette inquired of Wilson as to what was going on.

"I'm getting a lot of anomalous readings after we recycled our transmissions with—what the hell?" Wilson asked as he examined a reading on his panel. Oulette rose as Talas made her way to Wilson's alcove. She stopped and gripped her earpiece.

"Commodore some of the ships in the group are reporting computer malfunctions." The bridge lights flickered.

"Commodore Zimmermann is on the net sir," Wilson reported. Oulette nodded at him. The image of the bald commodore replaced the blackness of the void. Oulette could see concern on his friend's face.

"Engineering reports that the secondary antimatter containment field has tested negative." Sutton had returned to his station and was bent over his panel.

"Commodore Zimmermann is on sir," Wilson reminded him. The snowy image of Zimmermann wavered and moved in and out of focus.

"Standby on that!" he declared curtly. "Jeff how is the fusion reactor?"

Sutton responded immediately: "Normal sir, full power available; no problems noted."

"Tabernac!" he exclaimed. "Full power but less than warp two capable," Oulette mumbled. "Switch to fusion. Have the engineer take the mam offline." Oulette turned to Guerrero. "Reduce speed to warp 1.5 David." He turned to Talas. "Inform group," he said simply.

"Looks like you are having the same," whatever else Zimmermann was saying was drowned out in a burst of static. "Group wide malfunctions," Zimmermann's words got through. The rest was a burst of noise. "Fall back to the secondary posit—

"Is the correct coding transmitted along with that?" Oulette asked Wilson.

"Aye sir," the communications' officer answered.

"We are on the fringes of pirate sensor range commodore," Talas said.

"Send a message to eighteen," Oulette told Wilson. "Tell her to move up to the primary position—and standby." Oulette turned to Sutton. "Jeffrey does the engineer have any word on what is wrong."

Sutton looked visibly pained as he listened into his earpiece. "It is some sort of virus. She has tracked the source to Trafalgar's last data dump. Their engineer is tracking the source."

"The hell with the source!" he roared back. Oulette hated this type of problem. No matter how many megawatts of power a starship produced the control came down to sensitive electronic devices and carefully written programs. "Can we get the assault force back up?"

As if in answer to the commodore's question the bridge lighting failed altogether. Emergency lighting kicked in less than two seconds later. Oulette cursed and sprang out of his chair. He wanted to do something but knew that his people were the best at what they did. Repeated harried calls flooded the bridge speakers as department heads came to grips with the ever growing list of malfunctions.

"The engineer is saying two hours sir," Sutton said at last. "Kelvin advises that some drives are going to have to be dumped and reloaded; and others can be salvaged after he runs a programming worm." Sutton looked frustrated. "It is just a matter of running down the list: He can't go any faster."

"Peter, notify eighteen: They have the lead." Oulette walked over to Talas. "Get with one of the engineer's technicians: Get the fix out to the rest of the group; just in case some are still in the dark." He looked around his bridge; barely lit by the emergency lights. Oulette would have laughed if things were not critical now.

"He is doing his best," Oulette said of his engineer. He knew that it was being done but regardless he said: "Make sure that weapons and targeting systems are restored first. Can we recover our fighters?"

Talas looked puzzled. "Sir, the Minotaur squadrons are reporting in: They have not been affected."

A selective computer virus; Oulette scratched his head. The fighters were tied in to the same network as were the other ships of the group. He had started his navy career as an armory officer but he had enough understanding of computer systems to know that the fighters' onboard flight computers should have been compromised as well. Whoever had sabotaged the group had been quite picky about what they wanted taken out. Oulette wondered if it had been a programming glitch in the virus. Surely the birds would seek to disable the entire group.

"Is eighteen affected?" he asked Wilson. Oulette wondered just how far this thing had gone. The birds could disable the Star Fleet taskforces and engage them with the few cruisers that they had about Deneva.

The lieuntenant typed in the query and waited as it was converted to code and sent out. They would have to wait for the subspace time lag before the reply came. Oulette ordered an all stop in the meantime. He also commanded that the Minotaurs take up a combat patrol to protect their lumbering cousins. The reply came back at last.

Oulette guessed that Kelvin Merrick had cleared up some of Fearless' comm systems. A wavering picture of Commodore Jocelyn Stiles appeared. Her voice rang out clearly without interference however. "Blazer and Catskill are experiencing some difficulties but the remainder of my force is standing at the ready." Oulette knew that Stiles' force was augmented by Taskforce 9 since Admiral Frank Buchanan had suffered severe lung damage from the alien flu virus and had been sent earthside for recovery.

The birds were alerted that was for sure. Oulette came to a decision. He looked into the bridge video pickup: "Proceed with phase I Commodore Stiles." He turned to Wilson. "Send the necessary coded confirmation." Oulette realized that they needed to start the attack or shelve it for another day.

Taskforce 18, UES Beagle, on course for Deneva, Nov 2157

"Status of our hardware and software?" the commodore sat back in her chair. She felt comfortable in an odd sort of way that she could not put her finger on.

"No evidence of cyber attack," Captain Ed Minford replied after completing inquiries of the department chiefs. "Blazer is up and running. Captain Montaigne is going to one hundred and ten percent on her engines. They should rendezvous with us just prior to missile range of the birdie defense platforms sir." Minford walked over to stand beside Stiles. "Sorry I've been busting your chops sir. I guess all of those drills paid off. Good thing you ordered the computers to stand alone operations."

"We were lucky Ed." Stiles felt a chill as the guilt ran over her like an icy cold stream. "It was on the schedule." Doctored somewhat after she had returned from Trafalgar; nothing out of the ordinary however.

"Birdie cruisers have taken up a defensive position," Lieuntenant Nandalal Bose reported. He was bent over the hood of his sensor display. "It looks like they are going to augment their defensive platforms."

"Some of those will be armed with plasma cannons," Minford stated.

"We'll proceed according to plan," Stiles said. "The minnies will draw off the first plasma volleys. They should be able to cover under a layer of amazons. We'll move in after."

"I'm receiving a transmission," Chief Cruz said. The Tellarite did not add a characteristic embellishment; instead he turned to them in amazement. "It is clear text from the pirates."

Jocelyn watched as Minford stood bolt upright. Stiles gripped the armrests of her command chair until her fingertips were white. She was suspicious. The birdies had never wanted to talk before.

"Star Fleet commander this is your opponent. I wish to discuss terms of surrender." Cruz stopped. "The message repeats."

"No voice or video?" she asked the Tellarite. He gave a human shake of his snout and returned to his panel. Stiles leaned back. She looked down and realized that her nails had torn into the synthetic material that was padding part of her armrest.

"A new trick to lure us in?" her first officer asked. Minford's voice was filled with doubt.

Stiles was pleased that Minford had come to that assessment. A Romulan surrender was entirely possible Stiles mused. But she preferred that they did not. It was too bad if some of the birdies were getting tired of death she thought. They were the ones responsible for their predicament.

"We have firing solutions sir," Lieuntenant Damon Rice declared.

"I know what we have," Stiles replied tersely. She knew that the course guidance for the narwhals and amazons was already loaded: And the grand slams' too. Stiles knew her orders: She was only to open fire on the surface if the birdies there presented a problem.

"If they are trying to surrender," Minford left the statement hanging in the air.

"They might construe another subspace sensor ping as us preparing to fire." She got up and proceeded to Rice's alcove. "Then again if they are really surrendering another ping should not matter Ed?" she asked over her shoulder. A Romulan would probably make sure that he had all of his goals covered. She put a reassuring hand on Rice's shoulder. "Good job lieutenant. I know it's your job to present options."

"Aye sir," Minford replied. "Ensign Bose send out another sensor ping." He commanded the sensor operator.

"Thank you sir," Rice answered. Stiles needed a cooperative crew right now.

"Divert warp power to sensors," Stiles interjected. Bose had come to her with a paper from an Ensign Jason Crusher. Crusher had proposed increasing the subspace sensors' scanning capability by tapping off warp power and channeling it to the dish. It wouldn't provide much more of a picture but it should reveal power emanations from the beneath the planet's surface. Then again it might blow up the entire sensor suite Stiles knew.

"Standing by sir," Bose's finger hovered nervously over the final control. Stiles nodded at him. Bose stooped over and put his head on the sensor hood. He depressed the stud. A Hindi curse followed. Stiles and Minford watched as the lieutenant's hands flew over his panel. Without waiting to be told what to do the Indian switched the bridge viewer to the picture that he was seeing.

Stiles heard Minford gasp and realized that she had as well. Intelligence had provided them with diagrams of tunnel networks that were being explored by human geologists. But Bose's picture showed much more: The Romulans had been busy. Stiles recognized the power signature of misfit and mothra antiship missiles. She was astounded to see that most were cold: Meaning that the chemical fuel that gave them their initial push had not been loaded--yet. Stiles was cursing internally: She had other plans than taking Romulan prisoners. She realized that Minford was speaking to her.

"Sir; look at the over-the-horizon emplacements," Minford declared.

"Bridge engineering," the tinny voice of Lieutenant Commander Mashashi Hiakawa came out of bridge speakers. Stiles acknowledged the call. "Sir; those new couplings to the sensor array are starting to glow."

"Looks like increased readings from those missile batteries!" Minford declared. Stiles ordered the enhanced sensors offline as she saw what Minford was seeing. "Minotaur contact in twenty seconds!" the captain exclaimed.

"The platforms are not powering up," Bose declared. "Wait; some are—missiles on the fly!" he exclaimed.

"Order the Minotaurs to engage!" Stiles bellowed. She raced back to her seat. "Rice; target those hot silos with grand slams."

"Within narwhal range sir!" the gunnery officer answered then added: "Targeting."

"Fire at the inner platforms," Stiles said. The outer ones would still be recycling their plasma beams. The Romulan moolahs were note match for Stellar Navy jamming. It had taken them awhile but the technical people were fielding some interesting devices. Trip was one of those trailblazers Jocelyn thought with a twinge of guilt.

"Firing and away!" Rice exclaimed.

A Romulan platform in near orbit of Deneva was illuminated by the blinding flash of a nuclear explosion. Atmosphere and debris littered the area around the former station which had been blown into three separate segments. Another narwhal; fused for proximity exploded in the center of the space junk. The station was no more. The Romulan stations still functioning gave their reply joined by misfit and mothra missiles racing out of Deneva's atmosphere.

The Powhaton Cyane destroyed missile after missile but was hit by a plasma cannon. The ship lumbered around littering space with spiders and narwhals. Cyane barely avoided another volley from a plasma cannon but was unable to avoid a mothra missile. The hull plating crackled, seemed to deflect the worst of the blast then gave way. Cyane exploded as its last flight of narwhals destroyed the enemy platform that had been its executioner. Beagle raced in and lay down a blistering hail of narwhals. Flights of Minotaurs raced around the Bison class cruiser providing protective covering fire. Two missiles three times the length of a narwhal departed tubes on Beagle's belly.

The Bison launched a spate of spiders. They saved the cruiser from a strike from a misfit. The small missiles were not able to save Beagle from a plasma cannon strike. The hapless cruiser spun through space then resumed some semblance of control. One of Beagle's narwhal tubes damaged from the blast fired another narwhal from its sole functioning tube. The missile fishtailed wildly until it contacted a supporting Sabinus. The Romulan cruiser vanished in a fireball. Rickover and Seawolf supported the beleaguered Bison leaving a trail of glowing slag as they turned away for another run.

The cool green surface of Deneva blossomed with two new suns. Positioned over the Romulan bases the surface of the planet quickly turned molten as two more grand slams raced toward the dissipating fireballs. The orbit to ground weapons burrowed into the radioactive lava. A split second later the soil of Deneva rose skyward. The mushroom clouds spread out destroying what Romulan facilities were on the ground. Sinjan and Yeager shuttles roared down into the now deadly atmosphere of Deneva.

Romulan ground transports were targeted and destroyed by a combination of amazons armed with conventional warheads and rail guns. A few of the enemy saved their human and alien opponents the trouble: They self-destructed before the vicious shuttles could complete more of their work. The surface of Deneva was bathed in blue and white light as the battle raged above.

Stiles let out an explosive cough as the bridge filled with smoke. She reached under the seat and grabbed a respirator. She tuned the lifesaving mask's audio into the command net. Minford was out of the fray as he had been tossed against a bulkhead. Stiles looked at the blood pooling beneath is head: Her first officer's outlook was not a good one she guessed. She had done this she thought bitterly.

The med techs rushed in risking the artificial gravity spikes. "Report?" she asked firmly. The Andorian Anjin stepped gingerly over the prone form of Minford and settled himself into the first officer's seat. He slipped a little in the pool of blood. Stiles turned to Rice. "Weapons status?" she asked.

"The narwhal missile room is filling with propellant!" Rice reported. Stiles could feel the fear in the officer; not much younger than she was.

"Captain Ramanujan is offering cover fire," the Andorian reported; "six platforms remaining."

"Relay to Forge: I am withdrawing. Have Ramanujan's Minotaurs engage the last of the platforms." Anjin returned a human looking nod. She was not going to have any surrender. "Guns report on the grand slam tubes."

"One is functional," the harried lieutenant answered.

"Gunnery crews target slams for proximity bursts," Stiles ordered. She was not going to leave this fight until she had done everything she could to smash the birdies. The grand slams were separated from the narwhals by a bulkhead so they were still at her disposal. "Get your mask on Rice!" Stiles ordered harshly. She wanted to be up and walking about but she remained strapped in lest she suffer Minford's fate.

"Aye sir!" the gunnery officer answered. "Targeting complete: Standing by."

"Anjin relay the solution to the minnes! Fire!" the commodore bellowed as well as she could into the breath mask. The smoke was dissipating; slowly.

"Firing and away," Rice's voice was muffled by his mask.

First one missile departed Beagle's launch tube. Its chemical motors giving it an initial push away from the ship it then accelerated away under impulse power. The large grand slam lacked the narwhal's ability to maneuver; so it flew straight toward a Romulan orbital battery. This first grand slam was followed by another almost thirty seconds later. Beagle limped away its hull scorched and blackened from a close nuclear detonation.

The grand slam made for the Romulan station going further than it should given its direct flight path. The Romulans were busy however trying to deflect a rain of amazons fired by the incoming earth marauders. The orbit to ground missile's flight ended in a massive explosion. Too far to incinerate the station it was close enough that the blast's outlying waves sent the platform reeling. Exhausts trails exited the Romulan station in a fruitless attempt to regain attitude. The second grand slam exploded somewhat closer to the Romulan missile platform. This time the station was engulfed in nuclear flame completely obliterating it. The Minotaurs closed ranks to deal with the last of the stations.

The surviving Romulans expelled missile after missile in a frantic effort to pick off as many of their attackers as they could. Catskill and Blazer were both hit by proximity charges. Catskill limped away; both warp nacelles were torn away. Blazer rolled through space as atmosphere shot through great rents in her hull. A shuttle bay door on the side of the doomed Kretchet class destroyer rolled open. A single shuttle made its way out; accelerating as it cleared the bay doors. It was not fast enough to escape the explosion as the destruction of its mother ship engulfed it.

The last of the Romulan defense platforms stood vulnerable; having expelled their last missiles in that massive salvo that had destroyed Blazer. Volley after volley of amazons came at them. Several of the stations managed to eject a few moolah area defense missiles. The moolahs defeated several of the amazons but not enough: The platforms added to the radioactive debris around Deneva.

UES Excelsior, on approach to Deneva, Nov 2157

"Report, Yoshi," Admiral Maxwell Forrest asked of his first officer.

"Troop carriers are moving in ahead of us sir," Captain Yoshi Nakamura replied. "Communications from Deneva are sporadic; probably due to radiation from the battle. We have solid sensor returns showing zero defense platforms admiral."

"Ensign Amaruso status of Taskforce 33?" he asked his communications' officer. Forrest was troubled by the report of cyber sabotage against the taskforce. That implied to the admiral the possibility of enemy infiltration. Thus far the allies had been spared that problem.

"Thirty-three reports that they are up and running admiral," Amaruso replied. "ETA 0713," the ensign concluded.

"About half an hour," Forrest said quietly. "Captain slow the landing force to warp—

"Sir I'm getting surface scans relayed from Taskforce 18," Nakamura interjected. Forrest got up and walked over to his first officer's alcove. He could see the look of puzzlement and then of consternation on Nakamura's face as the captain looked over readings presented to him on a monitor. Forrest could see what had caused Yoshi's distress.

"We won't have to worry about casualties among the security forces," Nakamura declared sourly.

"Get the flight surgeon up here Yoshi," Forrest ordered. "Get an estimate of when we can land troops in that." Forrest looked again at the screen. He wasn't a doctor or physicist but he guessed that Star Fleet would not be landing troops on what had been occupied Deneva for at least a quarter of a century. Forrest turned sharply to Amaruso. "Get me Stiles!"

"Aye sir!" The ensign rushed to complete her task. She was not even the messenger and yet Forrest had still trampled her. He would exercise some leadership ability when he cooled down. Seconds later a video image of the bridge of Beagle appeared on the viewscreen.

Forrest could see the smoke hanging in the air of the Bison class cruiser. Beagle had taken a battering but that did not mitigate what had happened. "Link established, voice and video over scrambled," Amaruso responded promptly.

"Very good ensign," Forrest answered. "Excellent work on setting up the command network after thirty-three dropped out today." It was a good as time as any to smooth things over with the ensign. She had not destroyed a world.

"Admiral Forrest;" Stiles sat enthroned in her command chair. It struck Max that the woman was the same age as his son. Forrest had not seen Marco in years as the boy had gravitated towards Max's ex-wife. Still; he could not see Marco Forrest casually presiding over this much death and destruction without some sort of emotional response.

"You read the operational orders for this mission; what in the hell did you do?" Forrest came to the point immediately.

There was a lag of several seconds as the scrambled and coded subspace radio signal traveled to Beagle, the reply made and then finally unscrambled. "Sir when we arrived here the Romulans sent a clear text message offering to surrender. I was suspicious but I proceeded as if they were giving it up. Prior to orbit our scanners showed hot missile contacts beneath the surface. The birdies fired first. In my judgment the surrender was a trick and the number of surface batteries active would have inflicted too many casualties on our troops. We would have had to repel surface to space missile attacks while attempting to land troops and hold our position."

"Goddamnit! A single slam could have done the job and still left prisoners," Forrest fumed back at the viewer; frustrated that he could not confront Stiles directly at this moment. He wondered if the location of the former Romulan base had even cooled past the molten point. "Where is your XO?" he asked.

More seconds passed; fewer now that they were closer. "Sir, Captain Minford was killed in the battle. I'm without an XO at the moment." Forrest could hear an undercurrent of bitterness in the woman's voice.

Max felt a presence at his side. Strategos Antor shot a sharp glance toward him. The Andorian had chosen to lead his command from Excelsior. Forrest was experienced enough with alien body language that he knew that the strategos wanted to speak to him. He muted the circuit between Excelsior and Beagle. "General?" he asked.

"These days we have to be politicians as well as warriors Maxwell," the Andorian started. "Think before you do anything that is," Antor paused as his antennae twitched. "That is not expedient politically."

"Stop recorder," Forrest said to Nakamura. He watched as the Japanese officer lifted a chain from around his neck. He took the small data wafer that hung on the chain and inserted it into the ship's master computer console. The captain followed that up with some commands into his panel. He turned to Forrest and nodded.

"I cannot allow a flagrant act of insubordination to go unchallenged," Forrest had realized that this discussion should not be one for the history books. "Let's face it: Stiles is a good soldier because of her anger for the Romulans. Hell; I know they killed her father and her fiancé. But she stepped over the line: Stiles knew what her orders were."

"So," the Andorian's accent was thicker than that of most of his people. But Forrest had picked up on the strategos' peculiar inflections. "The pirate threat is over in this sector. Even without this last bombardment it would have taken years of cloud seeding and electrostatic satellites to purge the atmosphere. When word of the pirate defeat reaches our people—your people and mine and the Tellarites; they won't care what happened here. The murderers who killed five million of your people got their own back."

"You think too much like one of us general," Forrest answered. He hated this political maneuvering but his position Forrest had come to realize had put him in the same vain as Eisenhower or Devlin: He was now as much a politician now as a soldier. Forrest wished he was just a captain again for a fleeting second.

"And you think too much like one of us," Antor retorted. "I would say that your blood was overheated if you were Andorian."

Forrest realized that Stiles was waiting. Excelsior had emerged from warp and the image of the young commodore was much clearer. Antor was right: Forrest was angry. He wanted to relieve Stiles and send her packing. But what if her story checked out? Max sighed. What would the Sons' of Terra make of an internecine conflict in Star Fleet's ranks he wondered? Time would prove to be his ally here Forrest realized. He could wait and examine the situation further before he came to a decision.

"Thank you strategos," he said to the Andorian. He turned to Amaruso. "Resume audio." She silently signaled when she had done that task. He turned to the viewer. "Start recovery and repair of your group commodore. I'll join you there in," he paused as he looked over his navigator's shoulders at the position reading. "Forty five minutes; Forrest out," he concluded. He ordered the transmission severed without waiting for a reply.


	22. Chapter 22

Fujairah, the old United Arab Emirates, Nov 2157

Perrin knew that he was not inconspicuous here. It was not his Rihannsu heritage that made him an oddity rather it was his pate of blonde hair. This city, although once frequented by European humans was now mainly the abode of Middle Eastern humans. Perrin saw little difference between any of the groups in which humans classified themselves. His Tal Shiar instructor in the human culture had taught him a peculiar earth adage which he was only now coming to understand: Cows no doubt look different; to other cows. The Romulan had been eyeing merchandise on display at the prosperous suiks. The humans could manufacture gold by the_ vet_ he knew and yet they still forged it into useless pieces of jewelry. He perused a stand of the gleaming junk now.

"Something for your wife or girlfriend?" a hawkish merchant asked. These sellers were really no different than the merchants who sold to the upper classes on Romulus he mused. None of the jewelry was up to the standards of Romulan craftsmanship but he knew that it would impress the_ grahna_ here.

These women were far more willing than their northern sisters he thought happily. He recalled that these women's maternal ancestors had been virtual slaves along this region of the earth. It seemed that time had changed things Perrin thought happily. Still he had to be on his guard: Human women had almost seen through his physiological implants. These Arab women had come as close to Romulan women in wanton desire as any had so far. But it was time for him to concentrate on his work.

McCoy and his partner had arrived. Perex had made sure that Kanya left a trail for them to follow. He had plans for dealing with the terrans; plans other than those proposed by Karzai. Perex was beginning to wonder if his sector commander had spent too much time among their Vulcan brothers and sisters. The empire was strong because it was aggressive; not because it was commanded by pacifists. He was going to begin by removing McCoy and his help. Perrin suspected that a larger organization existed; but its tentacles were limited lest it be discovered. So it was that his own, great Tal Shiar had prevailed through the generations.

Perex took up an elaborate gold chain. A green jewel hung in a clasp on the metallic rope. The jewel was a jade; unknown on his native Romulus. "Fifty dirham," he asserted. Perhaps he would take this bauble back to his homeworld.

The owner of the suik took the necklace from him. The balding merchant smiled and ran the necklace along his long thin fingers. "The gem alone is worth six hundred; but I will sell it to you for five hundred dirham. Your lady will be most pleased to have this." The swarthy merchant leered suggestively.

"Perhaps she would be pleased for two hundred D," he countered using the local slang for the currency. Perrin peered into a mirror that ran the length of the merchant's shop on his back wall. The shimmering gold trinkets reflected in the light in an explosion of color. The mirror showed him a toy suik across from the one Perrin now occupied. A group of children with the characteristic darker skin of the region played in front of the toy seller's venue.

"I'll get you with my plasam gun," a human youth of seven or eight Perrin guessed, exclaimed. The boy held aloft a model of space vessel. It was a single saucer joined to two trailing nacelles.

The other youth had a model construction vehicle Perrin noted. "I'll shoot you with my tractor beam first you dirty birdy." Perrin wondered why the boys spoke with accents he had heard used on the British Isles when he remembered that many business people from that region had chased their fortunes here. Perrin also saw McCoy's reflection. Nothing would happen here he wagered to himself.

The merchant put the chain aside. "I can show you lesser things." He proceeded to retrieve a small thin unadorned gold chain when Perrin made a small show of retrieving his carryall, fishing out his currency and carefully counting through three hundred dirham while carefully concealing the several thousand more that he had. The Arab fixated on the bills. "Perhaps four hundred dirham?" he licked his lips.

"I have but three fifty," Perrin lied.

"You have made an excellent purchase sir!" the merchant rejoiced. The Romulan agent guessed that the man had made just what he wanted to make on the necklace. McCoy stared unabashedly at Perrin's back. "May I wrap it for you sir?" the seller asked. Perrin thought this merchant worthy to be a Romulan in some ways. In any event he made small talk with the human while he considered his route. He needed to ensure that McCoy followed him without killing him.

Perrin accepted the gaudily wrapped box. The suik owner thanked him. Perrin opened the large glass door and pushed out into the warm humid twilit night. He turned left and plunged into a group of tourists hunting for bargains. He saw McCoy hastily move to follow him. Perrin saw another group gravitating to an open air restaurant. The agent pushed into that one eliciting some glares from some of the overfed older humans. This group turned another corner. Perrin stayed with it noting that McCoy had lost sight of him.

"Do you have the time?" a pretty dark-skinned local asked him. Perrin guessed that she twenty as the earthers counted time. Their eyes were much like that of the Rihannsu Perrin thought. He paused and told her the time while noting her chronometer hanging off of the bottom of her tight blouse. He asked her name while waiting for McCoy or his partner to find him. He guessed that the mysterious Mister Brack was around as well.

"I do not give my name to strange men," she replied coyly.

"They are only strange until you get to know them," Perrin answered. There; McCoy had found him again. "Would you like to know me Jubilah?" he asked. He grinned. Those facial muscles were mostly unused by Romulans but surgery had helped him. She started to turn away. "Would you walk with me through the city center?" he asked. He guessed that neither Brack nor McCoy would try anything while he was accompanied by an earth woman. It would be too bad if she became a casualty he thought. Perrin considered other baubles that he might take back to Romulus with him as he eyed her. He started to start walking. She followed hesitantly.

"You are a liar," Jubilah declared. She pointed at the wrapped box under his arm. "Who is getting that?" she asked as if she had made a major scientific find.

"I think that it should go to a special woman," he answered. The couple had emerged out into the busy city streets. "Do you believe it for a lover I have at home?" When she nodded he offered her the box. She followed him as he hailed a cab. Mister Brack; he thought as he saw McCoy's partner in a groundcar not far from his cab.

"Don't tease," she answered. "I might really take it and I don't even know you," she paused.

"My name is Perrin," he said as he beckoned her to join him in the cab. The driver grunted in a display of impatience. "You are getting to know me; come," he seated himself.

"Okay," Jubilah answered shyly. "But don't try anything; unless I want you too." She smiled at him as she squeezed in beside him. "I have a commlink if you turn out to be dangerous!" she warned.

He gave the driver the address causing the livery driver to speed away. The driver maneuvered like a _bhath_ pilot! Perrin was beginning to doubt himself as he was sure that neither Brack nor McCoy could keep up with the taxi. "I am a Romulan agent if you must know Jubilah," he confided as he examined the driver's rear display and noted Brack's presence. He wondered about Brack.

Recordings of his encounter with Locha had revealed the man's ability with the ancient tongue. Perrin had been wondering how a human had come by that knowledge. He certainly hoped that he could interview Brack to find his answer. Brack would not find the interview pleasant of course. But those that resisted the empire had to be taught otherwise he knew. Jubilah laughed at his seemingly teasing confession. Were that all these terrans this easy to conquer he thought. He asked the girl questions about her life. He laughed at all the right moments and was seemingly righteously outraged at others. The taxi pulled up close to the old dock works.

Perrin had chosen the old villa of the chief financial sheik of the now defunct Eastern Coalition as his base of operations here. "I must bid you a good night Jubilah. I would not want you going home with a strange man."

"I do not think you are strange," she smiled as she followed him out of the taxi.

"He's leading us by the nose Frank," Brack said.

"I should have killed the bastard back in the suik," McCoy groused. He knew better though: The people would have been treated to the sight of a man being swallowed up by plasma; so much for a low profile. He seized Brack's arm. "You are sure about this area scan thing?"

"Doctor Erickson is sure," Brack replied somberly. "You are aware Frank that every new transport mode had to have its bugs worked out." Brack smiled sheepishly at him. "I know: I was there for all of them." McCoy watched as the immortal stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I did miss out on the wheel; before my time I'm afraid."

"I don't give a damn for you or Mistrial's games Brack!" McCoy retorted. "Just tell me we are going to get in there without that rat bastard knowing it. I don't give a damn if my atoms are scrambled anymore." McCoy wanted this whole thing to be over.

His marriage had ended but he still had the Stellar Navy. He had been satisfied with that realizing that he would probably retire and teach history finally becoming one of those odd men with too many cats. Then the war had come. McCoy had done his duty but he made a dreadful pact with Admiral Erica Soames. He thought back to that day in her office. Frank wished he had told Soames to take her data to the president and forget the secrets. Too late; he now had bloody hands, had stood by and watched another human be tortured and quite likely had fathered a child with a woman who now despised him. Life could be better he mused. McCoy looked back on his recent life; his betrayal of Eileen was foremost in his mind. Maybe his Baptist Grandmother had been on to something he thought.

Frank looked at the restored compound; a throwback to another day. Its spacious corridors, built for one man, could have housed a small village in comfort. He lowered the field glasses and handed them to Brack. His partner waved aside the offer.

"He is waiting for us," Brack declared. The immortal man rolled over onto his back. The pair was crouched atop a small sand dune. McCoy was uncomfortable in his thermal reflecting combat jumpsuit. Brack was adorned similarly.

"But he expects us to sneak in from outside," McCoy nodded. "You and Erickson are sure about this?" he asked. Despite his earlier anger the thought of going through Emery Erickson's matter transportation device was not sitting well with him. Brack and Soames had both used their influence to obtain detailed subspace and standard radar analysis of the Romulan's new home.

"The injections we took are an extra added precaution," Brack replied. "Emery says that even if we lose our transponders he can still get us out by scanning these unique bio-signatures in us now. Remember we were transported out of England using only my transponder."

"What was in that stuff anyway?" McCoy asked.

"You won't like it if I tell you Frank," Brack answered sourly.

"Ah hell go on with it Micah." McCoy scrambled down the dune. Brack followed. It was time to get started he knew.

"Five years ago a Boeing-Teledyne expedition to the North Pole discovered what it had first taken for a metallic meteorite." Brack removed his handheld and started tapping in a set of commands. "Instead it found the remains of a crashed space vehicle—it was not one of ours or of our allies." McCoy regretted that he had not taken Brack's advice. This explanation was not shaping up well for him. He nodded. "It was wrecked; also it had been hit by some sort of weapon. I have no idea of what type; some of the wreck's molecules had been disintegrated for lack of a better word."

McCoy pulled the charging lever of the berretta XI back. Satisfied that the weapon was ready he slung it beneath his shoulder. He pulled the colt out of his belt and checked its plasma charge. That too indicated in the good. He replaced the pistol as Brack continued.

"The wreck yielded little except for a type of virulent nanite." Brack looked skyward. "Half of the research team became infected and had to be killed."

"You pulled the trigger huh?" McCoy asked bluntly.

Brack nodded sadly. "There was nothing to be done for them." Brack sighed. "We contained the nanites then destroyed them. But not before we got enough data on them to put our own study of nanotechnology one hundred years ahead of where it was. The ones we created, a far less nimble strain have proven very useful in constructing some of the new electronics. We have some in us now literally making a subspace beacon inside of us."

"The time is out of joint: Oh cursed spite. That ever I was born to set it right." McCoy quoted the little Shakespeare that he knew; mainly from trying to win the affections of seventeen year old Maria Espinoza when he had been about that age.

"I never wrote that with you in mind Frank. But problems come in every lifetime. Every generation thinks that it lives in the pivotal times." Brack punched a final sequence into his handheld. "Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," Frank answered. He took a deep breath. It was all he could do to stop his shivers. "Do it Brack! Digitize us, transmit, transport or energize us; whatever in the hell you call it!"

"Hush," Brack replied. McCoy watched as the world turned blue around him. He started to shut his eyes when the blue turned to darkness. He looked around. Now he was shivering. McCoy wanted to scream. He felt as if he had just crawled out of a barrel of snakes; and he had never liked snakes. McCoy lowered a set of night vision glasses onto his nose. A foul smell assaulted his nose.

McCoy gaped. After a minute it occurred to him that the room may not have held a human being for the last ninety years; until now. Dust rose where he guessed that their added mass had disturbed it. A cat started to pursue a rat until the feline realized that its intended meal was bigger than what it was. The cat bounded over the floor and out of the room. McCoy hefted the berretta.

"This was the villa where the slaves were kept," Brack whispered. The murmur sounded like a gunshot in the old marble floored chamber. He looked up from his handheld. "The snooper isn't showing any electromagnetic webs. I doubt anyone would have planned for an arrival out of thin air."

"The main house is across the compound," McCoy whispered back. "But your boys read a tunnel underneath of this thing."

"We should be right on top of it," Brack looked around the room.

"You mean this?" Frank asked. He walked over and cautiously pushed a small hunk of marble into a black hole in the floor. There was a large hollow splash less than a second later. He looked at Brack; a sense of dread fell upon him. "There has got to be another way." The water was the source of the smell Frank realized.

Brack examined the remnants of a staircase that had descended into the tunnel. He shined a light into the inky darkness below. "We are at sea level here. The tide has probably gotten in over the decades. My guess is that it is only knee high. We can hang drop into it."

"Couldn't we have been shot into the main house?" McCoy asked already knowing the answer.

"We could have but it will be interesting when this villa explodes." Brack had begun removing small canisters from his pack and placing them around the room. "Go ahead Frank; I'll set the last one."

McCoy nodded and started down the small but formerly sumptuous staircase. He could feel the marble wobbling beneath his weight. Frank knelt down. He got a good hand hold on an exposed metal reinforcement and dropped over the remains of the stairway. He felt the stinking cold water lap at his boots. He dropped. The splash was explosive as the cold seawater went half way up his legs.

Frank looked ahead to see a mess of cobwebs and other things he'd rather not think what they were. He looked up to see Brack hanging over the edge of the torn stairs. McCoy slogged through the water as something landed on his face. He swiped at it; caught it in his hand and was horrified when his glasses made out the scorpion's outline. He flung the arachnid off of his hand. "Jesus Christ!" he fumed.

"It's just a bug Frank!" McCoy jumped as cold rancid water hit his face from Brack's entry into the tunnel. "We have twenty-five minutes," Micah murmured. McCoy trudged through the murky water a few steps ahead of Brack.

Frank found the rest of the trek uneventful until he slid on a slimy patch of marble. He fell forward putting his hand up and using the tunnel's wall to steady him. He looked in horror as he realized that he had disturbed a slithering shape. It landed in the water and went swimming between his legs. He heard Brack gasp and turned around to chide his partner who presented the writhing but dying snake to McCoy on the end of his knife.

"I guess you are going to say it's just a snake," McCoy said angrily. Frank was having a fit of tremors.

"As a matter of fact it is a sand viper Frank." Brack looked thoughtfully at the snake. "Quite dangerous," McCoy saw the industrialist get that faraway look. He guessed that it was a Vulcan moment until he heard Brack's whisper. "They frightened our horses. One of them bit Vlad. He screamed repeatedly. We knew that there was nothing for him. Thelonius stabbed him lest the Saracens discover us." Brack returned to the present and tossed the reptile's corpse into the foulness. "Just a few more meters Frank."

McCoy's night vision glasses made out another marble staircase. This one was in far better shape. "Looks like the entrance is sealed up," he said as he slung his rifle below his shoulder. He went through his pack and quickly assembled the heavy laser cutting tool as he stepped through the last few meters of slime. He would be happy to be out of this hole. He waited at the bottom though as Brack ran his handheld over the area.

"Nothing on this side," Brack indicated. "Remember we open this up then split up according to plan. These Romulans probably have inner as well as outer defenses. Rather the door is rigged or not we need to act as if they know we are here. If you encounter opposition—eliminate it."

McCoy switched his glasses to filter as he stepped on the top landing of the stairs. He started the laser to work on the door's lock. Seconds later he kicked open the heavy ornate door amid a shower of sparks. The motion was so quick that McCoy barely had time to swing the laser cutter up to defend himself. He thumbed the tool's stud. Whoever was about to shoot him was terribly surprised as his hands dropped off of his arms still vainly gripping his weapon. McCoy heard the odd muffled sound of Brack's old styled pistol and watched the burly guard jerk twice then fall to the floor twitching.

Let's go," McCoy said as he stepped over the body still in its final death throes. He turned left and sensed Brack turning away from him. He raced down a broad well lit hallway. Frank knew that he might well be facing augments again. This time he and Brack were ready. He stopped and leaned around a corner. A harsh voice yelled in Arabic. McCoy adjusted his glasses and pulled a small tube off of his belt and tossed it around the corner.

The glasses protected Frank from the blinding flashes. He stepped around the corner to the sight of a muscular woman her palms pressed to her eyes weaving drunkenly through the hall. A rifle hung off of her shoulders. McCoy leveled the berretta and let fly with two muffled rounds of anti-personnel ammunition; Brack had worked some improvements on the old infantry weapon. The woman's torso vanished in a meaty explosion. He supposed that he would have felt some regret a mere month ago; but no more. He ran to the door that the woman had been guarding. McCoy kicked hard at the door with no results. He started to select armor piercing from the ammo selector when it occurred to him to reach down and try the door. He turned the knob and threw it open while dodging wildly to one side. A table with neatly carved antique legs dominated the center of the dimly lit room.

McCoy swept the rifle around the room until he was satisfied that it was empty. He bounded over to the table. A few charts sat exposed on the table's surface. Their legends were done in a strange alien script. McCoy wondered if he was looking at the Romulans' written language. Muffled sounds of laughter came from the next room. McCoy got out his own handheld and played it over the charts. He noted that several areas were marked including Tehran, Peking and Chicago. Other areas that he was unfamiliar with were marked: Europe, Africa, more in North and South America and one mark on each of the poles. He heard the laughter again. Frank finished recording the data then moved to a set of double doors on the other side of the chamber. This time they did not yield to being opened. He stepped back and fired an armor piercing round blowing apart what had been decades old antiques. He thumbed the beretta's selector back to anti-personnel.

He stepped in a lighted bedroom confronted by the sight of the Arab girl. She was naked and screaming and trying desperately to crawl away. Frank ducked just before the wall behind him erupted in a shower of plaster. An equally naked Perrin rolled behind a heavy table and upended it. He fired another burst of the slug weapon at Frank. McCoy shot back wildly. The girl was still screaming and adding some pleas in her native tongue.

"You are late McCoy," Perrin yelled. "But it will all be over soon."

McCoy had selected armor piercing but returned the selector to anti-personnel. "What do you mean you murdering bastard?"

"I left a plain enough trail for you and Mister Brack." Perrin said. "Now I plan to leave here. I don't know how you made it past the surveillance but that is irrelevant. I needed to know where you both were; and here you are."

McCoy peered over a truck to see the girl's head jerk as Perrin grabbed a handful of her black hair. He stood up with the girl as a shield. "Now you wouldn't want pretty Jubilah getting hurt would you Frank?"

Frank fired wildly as Perrin backed up next to a door and opened it. The Romulan peered out and backed away. McCoy cursed at himself. As angry as he was he could not bring himself to kill the girl. "What's your game you son of a bitch?" he yelled as he shot a glimpse around the door that Perrin had escaped through.

"Now, now Frank," Perrin laughed. "That would be telling."

McCoy sprang out and sprayed a burst around the retreating enemy agent. He dived behind a chair as small explosions threw up pieces of marble. He felt a sting in the meat of his right thigh. He peeked up to see Perrin standing with his back to a small opening. The girl was an unwilling shield. McCoy pointed the berretta in frustration. He gawked when the Jubilah's naked torso erupted in two bloody holes. Perrin shoved the body away and closed the door of what McCoy realized was the service lift.

"Goddamned you Brack!" he spat out running to the girl.

"Forget her Frank!" Brack retorted. "She would've been killed—or worse anyway." McCoy leveled the berretta at Brack. "Go ahead Frank. It would ease part of our pain if you are successful."

"I found some maps in the other room," McCoy blurted out. He choked back tears. "C'mon," he motioned for Brack to follow. He heard the immortal assurances that the area was clear. "I don't doubt it Brack; just kill everyone in sight." He arrived before the table. "Can you read this?" he asked Brack indicating the alien script.

McCoy watched as Brack's face changed. "They have parted ways Frank. The Rihannsu are sundered from us. I cannot read this; no more than an ancient Roman monk could read modern English."

Frank slammed his fists on the table. "We were lured here. There is something about these locations." McCoy was vaguely aware of Brack/Mistral's fingering of the maps. He heard a low sigh that was Brack and not the other.

"The Aryan Solution," Brack mumbled quietly.

"What are you talking about Brack?" he asked.

"Colonel Green wanted to rid the world of what he thought of as undesirables; people of different races, the faithful of all faiths and those that were sick." Brack returned to the present. "The Western intelligence forces found bombs. They had been planted in all of these cities. Two had not been discovered. It was assumed that Green didn't have time to finish putting them into place."

"What the hell kind of bombs Micah?" he asked. He walked over and grabbed at the industrialist. Brack slapped him away easily.

"Bio warheads," Brack answered. "They contain a virulent flu strain along with a mutated form of the acquired immune deficiency syndrome. The lethal flu virus would've killed most. The enhanced AIDS virus would've finished most of the survivors." Brack was pouring over the maps and charts. McCoy watched as he pulled a desk drawer out. He looked at the contents then threw them on the floor.

"Wait a minute," McCoy said. He bent over and picked up several colorfully illustrated tourists' brochures. He thumbed through them. "What cities might still have bombs in them?" Brack replied with a city near Japan and another in the southwest United States. "A shrine near Naha and a museum in New Mexico; why would these be here?" he asked the immortal.

"We came up empty in both places Frank," Brack answered. "I don't think that Perrin would have made it that easy."

"There is not much else to go on," McCoy answered. "You know he lured us here with the idea of setting them off soon. There is no way even an impulse shuttle could make either place in less than an hour. Beats me why though; he could've just done it already."

"Rihannsu arrogance," Brack answered. "He wanted to gloat." Brack slammed a fist into his palm. "You've gleaned their nature pretty well Frank." He looked at McCoy. "Think you can tackle disarming one of these devices?"

"Hell Micah," McCoy replied. A wild idea seized him. "Can Erickson matter zap it?" Brack nodded. "Then let's get moving while there is still an earth to save." Even as he said it Frank wondered if they were too late.

San Francisco, earth, Nov 2157

"When is she due back?" Maggie Thorpe asked the Star Fleet attaché.

"Admiral Forrest tells me that Commodore Stiles will be planetside in two weeks," Commander Igor Schilitzky replied in heavily accented English. "The president has all of the admiral's correspondences sir."

"To a hero's welcome," Ambassador Ketra interjected. The Andorian's antennae were twitching.

"Thank you commander," President Christophur Thorpe waved a dismissive hand toward the Pole. "I'd like to push back the twenty hundred brief until twenty thirty."

"Very well sir," the Star Fleet commander rose out of his chair, straightened up and saluted Thorpe. Thorpe sat upright and returned the salute. The officer turned and left.

"Forrest says that her story checks out," Thorpe said. He wondered what he had turned loose on the universe that day in Georgia so many months ago now.

"Chris," Maggie Thorpe spoke up. "You don't trust her?" Thorpe knew that Maggie had taken to the young woman during their brief association. She had once told Christophur that she had wished had they had children for a girl as strong as Jo-jo.

Thorpe turned on the vidcaster and played a recording. The young man had replaced the late Carson Maclaren now that Maclaren's partner was running the media company. The man looked confidently into the pickup. He was seated behind a plain looking desk:

"It is just a question of when we are condemned by our allies. Barbarous behavior exhibited by soldiers such as Jocelyn Stiles are evidence that Romulan behavior was prompted by our own aggression. Can there be anymore doubt of that? The Romulan forces on Deneva were brutally slaughtered in a manner reminiscent of our last war."

Thorpe thumbed a stud at the conference table. The scene switched to a cheering crowd waving a multitude of terran, Andorian and Tellarite flags. The image settled on a young woman with a child on each arm.

"I'm so proud of what happened out there," the woman told the camera. "When I said goodbye to my husband we both knew that it could be forever." She choked and tears rolled down her cheeks. "But now I know we can beat them. There is an end in sight. I wish Commodore Stiles was in charge of the whole fleet: We'd be over Romulus in a week."

Thorpe thumbed the 'caster off. "There you have it. I expected no less nonsense from the Sons' of Terra. No one else seems as adept at snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory as they are." Christophur shook his head. "There is the official side. Maxwell is of the opinion that Stiles used the provocation to kill all of the Romulans on Deneva."

"A hero and villain both," Creel Zarn sat back and let out an explosive belch. "You terrans weigh things to extremes. You are like slimy merchants peddling your wares. Think of the lives of the soldiers who were to land on Deneva, Thorpe."

"I agree sir," Karl Ebenstark put down a carafe of coffee and Andorian ale. He poured drinks for those who wanted them; talking all the while. "I know that we need to contact the birdies; capture some so that we may understand what they want. But the Vulcan problem is still wide open. Now the pointies will think twice before engaging us." He paused. "As an old ground pounder let me say: She did save lives sir."

"Listen to your aide Mister President," Ambassador Ketra said; "unless you feel that Stiles is a danger to your own position. My mate has met her and says that she is a formidable warrior."

"If this were a man carrying out an attack to avenge his family I wonder how you would think Chris." Maggie Thorpe asked pointedly.

Thorpe was surprised to hear that come out of his wife's mouth. But he understood why. "No Maggie; it is not about sex. Jo-jo is a fine soldier. Yes; part of it is my own guilt: I may have created a monster." He sighed. Things were seldom black and white. "I have to uphold the law damnit!"

"Deneva will be habitable in less than ten years," Creel Zarn declared. "The damage is not all that bad. To all appearances we are winning. Only a_ grnaga _would cry over a victory. Welcome Stiles as a hero. If she becomes a problem—she can be removed later."

"Sir!" the first lady protested.

"It is the Tellarite way Madam Thorpe," Zarn drew himself up. "And your way as well; I have read your history."

"All I have is Maxwell's suspicions," Thorpe sighed again. He was caught between a respected friend and a person he had grown to love as if she were his child. "But I know Max Forrest! He is not one to give himself over to idle speculation."

"He is also being upstaged," Ketra declared, cocking her antennae forward. "Stiles' name is on everyone's lips; hero or villain."

"Max is a professional," Thorpe retorted sharply. "I know that Admiral Forrest is above that sort of nonsense."

"Are you going to relieve her dear?" Maggie Thorpe asked the question that had been before them all.

Thorpe got up. The chill afternoon breeze blew in the open window. He looked at the Golden Gate Bridge, its gleaming metal reflecting the pale noonday sun. "Maxwell is investigating further. He has sent her packing in the meantime. She is entitled to leave and frankly unless Forrest discovers something a few appearances from her around the globe would really raise morale. No; she'll retain her command until—

"Or unless the admiral finds something," Maggie Thorpe interrupted. "There is nothing there to find Chris: Only what appeared to be a frightened girl who found out that she was made of tougher stuff."

Thorpe was about to argue with his wife but decided that he would rather have faced an entire hostile world council. He merely nodded hoping that Maggie's good judgment of people was as good now as it had been in her corporate CEO days. He took a drink of coffee and looked around the table.

"Are you running a secret police Thorpe?" the Tellarite leader asked without ceremony. He saw his wife sit upright at the question while the Andorian ambassador leaned forward coyly.

"We are still investigating Maclaren's death." Thorpe laced his fingers in a steeple before him. He knew what the Tellarite was referring to. "There has been some odd goings on sir. But I promise that I have not indulged that particular political vice. In fact I have an ongoing investigation into that very thing." Thorpe knew that his look was venomous but he did not care. "There will be no Departments of Homeland Security under my watch. The enemy is the Romulans, not the women's bridge club of British Columbia."

"Such organizations are sometimes necessary," the Andorian argued. "Some of your people may be acting of their own accord Mister President."

"I ensure you ambassador," Thorpe replied soberly. "If such people are operating; I shall take whatever means necessary and within the law to ferret them out; try them and see them executed. The federation shall not be founded on a pillar of secrecy."

Creel Zarn wrinkled his snout. "Very well then; this talk has given rise to my thirst. You there, aide," he said to Ebenstark. "Pour me some of that ale."

"Pour it yourself, you fat lazy bastard," Ebenstark answered with a grin.

Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen, Inbound for Tellar, Nov 2157

"Mud skiing," Chief Paul Aarons proclaimed sourly. The enlisted man sucked in a drag of smoke. "And this is my last cigarette."

"I find the smell is pleasant," Doctor Phlox declared. The Denobulan pushed the last of his egg drop soup away. "This soup is excellent. Chef Han has done another great job. But smoking is bad for you chief."

"I 'spose so," Aarons answered and then grinned. "But I like it!"

The small group was assembled in Queen Bitch's mess hall. The doctor sat opposite Aarons at a small table while Captain Donald Townsend sat at a table by himself. He was engrossed by a twentieth century military thriller. Townsend listened to the crew's banter with half an ear while wondering what he would do if he were confronted like the characters in the book. What if a Romulan captain tried defecting to the alliance along with his crew he wondered? He finished at a good point. He was glad that he still had several chapters to go. Townsend thought that he would download another novel by the same author after this.

"You could try water skiing chief," Townsend volunteered. He knew that Aarons along with many others were disappointed by the change in their orders. It would be another month and a half before they put in at earth. In the meantime Jade Queen had been absorbed into combat patrol near Tellar. "The Tellars are taking to water skiing from what I've heard Paul."

"It ain't the same sir!" Aarons complained. "Hell, you know they probably have some version of shark in their water; just what I need."

"You speed down a mountain with nothing between you and hitting a tree and you are worried about a fish chief?" Townsend asked.

"Tellar does not have a sea going hunter that rivals your shark chief," Phlox said. "They do however have large eel-like creatures that wrap around their prey while extending barbs into—

"Uh, thanks doc," Townsend intervened to save some of the more soft-stomached of his crew. "I think the eel story would be better on horror night." Movie night had become a good social relief valve for the tired overextended raider crew. Townsend himself had actually come to enjoy the presentations; something that he had disdained in his younger years.

"Do you think that you could run _The Chernobyl Horror _again?" Phlox asked.

Townsend groaned inwardly. Words failed him when he thought of the early twenty-first century horror movie. Besides shock value, including the mutant birth sequence, Townsend considered the feature to have little other attributes. Frankly he had grown tired of the director's technique of shaky video work; that and the all too melodramatic close-ups of the less than lackluster cast. Still; monkey curiosity got the best of the Bitch's captain.

"What exactly do you like about that doctor?" he asked.

"The film does an excellent examination of the topic of cannibalism," Phlox declared. "Far better than say: _The Hills have Eyes. _You humans have such a taboo about that subject."

"Speaking as a human," Aarons chimed in. "I like my shipmates but I don't want to find out if they are tasty or not."

"I agree chief," Phlox said. "I find that when studying a culture nothing is more illuminating than that culture's taboos. With some exceptions cannibalism is universally disdained by most of your cultures on earth."

"Doctor I hate to ask but do Denobulans," Townsend trailed off; not sure if he was happy about the can of worms he had just opened.

"As a matter of fact—

"General quarters, general quarters," Commander Margaret Sadler's voice boomed out of the mess hall PA.

Townsend looked with a little longing at the book he held. Would the spy be able to convince his agency that the submarine captain was planning on defecting? Townsend would have to wait for an answer. He jumped up and went to the room's communication's panel.

He punched the call button. "What is it Margaret?" he asked; skipping the usual military protocol. He wondered how his crew would fit in aboard a cruiser or carrier where the command structure was far more rigid.

"Sensor echoes sir," Sadler replied. "We picked them up about ten minutes ago. Ensign Carteris has confirmed that there is something out there. Two returns at .3 parsecs bearing two-two-zero and two-seven, mark four five; the third is at one hundred mark six five."

A bracket, Townsend thought at once. From that position two of the craft could act as chase ships while the third would make the final interception. The Stellar Navy had evolved the tactic in the dark days of the beginning of the war. Donald had a feeling that these were not SN ships dogging his Bitch.

"Roll the crew," Townsend declared. He knew that it was almost the end of bravo tour. He would call the charlie personnel on a little earlier than normal. Carteris was proving to be an expert when it came to subspace sensors. But Townsend knew that she was no match for Aarons. "I'll be right there." He thumbed the stud and nodded at Aarons who was in the process of stubbing out his cigarette.

"Your lungs will appreciate it chief," Doctor Phlox declared. The Denobulan stood as Townsend departed in the company of Aarons.

"Good thing we are rearmed sir," Aarons remarked as he followed Townsend up a service ladder the bridge deck.

"We've gotten complacent Paul," Townsend said. They were more than three hours from their link up with the Tellarite light cruiser Shizma. He wondered how many times the birdies had dogged this patrol route; waiting and planning an ambush. Townsend waited a few seconds as Aarons emerged from the lower deck behind him; then he headed the last few meters to the bridge.

"You got us out of that last mess sir," Aarons declared confidently. "You'll get us out of this."

"Thanks chief," Townsend said. He wished that he shared Aaron's exuberance. He stepped into the surreal reduced lighting of Queen Bitch's bridge. The mix of reds and purples had been determined to offer the best in subdued lighting for all of the races' color visions.

Townsend passed the outgoing bridge crew as he made out the dimly silhouetted form of Sadler. "Report," he said. She had been standing over Ensign Carteris. The small group shuffled about as Carteris vacated his position to Aarons.

"They are making a move in," the officer told the enlisted man. "Creeping in," the ensign concluded.

"Their power readings are almost nonexistent except for the mam to keep the warp field up," Sadler announced. He had been speculating on just that thing: How had these unknowns gotten this close?

"They've tuned the output of their warp field to ours I'm guessing," Townsend said. He absently scratched at the back of his neck. His closely cut pate of curly black hair was getting long; and getting a touch of gray here and there.

"That is Marsh's opinion skipper," Sadler replied. "They got within subspace sensor range; reduced their ovetake and effectively matched speeds with us. They hid in our own sensor shadow."

They're birdies sir," Aarons declared at last. He sat up from the hood of his sensor screen. "The warp fields may be matched but there exhaust outputs are typical of birdie power plants."

Townsend walked over to his chair. He flipped open the comm link to engineering. The voice of Lieutenant Commander Marshall Davies greeted him. "Marsh I need you to make us invisible." He looked at the sensor display; now shown for all to see on the bridge viewer. "I need to be invisible in twenty minutes." He supposed that was he a Romulan he would make his move in another parsec.

"Is there anything else sir?" Davies asked. The engineer's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I'll see what I can come up with sir." Davies concluded in a more professional tone.

Townsend closed the circuit. "Guns start working firing solutions."

"I already have some worked sir," Chief Matt Prescott answered.

Townsend seated himself. The thin figure of Margaret Sadler approached his chair. "I don't think they'll fall for the Denobulan freighter number skipper." Townsend merely nodded and looked on. The ghostly images drew closer to his ship. He did not need Aarons to tell him that they were heating up their reactors. They would make their move soon Townsend realized.

"Tubes loaded sir," Prescott announced. "We have a bird positioned in cargo lock three. That should give those bastards a surprise."

"Very good chief—

"Bridge engineering," Davies voice exploded out of the tiny ceiling mounted bridge speaker. The engineer continued after Donald's acknowledgement. "We need to start shutting down the auxiliary systems sir." The engineer paused. "I'm going to need life support eventually."

"Approved," Townsend said. He knew that it would stay warm and the air would stay fresh for several hours even without the life support systems. "What is your plan?" he asked Davies.

"Intelligence reports that birdie cruisers using subspace sensors have switched exclusively to those," the engineer explained. "I'm got my crews working on remodulating the electromagnetic output to the hull plating. To their sensors we won't be quite invisible." There was a pause. "We would be a, well, cloaked I guess is a good word. Just hope they don't go to a window and take a peek at us. We'll have to drop out of warp sir and I'll need to mask sensor power as well."

"Whatever you do you need to have in done in eight minutes Marsh," Townsend advised his engineer.

"You'll have it in three sir! Davies out," the engineer cut the circuit. Almost immediately after that what primary bridge lighting that there was went dark. There was silence so that Townsend could hear the whir of the environmental fans come to a halt.

"All stop," Townsend ordered.

Ensign Stephanie Mirren's fingers flew over her console. "We have entered normal space: Relative velocity; one hundred thousand kph." Townsend could see her silhouette. He could see the tension as she added: "Sir navigational shielding is down to twenty percent."

"That should keep us safe out here in interplanetary space," Townsend declared. "Comm out procedures commander," he said to Sadler. "Pass down to the crew: Depressurization alert. I want everyone to be ready."

"Aye skipper," Sadler snapped her fingers and relayed her orders to a technician. The woman left the bridge at a run.

"Contacts have gone to warp!" Aarons exclaimed. His fist slammed down on the console. "On a heading for here but the sensors are gone." The enlisted man held his hand up. "Their headings suggest that they don't know our exact position." Townsend breathed a sigh of relief. He hoped that they did not have subspace radar. If any of them did, him and his crew would quite likely be dead soon.

"Helm, thrusters only turn us twenty degrees away from our last heading," Townsend ordered.

"Thrusters aye sir," Mirren replied. She studied her navigational readings as she inputted the commands. "We will come to new heading in six minutes."

"Video available," Aarons said.

Townsend's stomach did a flip as the artificial gravity was shut off. He quickly belted himself to his seat. He could not help but laugh as Sadler fishtailed through the bridge cursing all the while. He watched the screen as Aaron's swept the black void with the Bitch's eyes. He focused on a small dot and increased the magnification. A Romulan Sabinus grew in the viewscreen. Sadler finally gained her seat and secured herself.

"So we hide until Shizma comes looking for us?" Sadler asked.

"The hell with that Margaret," Townsend countered. "They will arrive and better the odds but it is still going to be close." Donald shook his head. "Chief can you use the optics to get heading and velocity on the enemy?"

"If they make a turn on impulse it would throw everything out the window sir," Aarons answered. "But yes sir; as long as they maintain a vector I can do that."

"Get with Prescott and program a solution into the narwhals," Townsend said.

"We are dead meat once we power up skipper," Sadler said.

"Contact closing," Aarons announced. "Estimate twelve thousand kilometers; closing at five hundred kps." Townsend was glued to the viewer as Aarons chose another telephoto lens. The image of a Veronus increased in size until its proportions grew monstrous. The bird of prey was proudly in display as Townsend realized that the chowder, if intelligence was correct, was upside down relative to the Jade Queen. For a second it did indeed look like a monstrous metal hawk circling about. "Three thousand five hundred captain!" the chief exclaimed. "It is moving off; maintaining speed."

"Get to the armory with Prescott, Paul," Townsend ordered. He turned to Sadler as a new sun briefly flared.

"Aye sir," Aarons unstrapped and flipped slowly over his seat. Townsend could tell that the man was at home in zero gee. "That nuke went off about fourteen thousand kilometers away sir." Aarons joined Prescott as the two propelled themselves off of the bridge.

Sadler settled herself into the chair vacated by Aarons. She took a peek into the sensor hood; now rigged to show video before strapping her self in. "Paul has them all on video skipper. Two are moving off and the third is cutting a course roughly parallel to our own."

"They know that we are here," Townsend declared. "They just ain't sure where. Take a good look at their profile Margaret. See if you can figure out what sort of a search pattern they are using."

All anyone knew about the birdies were that they were bipeds. Did that mean they would follow known geometric patterns Townsend wondered? He wished that he had paid more attention to exopsychology when he had been at Annapolis. He looked around. The darkened bridge was silent. Donald caught a whiff of a bad smell; there really was a stink of fear he knew.

"How is your cloak doing Marsh?" he asked after throwing open a channel to engineering.

"We're still here sir," the engineered proclaimed. A blinding white nuclear explosion blossomed off in space.

"Nine thousand K skipper," Sadler said. "Number three is getting close at four thousand kilometers."

"I heard that sir," Davies said. "This fix means that hull polarization is useless for defense. If we get nuked…."

"Understood," Townsend said. "Keep us hidden Marsh." Townsend shut down the transmission.

"A modified "s"," Sadler declared. "Skipper they are searching in three layers using a series of s-turns to get the maximum bite out of their sensors."

Townsend wanted to jump out of the seat and pace. He would look ridicules somersaulting back and forth; literally bouncing off the Bitch's walls. He studied the sensor image converting the two dimensional presentation into three dimensions. He saw the pattern. Now the question became one of when all three of the Romulans would pass close enough for point blank shots. He asked Sadler that very question.

It was several minutes as Townsend's first officer studied their would-be executioners' flight paths. She entered some commands into the ships computer and frantically scribbled on a tablet that was at the sensor alcove. She looked up finally while the clipboard holding the tablet floated lazily in front of her. "If, if skipper, they follow this search pattern they will converge roughly forty five hundred kilometers away from us in about thirteen minutes. That's an average. The closest will be three thousand klicks off while the furthest will pass at forty eight hundred."

Another nuclear detonation illuminated the viewscreen. "Relay the information to the armory Margaret." He watched as Sadler complied with his orders. Minutes passed. When five minutes had expired he decided to check on the status of his people. Townsend flipped over the comm system selecting the armory. "Marsh pulled off a miracle chief you better have one for me too."

"The techs are standing by sir," Aarons' voice announced. "We'll have a second salvo served up in record time for you captain!" Prescott exclaimed.

"Good," Townsend spoke up so that everyone could hear; "plan on your best timing down to the second. Stephanie; immediately after the first launch, using thrusters only, alter our heading so that we are ninety degrees starboard and forty five degrees positive off of the plane of the ecliptic, same speed. The Bitch has to be there in thirty seconds. Prescott, you and Aarons make sure the second salvo is programmed with that course change taken into account. Program your second salvo taking into account the birdies kicking it up to .3c following along their anticipated headings." A chorus of ayes followed. Townsend closed the circuit after granting Aarons permission to come to the bridge.

"A lot of guesses skipper," Sadler stated. "But the birdies have always accelerated away after laying down a spread." Another explosion blossomed on the viewer. "Whew! Two thousand kilometers skipper; any closer and we are going to need another paint job."

A minute passed. Chiefs Aarons and Prescott swam into the bridge and assumed their stations. Sadler settled into her spot at the first officer's alcove. There was less than two minutes before the attack was to begin. Townsend looked at the viewer. So far the birdies hadn't deviated.

"Good job Paul and Matt!" he exclaimed. "I've been considering brevetting you both."

"Making us ensigns?" Aarons asked as if the ship's surgeon had just announced that he had a nasty social disease.

"We can go back to being enlisted after the war is over Paul," Prescott said in a conspiratorial tone.

"That is a relief!" the sensor chief said. "One minute sir; Romulans holding on course," he tapped commands into his console.

"Steady," Townsend said quietly. He missed the sensor display that would have shown three flagged blips converging. The image on the viewer showed Romulans heading on what appeared to be different courses. "Steady," he said one more time as the timer on the viewer showed fifteen seconds. One of the birdies fired its plasma cannon; hoping for a lucky shot Donald knew. Zero, "fire," he said quietly.

"Firing and away!" Prescott bellowed.

"Starting maneuvers!" the navigator chimed in. Townsend suddenly gained two hundred and forty kilos as Jade Queen maneuvered without the protection of artificial gravity. He grunted down his breaths. Mirren backed off the thrusters causing some of Townsend's apparent weight to slough off.

The video zeroed in on the Veronus as it turned into a short-lived sun. "Tubes reloaded sir!" Prescott grunted out. Townsend could not see but realized that the second missile had to have been defeated.

"Fire!" he bellowed as zero gee returned. The gunners had reloaded in twenty-three seconds. Donald hoped they lived to boast of that record.

He watched as a second enemy craft exploded. Townsend ordered another gut-wrenching maneuver; this time turning his Bitch two hundred and seventy degrees off of her old heading at z minus one hundred meters. Prescott threw up into a bag then announced that his crews were loaded for a third salvo. It was unnecessary as the cabbage leapt away into warp.

"Sensors on!" the captain ordered. He called engineering. "Marsh, turn your cloak off. Get us powered back up!"

"Sir," Ensign Kristina Maier spoke up for the first time since they had started maneuvers. "Shizma is calling. Codes confirm it is the Tellarites captain."

"Sensors show clear sir," Paul Aarons announced. "The last Romulan is moving away—warp 3.1."

Townsend looked up as he gripped the arms of his command chair. "Thanks baby; I owe you one." Jade Queen remained silent except for the whir of her cooling fans.

The Space Exploration Museum, Alamogordo, New Mexico, the old United States, earth, Nov 2157

The last of the crowds cleared out. McCoy pointed his handheld at everything looking very much the tourist. Its imager gathered some excellent pictures but so far had come up short when it came to antique bombs. Frank looked at his chronometer: He was running out of time; the entire world as well. He had been here about twenty minutes.

McCoy mopped at his brow. A tour guide shot him a suspicious glance. Frank had quickly stripped out of his military jumpsuit in favor of some ill-fitting clothes from Perrin's collection. Erickson had transported him here shortly after Brack had called the scientist. McCoy looked around. He realized that he beginning to panic.

"Most of these displays survived World War Three," the guide, a tall older man with a receding line of red hair recited in a bored tone. "Although we have some of the earliest rockets, some all the way from the twentieth century; it is our replica of Enterprise that we are most proud of."

McCoy ever the history buff looked up at the first unmanned warp driven probe that man had ever dispatched. Enterprise had favored the toroidal ring design; an obvious emulation of Vulcan technology for this second trial at a warp driven ship. The mighty probe ran the length and breath of the massive building easily dwarfing the twentieth century shuttles and Apollo rockets that dominated the display.

"We also have one of the first impulse engines on display here," the man might once have taken pride in his job but Frank guessed that after so many tours he was just tired. "Goddard I was put here before the third world war and is, in fact a fully powered impulse engine. It is the only engine commissioned for operation outside of the auspices of the Stellar Navy."

"You mean that it is under power now?" McCoy asked.

"Yes sir, fully functional," the guide answered.

Frank moved with the group until he was sure that he and his question had been forgotten. He slowly fell behind the group finally moving off towards a bathroom. He looked as if he realized that he had forgotten something and instead made his way to Goddard I. He took his handheld out and started scanning away; looking for all the world as if he were taking holos of the old device.

Frank figured that he was wasting his time when he did a double take on the device's standby power curve. He nonchalantly put his handheld aside as a uniformed museum employee approached him. McCoy assumed his best hayseed look. He went to the small reactors displays. The thermal output seemed high to Frank but his reactor watch days were dated.

"Mighty funny readins'," he remarked to the short heavyset woman.

"Oh really?" she replied. "Sir; we have been maintaining Bob here for over twenty-five years. There has never been a problem." Frank could see that the woman was used to dealing with faux experts. He had read the placard. The small engine powered the museum. It had earned the nickname Bob in honor of Goddard's first name.

"The thermal readin' is a little high," McCoy stated. He added quickly: "That used to be my job in the navy." He hooked a thumb toward himself. "I was a reactor man."

"Really?" she replied. "I was in there too; what ship?"

Frank took her inquiry for suspicion. He thought that a grain of truth would extricate him. "The old Columbus," he replied. McCoy had trained in basic spaceship operations on the old impulse cruiser.

"The old trainer," she smiled. "You know that I get off in an hour. I really miss those days; maybe we could chat some about our experiences." She smiled. Frank wished that she was suspicious rather than interested in him.

"Well," he started; "I reckon—

A bell, an ancient evacuation alarm sounded. The pudgy woman looked around wildly then recovered her composure seconds later. She pulled out a small pocket commlink.

"Marv this is Lucy on the floor," she said.

"Bob is acting up," the man that who McCoy guessed was Marv sounded frantic. "It's not a total buildup; but when it goes it's gonna take the whole museum!"

"It looks like you have your hands full Lucy," McCoy nodded and made his way into the crowd. There was much bumping and jostling. When he was out of the engine display room he feigned losing something and stopped. He turned down a corridor towards a restroom.

The hallway took a sharp left back around. McCoy had noted administrative offices near the Goddard display. He had skimmed the travel brochure that they had discovered in Fujairah. If he was any judge he guessed the hall would turn right and take him out to Bob. This had to be it he hoped!

Frank got the handheld out and selected the comm function. "Erickson; are you there?" he asked in a hushed voice. The museum offices looked to be abandoned. There was a burst of static. McCoy tried again as he carefully pushed the outer door open; revealing the museum floor beyond. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw an empty chamber.

"Barely," a distorted voice answered. "—ference. Something emitting—

Whatever else the voice said was lost to McCoy. He ran to the bulky reactor and placed first one then another of the small but powerful beacons that Brack had furnished him, around the doomed device. When he had it ringed by four beacons McCoy finished his job. He transmitted the data in his handheld to Erickson's lab. McCoy waited.

"Now would be a good time for you to zap this thing Erickson," he said into the link's pickup.

"Beacons, repeat can't read the beacons," Erickson replied.

Frank had a little electronics background and had indeed served a reactor watch as a young spacer. But he knew that he could not: Disassemble an impulse engine, find a bio warhead concealed in it; disarm said bio weapon. Maybe if he went back to college and had another ten years, yes he could do it. This was the end he thought. McCoy thought of Eileen, and their child, suffering the ravages of a fatal disease. She was alone, save for Brack's hired thugs. Brack had assured him that even present day medicine could not fight Colonel Green's deadly cocktail of germs.

"Erickson, can you read me?" he asked desperately. He knew that the nanites would stay in him another day according to Brack.

"Read—Frank, go ah--," the voice came back.

Frank dived onto a large flat area of the old engine. "Erickson; zap everything!" he cried. "Home in on me and zap me!" No reply. McCoy was almost hysterical. "Zap me; energize me!" the engine's internal alarm, which Frank had guessed had only sounded for tests bellowed out a warbling advisory.

"Can you separate him from the device Emery?" Brack asked. The immortal had made few companions during the last few centuries: They tended to die leaving Micah with a dreadful feeling of emptiness. McCoy's friendship was welcomed after so many centuries of isolating himself.

"No," Erickson replied simply. "The matrix lacks the refinement to do that." Erickson looked thoughtful as he studied readings and slowly shoved the levers on the control panel up. "But the larger mass is gone. I'm reading McCoy's approximate mass only."

He looked at Brack with a face that Micah had seen too many times during his long life: The face of the doctor who had tragic news, the face of the commander committing his troops to a losing battle. "You've seen the data wafers of the animal tests. This may not be pleasant."

"He has been in there awhile," Brack said. He nodded harshly. "Do it."

Erickson nodded and pulled the levers down slowly. A whining noise built up over the matter transportation chamber's pad. A spot resolved into glittering golden light then into a sparkling silhouette of a man. Brack shook his head. It was McCoy but Micah was sure that his companion was dressed not in the clothing that he had acquired from Perrin but rather in a strange black form fitting jumpsuit. McCoy vanished.

"I've lost him--," Erickson began as he peered down onto his instrument panel. "No wait!" Erickson quickly keyed in some inputs. "How can that be?" Brack heard him mumble as he shoved the levers forward. He pulled them down again.

The sequence repeated. This time the silhouette of McCoy took form. He was dressed as he had been in the Emirates. Brack watched as his friend formed fully into a human being. Brack rushed to him after a nod from Erickson. Brack looked on as Frank rubbed at his eyes. He caught McCoy before the man collapsed.

"I'm all right." Brack was relieved to hear McCoy speak.

"Are you sure Frank?" he asked. McCoy shrugged off Brack's supportive arm.

"No, not really," McCoy answered wryly. "What the hell happened?"

"I'm not sure Mister McCoy," Erickson declared as he stepped out from behind the matter transportation control alcove. "I believe that your matter stream was extruded through some sort of radiation. I had you for a second then the radiation went off the scale. I'm assuming that whatever you gentlemen were diffusing went off. Then you were gone then you came back—in one matter stream. What did you see?"

Frank was a long time answering. Brack became concerned about his friend again. McCoy looked sheepishly at both he and Erickson. Micah escorted McCoy over to a stool and bid him be seated. McCoy rubbed his hands through his short mane of black and gray peppered hair.

"Can a, can a, can a person hallucinate in their Erickson?" he asked at last.

"You gentlemen are my first test--," the scientist cleared his throat hastily before continuing. "You men are the first to go through it. I do not know. There shouldn't be any brain damage as your molecules are held in a quantum suspension."

"I'll call one of my doctors," Brack said. He was worried about McCoy. To all outward appearances the intelligence officer was fine. Micah's own words about new modes of transportation came back to him. What if Erickson's matter transmission unit seriously affected the human brain chemistry?

"Forget it!" Frank retorted. "It's nothing that a shot of Jim Beam won't cure." Brack watched as Frank took a deep breath. "It was weird," McCoy explained. "The Goddard went away then nothingness. But then I was here; but it was strange." McCoy eyed Erickson. "You were bald and wearing some sort of weird uniform. You had a belt with a knife on it."

Brack watched as Emery Erickson ran his hand through his short kinky mostly gray head of hair. "I have considered the clean shaven look. But that just leaves more face to wash." The scientist grinned.

Brack was relieved when McCoy asked about his own end of the mission. The immortal had been successful. He had an easier time of it than McCoy. Brack wondered why they had not discovered the devilish device a century ago; it had been easy for him to find this time. But the world was war weary then. Technology had also grown by leaps and bounds despite man's flirtation with nuclear suicide. Brack looked at Frank as the naval officer smiled.

"I guess that I maybe wigged out in there," McCoy shook his head. "It was weird! Even the room was different: A banner on the wall that looked like a knife behind the earth." Brack's heart eased a bit as he saw Frank's coloring returning; along with his good humor. McCoy laughed. "Guess I need to lay off the tacos and Sam Adams before I go through that thing again."

Ri-Fainu City, Vulcan, the earth year Nov 2157

Lieutenant Tarang Gupta had left Syrran in the ground car. Little good it did he realized: The Vulcan had followers here. He soon had the three of them safely hidden away in a Syrranite couple's house. It least it afforded Gupta a chance to get in touch with his coconspirator Sremen. Their attempt to reach Mount Selaya had proven fruitless. A friendly freighter commander had pointed out a veritable ring of High Command troops around the entry points. Vulcan geology being what it was Tarang knew that those points were few unless he could become a fly.

One point had been relatively clear. Even Gupta could see an attempt to draw the trio to that area for capture. Not all three of them he reminded himself; just Syrran. V'Las was losing his hold. Major M'Viar had relayed the tale of several other High Command infantry units abandoning their equipment and returning home. Transmissions from Syrranite cruisers indicated that almost half the Vulcan fleet was out of action. The Syrranite movement was taking hold. Gupta felt in no small way that he had helped it along. But Syrran was the key and Gupta would have bet that V'Las was now the Vulcan equivalent of frantic to get his hands on the leader.

"Hopefully Sremen can confuse any followers," T'Pol said quietly as the two walked through an open air fruit and vegetable market. Gupta stopped and took up a Tellarite _cro'fu_; their equivalent of an orange. He squeezed the fruit.

"This is not even ripe." He had learned to say things in a monotone voice. "I wonder if they harvested it too soon?" He put the fruit back. T'Pol meanwhile paid the vendor for several long yellow squash like vegetables. Gupta could not recall their name immediately. The couple continued walking.

"He should do fine." Gupta answered the question while hoping that his guesses were correct. He had discussed various plans with the Vulcan who had become his employee and confidant. They had decided that they should meet in the city's wildlife preserve should anything like this happen. How innocent he had been in those days not so long ago Gupta thought. He had scoffed at playing secret agent; largely thinking that he was just going through the motions.

"We'll pass by the south wall soon," T'Pol said.

"There is a park there," Gupta answered; restraining his human need to nod in reply. "If Sremen takes a meandering course through the park he should be able to lose his pursuers." Gupta didn't know that Sremen was being followed. But it is another thing that he would have bet on. "I was lost there for several hours. The park really is a maze," He almost smiled at his self-deprecating humor. He had to restrain those things in him that would reveal him for someone other than a Vulcan healer and husband.

Cronur and Milin had taken Syrran's traveling companions as husband and wife. Neither he nor T'Pol had corrected that impression. The less they knew the less that could be revealed to the High Command. Despite his declaration towards the Vulcan Gupta had felt strange when he had lain himself down beside T'Pol. They had only now started hesitantly touching one another after three days sharing the same bed. It had occurred to Gupta that she must find him as alien as he did her, despite their feelings.

"You must cease that sound that you make when you sleep," T'Pol said as the couple strolled down a less populated walkway.

"What sound?" he asked. "You mean snoring?" Gupta was glad that his hood was there to cover his embarrassment.

"Yes," she answered. "I was lying awake this morning thinking of my visit to some woodlands north of San Francisco. A craftsman was cutting a tree with a mechanical saw. You sound much like that saw."

"I beg your pardon: I am not the only one who makes that sound," he retorted.

"Why would you seek my pardon?" she asked. "But you are mistaken. We Vulcans control our breathing; even through our sleep cycle."

"So that little whistle and breath is just meditation?" he asked. The two turned into the park entrance. Gupta already felt cooler amidst the greens and odd purples characteristic of Vulcan flora.

"Vulcans do not snore," T'Pol answered simply. "You are in error Tarang."

"Greetings," Gupta nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Sremen's voice. The Vulcan, not much older than Gupta in earth terms was standing nonchalantly beneath a tree that threw its branches out like vines. The branches formed a natural canopy and excellent place of concealment.

"Are you under surveillance?" T'Pol asked the Vulcan.

"I believe that I am," Sremen answered. "The ministry's internal security division sent officers to search your offices Gupta. My apologies; I believe that they also violated the sanctity of your living space and searched your apartment."

"I've not been there in awhile," Gupta said. "They will know that I am not there."

"I led them to believe that you departed on a neutral freighter," Sremen said.

"You lied?" T'Pol asked sharply.

"I merely omitted the truth," Sremen answered. "I did not know if Tarang had left Vulcan." Sremen turned to the human. "You had indeed discussed leaving in that very fashion." He eyed Gupta's surgical enhancements. "You are looking better Tarang. Have you two mated yet? I understand that humans have sex every day."

"I think some questions are best left unanswered," T'Pol said. Gupta had been ready to start babbling in Hindi. He knew that she had sensed that and saved him from embarrassment.

"You managed to get here unobserved?" Gupta asked as he regained some of his composure.

"I have," Sremen answered. "I emulated your Mister Bond. I read all of the books that you left behind Tarang."

"I almost would think that you enjoyed it," Gupta said. "Were you not a Vulcan, of course," Gupta hastened to add. "My cipher equipment;" he left the statement open.

"Safe at an associate of my parent's," Sremen answered. "He does not know and I have moved it frequently." The Vulcan looked around cautiously. He reached into his cloak and retrieved a data crystal that he handed to the Indian. "I transferred this onto a Vulcan medium. Your Admiral Soames sends her best wishes. She also has a mission for you." Sremen looked at T'Pol. "I believe that Minister Soval contacted the earth president personally."

What would the admiral be sending him up against now Gupta wondered? Some small part of his mind complained that he had done enough. He had rescued Syrran; a Vulcan leader with a following. He had recovered an ancient artifact for the Vulcans. And he had saved them from invasion; for now he knew. Tarang suspected that Admiral Valdore was not one to give up too easily.

"We still have to get Syrran to Mount Selaya," T'Pol said quietly. Some soldiers passed by. The trio grew quiet and looked about them as if they were taking in the spectacle of the refuge.

"The purpose behind that eludes me," Sremen said. "My apologies once again: You have been back but obviously do not know what has happened." Gupta looked at his old comrade. "Minister V'Las is in control of all inbound and outbound communications. The High Command holds the orbital station that coordinates planetary communications. Even were you to take Syrran to the mount it would serve no purpose. Nobody would hear his words."

"No one would see the Kir'Shara." Gupta turned away from the Vulcans as he considered the situation.

"You have found it?" Sremen asked. Gupta could hear a betrayal of emotion through the control. "So it is not a legend?"

"Tarang discovered it," T'Pol added. "Though it remains to be seen what use it has."

"Surely the legends concerning the lost writings of Surak now have some merit," Sremen said. The Vulcan seemed lost in thought for a moment before continuing. "I have begun to find much that is appealing in the Syrranite movement. Perhaps it will be our generation that effects the great changes in our civilization."

"The Kir'Shara's fate is unknown." Gupta said. "T'Pau is in possession of it. We were to meet her before ascending Mount Selaya but the time for that has come and gone."

"If she was captured there would be no way for you to know," Sremen said. "I know that is your mission since I decoded your message: You must reopen communications both into and around Vulcan, Gupta."

"That means boarding the network control station," T'Pol said. "That is one of the most guarded facilities that we have. It will be more so now that Minister V'Las is tightening his controls."

"Your admiral says that help may come," Sremen said. "You can hopefully aide us soon Gupta. Many think that V'Las is near to declaring martial law. Were you not aware of that?"

"He has no logical reason to do so," T'Pol said. "We are staying with Syrranites. They have chosen to screen out the government bulletins."

"He has been making pronouncements concerning foreign agents." Sremen looked at Gupta. "He is also insisting that the alliance is poised to attack Vulcan. He has spoken of garrisoning troops at key points to protect us from the threat posed by humans, Andorians and Tellarites."

"Do people believe that?" Gupta asked. The human was trying not to watch the group of soldiers who had returned in what seemed like a patrol route.

"Why would a minister lie?" Sremen asked. "That would not be logical. But perhaps it is better to say that most that I speak to are dubious of an attack from Tellar or earth. But they do remember our conflict with the Andorians. Rumors abound that the Andorian ships of Star Fleet are equipped with some sort of new torpedo."

"You three," a soldier plunged through the thick curtain of vegetation. "What are you doing here?"

"The park is a place of serenity," T'Pol answered. "We have come here to meet our friend." She looked sharply at the soldier. "But association among fellow Vulcans has never been questioned before. I do not need permission to associate with my comrades."

"That policy has changed," another soldier declared in what came close to gruffness as far as Gupta was concerned. "Produce your identification."

Gupta was nearly floored. One of the things that had struck him about Vulcan society was its lack of formality in certain areas. Needing identification was one of those areas. After all, the human thought, why would a Vulcan lie about who he or she was?

"I have none," she answered.

"And you two?" the soldier asked Gupta and Sremen. One of the High Command troops eyed the males. "Both of you remove your hoods."

Gupta did so without question. He realized that his image was probably on file. "I am called Taurik," Gupta lied. "I have no identification either."

"You bear a resemblance to a human saboteur Taurik," the soldier said. "In any event you must surrender to our custody since you do not have identification."

"Sub Lieutenant, the edict does not take effect until tonight," the quieter of the three soldiers blurted out.

"Mere prudence on my part Tok," the sub lieutenant was the group leader if not the ranking officer Gupta concluded.

Gupta could ill afford to be captured. A simple medical scan around his chest would reveal him as an offworlder. He had no idea how he would accomplish this next mission; but duty demanded that he try. His left hand edged toward the weight of the colt plasma pistol that hung suspended beneath his right shoulder. A niggling thought occurred to him however: There had to be a Vulcan solution to all of this.

"If the edict does not take effect until tonight how is it that you are taking us into custody now?" the human asked. "I was unaware of any identification requirement. Is it not logical to allow us to return to our home to obtain identification instead of holding us?"

The sub lieutenant was quiet for some time. "His logic is correct sir. Should we not allow these citizens to go on their way?" The quiet soldier seemed to be the most reasonable of the bunch.

"There is still a matter of Taurik's similarity to a human agent," the sub lieutenant said. "Give me your hand Taurik."

"You may not touch another without his permission sub lieutenant," Sremen intervened between Gupta and the High Command officer.

The second trooper hoisted his particle rifle while the third stood by impassively for several seconds before repeating his comrade's actions with his own rifle. The group stood thus for several more seconds.

"I am offering you no resistance," Sremen told the officer. "Your actions are highly illogical." Sremen started to turn away. "Come let us leave here," he said to T'Pol and Gupta. "We are Vulcans and are free under the codes established in the elder days."

"Do not move," the sub lieutenant had leveled his own rifle at the Vulcan.

Gupta watched in frustration as Sremen started to turn; perhaps to utter a parting shot to the officer. The sub lieutenant's rifle flared. Gupta stared in mute horror as Sremen's abdomen exploded in a gout of green gore. The other trooper swung his weapon around aimlessly. It occurred to Gupta that the soldier did not know what had happened or at least could not comprehend it. Gupta's hand seized the pistol. The sub lieutenant looked at the falling body of Sremen. The logic was gone in the officer's face for a split second. Tarang realized that the horror of what he had done had caught up to the Vulcan officer. It must have been an accident Gupta thought.

Tarang thought of all of these things as he pointed the colt at the sub lieutenant and fired. The officer seemed to take a full minute to fall back, his chest smoking from the fatal plasma wound. Gupta felt the singe of a particle rifle as something hit him in the side knocking him to the ground. The colt barked again as Gupta went down. The second soldier bent over; clutching at where a stomach was on a human. Tarang realized that the soldier was holding his intestines in. Gupta hit the ground as he leveled the pistol at their quiet ally among the troopers. The last of the soldiers had his weapon leveled at Tarang.

Time seemed to return to normal. "Put it down!" the human warned the Vulcan. "I have no wish to kill you."

The soldier, his cloak pulled back was quite young Tarang noticed. He seemed to waver much to Gupta's relief. But his words said otherwise. "I cannot do so. It is my duty to follow orders."

Gupta had a split second to see the misplaced sense of duty: Before he removed any sense of anything from the soldier. He fired the colt hitting the Vulcan in his chest. The young Vulcan fell to the ground. Tarang rolled over to find T'Pol ministering to Sremen. The fruit that they had purchased lay scattered on the ground.

"How is he?" the human asked. T'Pol looked at Gupta. He could see the naked sorrow on her face. She was not controlling anything at that moment he realized. Gupta looked down to see his companion and employee cough up some green blood.

"I believe that I am not well Gupta," Sremen hissed out; expelling more blood out of his mouth as he did so.

"Vulcans have not done these things for many hundreds of generations now," T'Pol lamented. Gupta noted that she was regaining some of her composure. "This situation must cease. This is madness."

"I have not the training to transfer my katra," Sremen gasped out.

Gupta looked on in despair as he realized that one of his friends from the alien world was about to die. Syrran would doubtless label the senseless act as typical of a savage human. He wondered what had prompted the sub lieutenant to fire. Was the Vulcan inexperienced? Had it been simple carelessness?

"Perhaps it won't come to that," Gupta said as he seized the Vulcan's hand in his. "We can find a healer." Gupta looked at T'Pol. The unspoken words passed between them: It is too late.

Sremen was about to say something. He looked up instead, coughed and gasped and was no more. Gupta felt the Vulcan's grip relax in his. He realized that he was crying. It occurred to him that his own death had meant nothing to him. He remembered Frank McCoy's admonishment about the invincibility of youth. He allowed T'Pol to help him up. The two scampered away. Gupta knew that he would have to leave the city soon. He looked back at the body of his friend: Sremen deserved whatever last rites were afforded to Vulcans. He wished he could have given them to him.

Vulcan shuttle in orbit of Vulcan, earth year Nov 2157,

"What is the meaning of this admiral?" Senator Vrax asked. Valdore realized that his companion had been languishing aboard their captured Orion freighter for some time.

"We are to receive a visit from the Praetor's Hand," Valdore announced. He saw the look of surprise on the senator's face. The politician had no idea that he had been replaced as the court's messenger. Still; a separate hand could have been dispatched.

"When is this to occur?" Vrax asked. Valdore ignored him while he undocked the shuttle and thrusted away from the freighter. When he was established on course for an innocuous Denobulan passenger liner he turned to the senator.

"That is where the Praetor's emissary is," Valdore pointed at a radar display. The liner was not yet a speck on the horizon of the red planet.

"Why?" Vrax's single word hung in the air between the two: "The loss of Cosaba?"

"Perhaps," Valdore answered. His attention was split as he fired braking thrusters; easing the shuttle toward the captured starliner. "If that is the case I will accept my fate: I shall remain Romulan. But Cosaba was doomed. I make no excuses; it is rather a statement of fact." Valdore looked at the senator. "Your own fate is entwined with mine."

"I am old," Vrax countered. "My bones ache. My family is provided for; so death might be a welcome occurrence. The final warm blanket cast over an old, cold campaigner."

Valdore chuckled softly. Vrax had spirit. Such spirit must not be snuffed out before its time he thought. The admiral concentrated as he maneuvered the shuttle to a rendezvous. He was silent. He found it ironic that he may well be dead soon as his nemesis Stiles was recalled to earth. He knew that her conduct had been called into question. A Romulan general with her credentials in battle that was being recalled would be returning to Romulus to commit honorable suicide. Praetors' seldom liked being upstaged by ambitious generals. The shuttle rang with a thick metallic sound as Valdore connected with the liner's airlock. Valdore cycled the controls and boarded the freighter. A soldier in Tal Shiar black stared at him from the other side of the airlock.

Valdore stared back at him. He walked up to the upstart. "I am Valdore," he said as he pulled out his dagger and struck the soldier hard with the haft of the blade. The centurion went sprawling. "As you well knew," He said as he stood over the centurion. He withdrew his pistol and leveled it between the Tal Shiar operative's eyes. "Your military discipline is lacking centurion. You are reduced three grades and confined to a diet of mo'chla soup and water for the next two rotations." He turned to the senator. "Come Vrax; let us see what sort of trained veruille the Praetor has sent to us."

Valdore watched out of the corner of his eye as the centurion sprang up and rendered a proper salute. The hand was not here to kill him the admiral speculated. Valdore gravely returned the salute and walked on with Vrax in tow.

He made his way through the liner finding the hand's quarters by the ever increasing number of troops on guard. The fate of their greeter must have preceded the two as salutes were rendered without hesitation to Valdore. They stopped before a large set of double doors. Valdore guessed that this was some sort of stateroom for a dignitary. He chimed the cabin. The doors slid open.

Valdore strode forward with Vrax at his side. They both saluted the hand and owed their heads. The admiral was surprised at the apparent youth of the short, rather pudgy imperial representative. Rather than return the salute the Praetor's Hand laughed.

"It is good to finally meet you admiral," the hand said. "Oh, I won't let ceremony get in the way. I am Sinphius." The hand looked at the older men before him. Valdore suspected that the official must have influential relatives to have gained such an important position at such a young age. "Relax, both of you. There is ale; fresh from Romulus." He pointed to a large cask and some goblets. Valdore stalked over and poured a drink. Vrax, for all of his bravado followed suit slowly.

"It is not poisoned," Sinphius declared. "I know it is unseemly for a high officer to serve; but pour me an ale admiral. I shall drink first."

"I am a soldier of the empire, nothing more Sinphius," Valdore said as he drew an ale. The barb was aimed at the decadent quarters that the hand currently occupied.

"And I am a grasping bureaucrat; enjoying the sweat and toil of our people." Sinphius laughed. "Romance is for lovers and fools admiral. The world is what it is; not what we wish it to be." Sinphius merely smiled while Valdore tossed back his ale. He had not drawn one for the official. "Very well;" Sinphius walked over took up a goblet and drew some ale. He drank heartily.

"I shall not waste anymore of your time Admiral Valdore, Senator Vrax." Sinphius put his drink aside. "Your actions have been approved by us."

"The Praetor you mean," Vrax shot back.

"If it suits you to believe that senator," the hand answered. Valdore was astonished that the official was almost admitting the Tal Shiar's role as defacto rulers because of Karzan's dotage. "Cosaba was lost. Our strategists have come to realize that. You will continue as commander of our expeditionary forces here."

"What of me?" Vrax asked.

"You retain the Praetor's seal senator," Sinphius replied; "for what it is worth. You may return to Romulus with me or stay in the admiral's company. It is much the same to me." Sinphius drew some more ale and returned to his throne-like seat. "Now we must discuss the disposition of our forces admiral."

"That is my purview Sinphius," Valdore replied. He cringed inside when it occurred to him where the hand was going with this.

"You may fight the war here Valdore," Sinphius answered. "But the Tal Shiar's strategic unit has determined that victory can best be obtained by luring the Triple Alliance forces in and then closing our talons on them. We will have the addition of the N'Ela cruiser soon to augment our forces."

"That cruiser may not be produced in sufficient numbers to take on the alliance before they are arrive at the outer reaches of Romulus," Valdore said. He had read the science division's report. It was, Valdore felt, much like all the other reports he had read from different sections: Full of inflated numbers and wishful thinking.

"We will pull back to Venador," Sinphius declared.

Valdore had studied humans. He knew that they sometimes said things in outrage or surprise that they did not really imply the things they claimed. He was; in this instance quite serious, unlike the humans. "Are you mad?"

"The humans call it Cheron," Sinphius continued as if he had not heard Valdore. "Our generals maintain that we can crush the Triple Alliance there. Star Fleet has after all relieved one of their best generals. Stiles will be executed on earth no doubt."

"The humans aren't like that," Valdore said; not like us he thought. "And Forrest is no novice. The only difference between him and Stiles is that Forrest is not deliberately vicious. But no navy or army has ever won by retreating. If you take those forces I will be unable to execute my attack on the Sol system."

"Your plan, to inscribe a great arc, and come at the humans from another direction;" Sinphius' tone showed his disdain for Valdore's plan. The empire had not fought a war of this magnitude since its inception. Valdore had pursued outside sources for his strategic planning: The Klingon general Korliss whose journals had been recovered from a captured Klingon cruiser. But it was an earth general that had influenced Valdore's thinking. General Lee had conceived a brilliant campaign to assault his enemy's stronghold and among other things put his army in a position to strike at the enemy's cities.

Valdore planned to come at earth with the bulk of his strength. He guessed that Forrest; pushed by war weary governments would commit his forces to the recovery of human Gozai. The earth president had already publicly declared that humans would take the systems they called Deneva and Topaz. Deneva was retaken: Gozai would be next Valdore knew. Would that their brothers were to enter the war on their side; but Valdore had to plan for the worst.

"I already destroyed a large part of their shipyards," Valdore argued. "The human's weakness is their feeling of invulnerability in their world. Even now they squabble among themselves. I believe that they would do so even without the interference of your agents."

"You would squander our cruisers against the Triple Alliance and leave Romulus open to invasion," Sinphius countered. "We cannot accept that. We shall leave you with the forces necessary to slaughter the enemy as you lure them to Venador."

"This cannot be!" the admiral roared. "You fools are intent on destroying the empire!"

"Keep your place admiral!" the hand spat back. It was the first time that his calm demeanor had broken. "I am not a drunkard like Talex. That fool deserved to die. It should have happened sooner. And admiral, spare me, I know that Talex did not do his duty. I'm sure that he had assistance on his way out of the airlock; if he even lived then."

"We prevail so long as the Praetor lives," the hand warned. "Never forget that admiral."

"I shall not," Valdore replied gravely. The hand had given him an idea.

Senator Vrax stepped forward. "I believe that the Tal Shiar is—

"Silence," Sinphius ordered. "You have sowed your fate senator. The time for words is at an end." He addressed them both. "You have your orders. Be gone."

Valdore saluted and bowed his head. The senator merely bowed. They left the hand's quarters in silence. Valdore's face was consumed with anger. He hoped that he projected that for the surveillance cameras that he knew were throughout the starliner's corridors. Valdore passed the first Tal Shiar guard that they had encountered. The young soldier saluted properly this time though his anger was evident brimming beneath the surface.

Valdore silently pushed the shuttle away from the liner. He removed a small device from his sash and ran it first over himself, then the senator. The Tal Shiar was insidious. Stories abounded about listening devices the size of crumbs of baked items. Satisfied that Sinphius had left no such devices with him and the senator; Valdore set a course for their commandeered freighter. He turned to Vrax when he felt safe that the shuttle would fly without his aid until they approached their rendezvous.

"The Tal Shiar will do what no external enemy of the empire has done so far," Valdore lamented. "They will doom the empire—unless."

"You heard the hand," Vrax retorted. "They will keep the Praetor alive past his time. They will wring his corpse after he has passed beyond the veil."

"Unless that passing is sped along," Valdore watched as his companion's face became a mask of shock.

"Such an act would plunge the empire into civil war!" the senator replied. Valdore knew that as well. The military had replaced Praetors before. Chaos had always followed. Valdore would expect no less now; unless the assassination was performed by someone outside of the empire. He explained as much to Vrax.

"Who do you plan on recruiting to do this Valdore?" Vrax asked in astonishment.

Valdore took awhile before responding. He was considering the Praetor's possible successors. He was looking at one now in the personage of Vrax. "I have someone in mind my friend."

UES Daedelus, in orbit of the second planet of Ross 128, Nov 2157

"I thought that the bio sampling said that the planet was safe?" Mariel Picard asked.

Captain Michael Cromwell was surprised when Ensign Sam Ward and not the ship's surgeon Commander Trudy Schultheiss took up the question. "Scoops sampled the air and water to make sure it was okay for us ma'am. We don't know yet how we might affect them."

"The doctor should be able to make a determination soon enough," Chief Peter Custis declared as he helped the mathematician adjust her bulky spacesuit. Cromwell could plainly see Picard's frustration illustrated by her stance.

"You should be leading this expedition Ward," Cromwell said. His smile was concealed behind the visor of his helmet.

"I'm sorry sir," the American replied. He must have mistaken Cromwell's chiding for a rebuke.

"No I'm quite serious," Cromwell replied. He led the landing party towards the Sinjan class shuttle. "The future of this Star Fleet belongs to explorers; not to old dinosaurs like me."

"I happen to like dinosaurs, captain," Doctor Schultheiss said coyly. Cromwell was glad for the protective visor. It concealed his deep red blush.

"I could do this you know captain," the voice of Commander Lisa Somers intruded over Cromwell's private circuit. He switched over to that.

"You'll get your chance commander," Cromwell answered. "You know, in all of my years in the navy I only set foot on one unexplored planet?" Cromwell had served the bulk of his time when slower warp drives defined man's range. He had been on numerous runs to Alpha Centauri, Deneva and even Topaz but those were mostly resupply efforts. "I'll probably retire when all of this is over. Allow me my hour in the sun."

There was a long pause. "If you get killed and leave me in command I'll have no choice than to enter a reprimand into your service jacket sir."

"I'll be on the look out for the reaper then commander," Cromwell answered.

"Good hunting sir," Somers said. "Bring me back a thick juicy steak; or at least an eggplant."

"Hopefully," Cromwell switched back to crew common. They had to find edible food sources on this world or things would not be good. That was an understatement Cromwell knew. So far starvation had never occurred on a space vessel. Michael did not want his ship recalled along with the Donner Party and the Centauri Expedition.

He made a quick survey of his shore party. They were strapped in and ready. "Are you ready doctor?" he asked Schultheiss.

Her nervousness was abated somewhat since her last flight as pilot-in-command. She nodded as she finished the pre-launch checklist. She wriggled her fingers beneath her gauntleted hands.

"Daedelus, this is shuttle three; standing by to launch," the surgeon relayed to Somers.

"Bay depressurizing," Cromwell announced. "Space doors are clear; doors opening."

"Cleared for launch three," Commander Houk returned. "Take your time down there. If you miss dinner there will be more for the rest of us."

"Save me some resequenced proteins," Schultheiss returned with a laugh. "Launching," she announced.

Cromwell looked on as she established the gravity field. The Sinjan lifted off of the floor. Schultheiss pressed a stud. The little craft picked up speed rapidly leaving the well lit bay for the planet beyond. Cromwell shot a glance at the world, lit by the rays of the red dwarf. He returned to the control panel as Schultheiss started an atmospheric insertion.

"Let your computer work for you doctor," Cromwell advised. "Keep an eye on the skin temperature and speed. Remember we have far more power than ten ancient hypersonic planes combined."

Schultheiss switched off the artificial gravity on Cromwell's advice. He heard two moans over the common circuit. He chuckled: They could open their visors to vomit but doing so in a space suit was still not a pleasant experience. The captain was amazed: The surgeon had the makings of a command pilot. The flight was uneventful except for when the doctor skirted a thunderstorm. The Sinjan was tossed about unpleasantly. Cromwell had expected Trudy to let the craft get away from her but she settled it down as they made their final approach to a relatively deserted piece of ground on the lower continent.

"Remember if you encounter a local try to back away," Cromwell reminded the landing party.

"It should be interesting to see actual tripeds," Doctor Omar Bashir said. "I was always given to understand that evolutionary patterns favored a balance of sort."

"We'll rewrite that book," Schultheiss said as she slowed over a small clearing.

The crew had all seen the footage taken by a low flying drone: Three limbed beings going about their business. The aliens' technology had not allowed for video images. Picard had been studying the language and had in fact come up with what she called a travel guide for Ross Two. The software contained useful words and phrases as well as translations for alien writings and symbols.

"Any other news on the political situation here Miss Picard?" he asked the woman. She had gleaned enough to determine that the Ro'ha as they called themselves had been involved in some sort of global conflict between three of the continental nation states.

"I'm still unsure why the fighting ceased," Picard replied. "There is still much anger from all sides but it seems that there was a conference of sorts and a truce. I thought at first that there might be a plague that the Ro'ha were turning to combat. But I do not believe that now."

"They talk about changes to their culture," Bashir interjected. "It might well be a revival of religious zealotry."

The shuttle settled down. Schultheiss did a thorough video scan. Cromwell was relieved that the area was clear. He guessed that despite their best efforts the crew of Daedelus would father an unidentified flying object cult here. "We'll cycle out in groups of two." Cromwell got up and made for the lock. He and Ward were to be the first two out.

Cromwell waited as the air exchanged was completed. He wondered what the air of the alien world smelled like? He stepped out into the garish reddish light. The ground yielded softly under the boot of Cromwell's spacesuit. Ten minutes later the last of the team was out.

"You have your orders," Cromwell announced. "There is a complex towards magnetic south here. We think that it is a farm. There is a field of vegetation slightly over one hundred meters that way," he waved his arm in the indicated direction. "Bashir and the doctor will explore that."

"Raiding Farmer Maggot's fields, oh joy. You know what happened to the Hobbits," Bashir said.

"I have my laser if you are worried doctor," Schultheiss said. Cromwell wanted to order her to stay behind in the shuttle. He was worried about her safety. Now he knew why Frank Buchanan had said that shipboard romances could carry unexpected baggage. Cromwell knew that they were technically superior; but a machine gun could strike down any of crew just as easily as a Romulan plasma beam could.

"All of you; keep an eye out," he admonished, not wishing to single out the doctor. "Ensign Ward; you and Miss Picard will scout the structures to the west. There are also animals penned in a field. Use your stunner to render one of those unconscious and get some samples." Cromwell looked to Dieulafoy. "Marcel and I will investigate the forest gathering samples as we go. We will meet back here in four hours."

Cromwell stalked off. The gravity was somewhat lighter than earth normal so his spacesuit was bearable. He knew that it would not be so in four hours. The captain of Daedelus and the archeologist explored the odd looking forest. Dieulafoy managed to capture some sort of purple reptile looking animal while Cromwell discovered a tall tree-like growth whose leaves closed shut at the touch of his gauntleted hand. The shore party was going splendidly as far as Michael was concerned.

"I wish that I could stroll through one of their cities," Dieulafoy said on the private circuit. "It would be like looking at a living past."

"I didn't want to risk a close flyby," Cromwell answered. "We may have already stirred up trouble with our last pass. Perhaps Mariel can decipher more of their language for you. Perhaps we can raid one of their libraries—providing they have such things of course."

"We had best make copies sir!" Dieulafoy declared. "Talk about overdue books!"

The two men laughed. Marcel was another explorer he thought. The man would uncover new civilizations in his lifetime, of that Cromwell was sure. That was if the Frenchman stayed single he thought. Dieulafoy's relationship had lent cover to Cromwell's and the doctor's. The captain was thankful for that small favor. He was about to inquire about the couple when a light pulsed over his forehead. Cromwell switched to the common circuit.

"--ame out of nowhere!" it was Ward, Cromwell realized. "It's attacking some of the locals. Christ I think it is a family or something!"

"Calm down ensign!" the captain snapped. "Report," Cromwell added in a calm tone.

"Sir, we observed a group of locals in some sort of groundcar," Ward said. Cromwell could hear the man's breathing. "Some kind of cloud thing—it came out of the sky. It…it absorbed one of them. The others, Christ I think they are scared to death!"

"Are you and Miss Picard," Cromwell began.

"It's after them sir!" the ensign interrupted excitedly.

"Are you and Miss Picard threatened?" Cromwell asked. He beckoned Dieulafoy to come with him. Cromwell followed his helmet bearing pointer; homing in on Ward and Picard.

Cromwell plunged through the woods quickly working up a sweat. He wanted to lower his suit temperature but knew that it was foolhardy to do so while on the run. His helmet mounted communications' equipment showed less than two hundred kilometers to go. Ward sounded outraged at whatever he was seeing. Should Cromwell allow him to defend the aliens? That decision was rendered moot Michael guessed, as the red sky lit up.

Several of the shore party, including himself and Ward were carrying the navy's standard issue laser rifle. Not a good anti-personnel weapon Michael knew: It had just a ten shot capacity before another power cell was needed. But Cromwell had not put ashore with the idea of engaging in a battle.

"Ward, is that you shooting?" he asked sternly.

He had his answer. He and Dieulafoy crashed out into a clearing. A large black blot dominated the sky. Cromwell watched as Ward fired the rifle again. The inky puff of darkness swelled and emitted electrical discharges. Cromwell saw figures illuminated beneath the cloud as he thought of it.

Cromwell could not quite get used to the three legged three armed aliens. He hated the comparison but they struck him as living bowling pins. Their flyby had not gotten a close picture. Ward was right though he thought: This group was literally being pursued by the cloud. Cromwell wracked his brain. Meteorological phenomena usually did not pursue living creatures. . The ensign fired again; illuminating the mass with the bluish discharge of his rifle.

Three of the creatures ran headlong toward the farm. The mass started glowing and it struck Cromwell that it looked angry. Cromwell looked over as Schultheiss arrived with Omar Bashir in tow. The two explorers were traversing near a fence line. Static electricity leapt from the fence to the insulated suits of the two doctors. Cromwell's visor filters turned black. The captain missed the intensity of the bolt of electricity that struck Ward and knocked him into the air. Cromwell leveled his laser and commenced firing.

Schultheiss and Dieulafoy added their fire to his. The mass did indeed seem to share characteristics with a cloud. Their laser fire appeared to superheat the steam vapor even more. The black mass dissipated. Cromwell scanned the area with the night vision equipment in his helmet. Ward lay motionless; a pall of smoke drifting up from his spacesuit. The captain made for the navigator when he noticed another form on the ground: One of the aliens was sprawled out apparently wounded and unconscious.

"I'm not getting any bio signs," Schultheiss declared calmly. She was bent over Ward examining his suit readouts. "His monitoring equipment may have been damaged." She looked back toward Cromwell. "But I'm also not feeling any movement under his chest plate. Let's get him to the shuttle."

Cromwell directed Dieulafoy to help with Ward. Bashir, for a civilian jumped in without having to be asked. Together the two men carried the wounded Ward toward the shuttle. Schultheiss rose to join them when Cromwell seized her arm.

"What about," Cromwell beckoned toward the alien.

"I don't know their physiology Olly," Schultheiss said. She followed that with a soft curse in German.

"Perhaps if we leave him—her, it," he stuttered. "Perhaps they will come back for their companion."

Schultheiss had already moved over to the alien. Cromwell became a little distressed as she bent close to it. "I believe that it is breathing. There is fluid out of one of the tendrils, or tentacles; quite possibly blood. I believe that its epidermis has been burned in places."

"Can you treat it?" he asked pointedly.

"Possibly," Schultheiss replied. "The decon chamber is secured." She turned around and faced. "Then again I'm not even sure if this creature is a mammal or a reptile—or perhaps something altogether different."

"We may be responsible for its wounds in a roundabout way," Cromwell stated. "Perhaps that cloud only wanted one of them."

She looked around. The alien's companions were no place to be seen. "Help me," she said simply as she put her arms under what Cromwell supposed passed for the creature's shoulder region. He reached beneath the alien's legs. Cromwell noted that what he had at first taken for skin was actually a sort of leathery clothing. "We'll stay helmeted. I'll have to expose the alien to Ward to treat him or it. But I can minimize that by putting him on a respirator."

"Very good doctor," Cromwell huffed out. The alien was, Michael guessed, about as heavy as a larger human.

Picard was standing listlessly near where she had been during the fire fight. Cromwell hated to be harsh. He lamented that he had not brought more navy personnel with him. But he had not wanted the shore party turned into a raiding party. He told her to move along to the shuttle. She snapped out of her revelries and followed them. Minutes later they were cycling through the airlock. Cromwell realized that the alien was a sentient creature; such as he. But he thought that he would never become enamored of its appearance. Schultheiss still helmeted knelt to attend to the alien.

"How is Ensign Ward?" Cromwell asked. He looked over to see that the man's visor was closed. He made for the pilot's chair.

"I am afraid that he is dead captain," Schultheiss answered. Cromwell could hear the undercurrent of grief in her voice. The news hit Cromwell. He had faced his own death once and the loss of a limb. Those things he thought could be dealt with. He wondered if he would ever get over this.

Tijuana, Old Mexico, earth Nov 2157

Major Malcolm Reed read with no small amount of disdain the news off of the network. Mysterious explosions in different parts of the world: Soames and McCoy were being sloppy. Reed had already received message traffic instructing him to intensify his vigilance where it might concern undercover operatives in the government. He wondered how long, without his help, that it might've been before Soames and McCoy were caught. It was immaterial now though. Reed had plans.

Erica Soames' information on the Aryan Protocol led Reed to suspect one person: President Todd Allen Glenn. Colonel Green had after all been an American. Anyway Malcolm thought; if he was wrong he would still remove a serious nuisance. He would discredit the Sons' of Terra in doing so. It was the logical next step he thought. Soames and McCoy would stumble around pursuing the Romulans on earth. Sooner or later the birds would be successful in some act of mayhem. It was time Reed thought to disable some of the Sons' network.

The Naval Investigative Service agent had been studying the rolls of the Sons' of Terra. Their computer databases had proven to be pitifully easy to hack into. The information had been voluminous but Reed had found what, or rather who he needed. A little more snooping around into bank records had told much about his intended quarry's personal habits. At least he would not have to use an intermediary for this.

A street vendor was igniting flammable paint creating a startling design on a slim piece of metal foil. The flash of fire lit the cool Mexican night up. The vendor held his work up for Reed's perusal. Reed smiled. He could see the street salesman's flash of fear. Someone had once told Malcolm that he shared the same smile as that of a hungry great white shark. He gave the vendor five credits; five more than what it was worth Reed thought. He took the foil; folded it up and tucked it under his arm. He continued on towards the open air café.

Reed ran his hand through his thick pate of blonde hair. He would return to his normal brown when his task was done. The café was full of men; some were up dancing while others were sitting and drinking. Reed found an empty seat. The person that he was interested in sat with two other men. Reed made casual eye contact with him; several times. A waiter came and took his drink order. Reed sneaked another peek. It occurred to him that this was different than with women: Was he the seeker or the one being sought after he wondered? He would know soon enough.

"I see that you are a tourist," Howard Larkin declared. Reed was surprised at how similar in appearance that he was to Larkin. Of course Reed already knew his name. He had also been careful to do some cosmetics to cover up his resemblance to the man.

"How can you tell?" Reed asked. By the metal foil painting Malcolm knew. Larkin said as much.

"Are you from Britain?" Larkin asked. Reed nodded. "I just love it there. I did two years at Cambridge before finishing here in the states." Larkin laughed. "Well the states up there; borders don't mean much like they used to. Mind if I join you?" Larkin introduced himself; causing Reed to do the same. Reed had a plethora of made up names but he preferred his given first name. He knew to that witnesses would remember a Larkin with a blonde, hazel eyed man.

"Go right ahead. Want something to drink?" Reed asked. He knew all about Howard Larkin's background. A more moderate Sons' of Terra member; people like Larkin might make something of the movement Reed thought; certainly not the hot-headed idiots running it now. Reed considered though that he was lucky: The movement would be harder to kill with more able people running it. Larkin nodded. "A dreadful place for President Glenn to speak at; but I do like the distractions." Reed eyed an older man who passed by their table with a ravenous smile.

"You're here to see the president as well?" Larkin asked. Reed nodded as shyly as he could. "You're not a…I mean you don't belong to the Sons' of Terra so you Malcolm?"

"I just joined," Reed replied. "It took me awhile. They seemed pretty extreme to me at first. But I think more moderating influences could change things."

"You are right!" Larkin exclaimed laying a casual hand on Reed's shoulder. Malcolm thought that the hand lingered longer than it should. He grinned in turn. "There is no reason for irrational hatred of aliens! I agree that we need to segregate ourselves somewhat. Things were just moving too fast. But this unreasoned prejudice; there is no excuse for it."

"I agree," Reed answered. He laid his hand lightly on Larkin's. "I'm not very happy with this war either. The response on Deneva was horrifying! We don't need to go down in history as some sort of imperialistic savages."

The two fell to discussing politics for awhile. Reed was glad to see that his investigation of the man had proven fruitful. Larkin's softer position made him the perfect tool to drive a wedge into the Sons'. A small part of Malcolm's mind felt a pang of regret at what he had to do. The agent took another drink of his beer. The foamy beer assuaged not only his thirst but also his regret. Reed was more than happy when Larkin suggested that he accompany him back to his hotel.

"An earth for earthmen; a return to the old ideals," President Todd Allen Glenn's voice boomed out from the rostrum. The throng was gathered around the podium. Strong armed men and women in black suits and reflective glasses kept the crowd from getting too close.

Most of the crowd was sympathizers or outright members of the Sons' of Terra. A few passing by however were not. Reed laughed as many of these made an odd finger gesture that Malcolm had come to understand was an ancient insult, at the US president. The sun climbed higher into the sky as Glenn continued his speech:

"Many wonder why the Romulans attacked us. Some have called them savage. But I say that it is President Thorpe's military that is savage. The Romulans on Deneva were mercilessly incinerated. Is it any wonder that aliens view us as backwards and hostile? It is time for a withdraw from space. We must grow as a people; without alien influences. We must elect good shepherds to guide our people to a new level of understanding. We must find ourselves as humans."

"The Sons' of Terra will be at the leading edge of this withdraw." Malcolm listened as he sighted through the rifle's scope. Reed was glad that the Third World War had left a plethora of weapons strewn about. The sturdy old Mauser sniper rifle would do the job. The weapon's small projectiles had a limited seeking capability.

Glenn's voice faded out as Reed took a last look around him. He had selected a rooftop of a recently rebuilt hotel. The Great Quake of '49 had leveled much of old Tijuana. It had taken almost a decade to build up the area again. The war had slowed things somewhat. The US president's head was centered in the crosshairs. Reed squeezed the trigger. He saw an explosive red pulp.

Reed fired away into the crowd before Glenn's headless body hit the floor of the speaker's platform. He needed as much confusion as possible to escape. The fact that many in the crowd were hardliners made it all the more fitting. The slide racked back one last time. Malcolm would be glad to remove the dermal covering over his fingers. It had become quite uncomfortable.

Reed left the rifle and headed down the stairs. He entered a hallway then a lift. When he emerged from the lift minutes later he calmly walked outside as people started murmuring about a happening off in the distance. Sirens wailed from approaching groundcars while official aircars streaked through the air. Reed put on sunglasses as he winced from the afternoon sun. He headed off calmly.

ShirKahr City, Vulcan, earth year Nov 2157

"Minister V'Las," Kuvak rose and greeted the first minister. To V'Las' surprise he extended his hand rendering the ancient salute.

"Kuvak," V'Las replied. "I have little time for courtesies." He would not even have made this meeting were it not for distressing reports from Kuvak's province.

"Perhaps we have lost something in this new era minister," Kuvak answered. "But I will come to the point: Andarz Province will cease its support for the government."

V'Las took the information well. He had assumed that Kuvak was merely having problems with his leadership. His mind was already working on the question of sending in more soldiers. The trouble he knew was that Vulcans did not take to the cities with weapons. V'Las could not compel the people to work. V'Las was reconsidering his logic when it came to his decision to implement martial law.

"That is not logical," V'Las said at last. "We have established that armed enemy aliens are actually here on Vulcan. Do you doubt that the alliance will set its sight upon our world?"

"I have come to doubt that very thing," Kuvak answered. V'Las realized that his claims would appear tenuous at best. He had counted on a willing population seeing the logic of his leadership. The Syrranite element had changed all of that. Would the death of Syrran really create that much of a backlash as opposed to the one he was creating while he lived?

"There was an attack in this very city freeing a dissident," V'Las said. "How can you question that which has happened?"

"Because minister, apparently Syrran was imprisoned exclusively for his views," Kuvak replied. "We do not do that even to the ones without logic. Vulcans have never been afraid of ideas—until recently."

"You subscribe an emotion to me," V'Las countered.

"I did not indicate you by name minister," Kuvak countered. "But Surak did foretell that a time would come when our people might drift away from logic and pacifism. After considerable meditation and reflection I have concluded that these may indeed be the times Surak warned us about."

"Do you believe that an ancient text actually can foretell the future?" V'Las asked. He understood that Kuvak was casting about because of V'Las' own subterfuge. He wanted to tell his people about their long lost brothers. He wanted to tell them about the future that could be. But he dare not.

"Of course not minister," the politician answered. "But those with wisdom can glean much about things that are to come. We use our own knowledge of history, psychology and rational thought to predict political outcomes among our people. It is not that great a leap to assume that Surak could look into the future; or rather reason what it might be."

"Your province is one of the major transfer points for cargo minister," V'Las stated. "Do you intend to starve your fellow Vulcans around the planet?"

"No minister," Kuvak answered. "The High Command can use its soldiers and cruisers to supply commodities to our people."

"I see," V'Las answered. He had underestimated Kuvak. The minister's actions would result in High Command troops being pulled off the necessary duty of maintaining order when their brothers landed. Kuvak could not have foreseen that V'Las knew. But the minister's actions, taken in protest V'Las thought, did much the same thing. "You will of course be taken in custody minister."

"I expected no less V'Las," Kuvak said. "I shall wait here in my offices for the soldiers." V'Las turned away. He had nothing left to say and suspected that Kuvak did not as well. He was surprised when the former minister's voice stated: "There will not be enough jails to imprison every Vulcan V'Las. Consider the logic of that please." V'Las turned back as Kuvak extended his hand. "Perhaps you will come to see the logic and wisdom of Surak. Live long and prosper minister."

V'Las turned and walked out. He made his way to his groundcar. He got in and engaged the automatic controls. V'Las turned to his passenger and reiterated what had transpired in Kuvak's office.

"This does not bode well V'Las," Valdore said. "We must capture this Gupta and his allies."

"When can you land another force admiral?" V'Las asked. He was out of options. The timely arrival of their long lost cousins seemed to be the only solution.

"It will be some time V'Las," Valdore answered. V'Las watched as the Romulan officer grew thoughtful. It occurred to him that their brothers wore their emotions for all to see: Much like the humans and Tellarites. "We are dealing with the possible threat of an alliance invisibility screen in their ships. I have turned the data over to our science section for further analysis and research."

"I do not see how the lesser races might have achieved such a thing," V'Las answered. He recalled Soval's words, quoted from an ancient human concerning a place in the dustbin of history. Could alliance science be surpassing their own; those who had been here before the humans, Andorians and Tellarites?

"Do not marginalize the other races V'Las," Valdore said quietly. "Only a fool underestimates those who are to be conquered."

"Wise words from Praetor Belzar," V'Las answered. He wondered at Valdore's choice of quotes. Belzar had overseen a great buildup of the empire's military forces. But that Praetor had reasoned that the forces must be held back until it was the correct time to use them.

V'Las observed the progress of the car. The normally crowded streets of ShirKahr were relatively deserted. He was considering employing troops to force the population of Andarz province to go to their businesses. He told the admiral of his plans.

"Do not do that," Valdore said. "Consider your own logic. Would it not be better to represent the actions of those in Andarz as an anomaly? When critical supplies do make it to market, implore the people to stop this illogical rebellion. Using violence in this situation would only exacerbate the situation."

"We are in danger of losing control admiral," V'Las answered. "But I shall do as you bid." V'Las had another concern. "Syrran has not been apprehended. I am concerned about his next actions."

"Gupta will make an attempt at either the orbital communications' relay or Mount Selaya." The car came to a stop outside of the ministerial building.

"I have ordered my soldiers to shoot the human upon recognition," V'Las said. The human had been an unexpected problem. But he would not be a martyr were he to be killed.

"No!" the admiral exclaimed, much to V'Las' surprise. "I need him captured alive—and his companion."

V'Las answered at last: "I shall issue the order then admiral." V'Las left the car at last. Valdore was proceeding to the spaceport. V'Las wondered what the strategic situation was. He was a politician but he knew that war and politics were not far removed from one another. Their brothers had even gone as far as to establish an academy devoted to that very thing.

The main entrance to the ministerial building was guarded; something that had never occurred before. V'Las had no reason to feel threatened. No violence had been initiated against him or the government. But deep in the recesses of his mind; a place Vulcans' chose to keep guarded, he felt that the security was warranted. He looked up and down the street before entering. He felt somehow more secure inside the building.

UES Valley Forge, on surveillance patrol near Topaz, Nov 2157

"Cleared for launch one," the controller announced.

Lieutenant Commander William Walters fired the chemical thrusters, pushing his fifty meter long fighter away from the huge carrier. He waited as the roll was called on the remaining four of his craft. The combat patrols were thin these days he thought. The Romulans had started a series of attacks using three cruisers or less. The new tactic was taking its toll on the supply convoys.

Walters would have felt a lot more comfortable with another squadron of minotaurs to augment his own. At least Admiral Frank Buchanan was back; that was a good thing for the Forge he thought. But as always, the admiral had bitten off on an ambitious mission. Walters was becoming aware that wars weren't one by being cautious. But it had never occurred to him that his own skin would be at risk at some point though. But that was on Deneva and ten thousand years ago he thought. Now he knew how expendable his life was.

"Can I take it to warp sir?" an anxious Ensign Ben "Smiley" Porter asked.

"Go ahead," Walters answered. Porter had earned his nickname because the ensign had one of those unfortunate faces that never looked like it could crack a smile. Walters was glad for the break as he wanted to study the mission profile one last time.

Naval Intelligence; and Admiral Frank Buchanan wanted a closer look at occupied Topaz. A Star Fleet raider had taken some sensor shots but that had been several weeks ago. Intelligence, and more importantly Buchanan and Forrest suspected that the birdies were making changes. This was now their last holding in this sector. Walters was not even going to guess at what was there. He would know soon enough.

Bill had briefed his squadron on the importance of disregarding previous reports. What they thought was there may be gone while what was there would turn out to kill them. He paused long enough to watch the sensor readings displayed on his heads' up display show him Valley Forge as the craft warped away. Walters' squadron would rendezvous with their carrier at another point: Those that survived this probing action he thought bitterly.

"Warp 2.5 sir," the ensign said. "The formation is complete. We are staggered for a low profile approach. Walters finished with the briefing folding. Porter took the chance to speak up again. "Any chance we can use this cloaker thing sir?"

Walters thought before answering. The exploits of the Jade Queen were becoming the stuff of legends. It was too bad that much of it was being shrouded from public view Bill groused. "No; I was talking to Chief O'Brien about that. The whole thing was a one shot deal: If the birdies had been cruising at slightly different speeds the offset would not have allowed the Queen's engineer to match frequencies. O'Brien told me that with better computers and a hell of a lot more power it could maybe be done: In another hundred years."

"Damn!" the ensign spat out. "It would be nice to be invisible."

"Yeah Smiley you have that right," Bill answered. Walters thought about it some more. He scratched at his chin with his gauntleted hand. "Then again once we have invisibility the birdies will get their own version. Sort of like the submarine warfare I read about from history."

"You mean the Russians sir?" Porter asked.

"No I was thinking of the Eacos," Walters replied. He recalled how the Eastern Coalition had tried to strangle the West's oil. Less than a decade later First Contact and oil was used mainly for lubrication; never again as a fuel.

"Oh yeah sir," the ensign answered. "We studied that at Star Fleet Academy. They were sinking everything in sight."

"It didn't help that the westerners were putting oil on passenger ships," Walters answered. He headed in a different tangent. "Did you like Star Fleet Academy Smiley?"

"Our football team wasn't worth beans sir!" the ensign smiled and replied. Porter grew thoughtful. "I learned a lot. It is devoted to exploration. I took warfare courses; but in those days we thought they would never mean anything."

"Yeah, too bad they weren't right," Walters answered wistfully. He looked at the minotaur's sensor display and compared it to the warp navigation track. "Five minutes to system entry." Walters switched to squadron common. "Look sharp out there! We know the birdies can pull tricks out of their hats. Don't expect this to be a cakewalk. I want my pilots back—lead out."

Walters listened as the replies came back in the form of numbers. Each number corresponded to a Minnie and its crew; a number for two human lives full of experiences, families and hopes. It was a hell of a way to fight Bill thought bitterly.

"You thinking of teaching their or somethin' sir?" the ensign asked.

"What me teach?" he laughed. "I'm two years older than you Ben. It wasn't that long ago that I was a buck private in the marines. You woulda been my superior officer except for this war."

Porter laughed. "I can't imagine that sir."

Walters could. He could imagine himself an innocent private finishing up his time. Perhaps he would have pursued Misty Johansson and became a farmer on Deneva. Probably he thought he would be a moon shuttle pilot like his father. Living in Kansas and ending up with a fat wife and a slew of kids. That life was over for Bill; but what about Star Fleet Academy?

Walters had been spending a lot of time with Chief O'Brien. The CPO had gone as far as inviting Walters to his home in Ireland. Bill loved tinkering with things. Could he be an engineer he wondered? What about Sharon Patelli? Husbands and wives weren't allowed on Stellar Navy vessels. He had begun thinking about that when it came to the fiery Italian. What were Sharon's plans?

The couple had never discussed anything beyond the war: Except that they had both promised to take a blanket into Central Park one night and make love under the star light. Walters smiled; glad that his face was concealed in the space helmet. But he wondered if Sharon had career plans of her own? She was an academy graduate and certainly had a shot at admiral; even if Walters went through the academy he would be near thirty when he graduated. Patelli was already air group commander aboard Ticonderoga. She had an extra stripe to boot. Walters suspected that she would be an XO or maybe even a captain by war's end.

"We're pinging the planets sir--barely," Porter told him. Walters could hear rather than see the ensign's look of consternation. "We are just on the edge of scanning range but I'm not even getting clear mass readings. I wonder if the birdies came up with some kind of jamming system?" he asked.

Great; Walters thought. The one saving grace he knew was that some jamming made it as hard for the side doing the jamming to see or communicate as it did for their adversaries. But he wouldn't assume that here.

"Engage radar at minimal aperture," he ordered over the common network. A year ago he just barely understood the different modes of radar and subspace sensors and controlling them.

Walters studied the approach: The alignment of Topaz's worlds was such that looked on from above the bulk of the system's worlds occupied a triangular patch. With the exception of Melkor, the outermost world of Topaz, all of Topaz's planets fell into that triangle. That would make any attack difficult Walters knew; but not impossible.

"Spread out," Walters ordered. He had planned their approach so that his squadron was already widely dispersed. He wanted them as staggered as possible. He watched as the minotaurs moved on his HUD. Walters switched back to forward scanners.

"Damn sir; I'm not even reading planetary heat readings," Porter said quietly. "We are on course just an AU away from the fifth planet sir."

"Keep your eyes peeled Smiley," Walters said. "Take a look at the reflectivity readings. Their Aeons should reflect the Topaz's rays."

"Nothing sir—wait," Porter examined his sensor display.

"I've got the bird," Walters announced. He took up the minnie's joystick. Walters punched in an escape course into the warp navigation computer.

"Jesus Christ!" the ensign exclaimed. "Energy spikes on Eldila!" Porter continued indicating Topaz's rocky, airless fifth world. "Warp indications," he added breathlessly.

Walters started in horror as three of his ships disappeared from the heads' up display. "Retrograde!" he roared over the common circuit as he punched three buttons in quick succession. Bill watched as the energy readings scaled up. The sensors showed a profile indicative of plasma cannon fire: It was moving at warp six.

Bill's minotaur leaped away into subspace. The lone survivor followed. It sunk into Walters that six of his people were dead. He did a roll call over a scrambled subspace radio signal. Minotaur 3 answered back; no one else did. Walters' head tilted back in his helmet. For just a second he saw Gunney Gibbs face. He started sweating.

"I'm showing pursuing birdie cruisers sir!" Smiley said.

"Switch to antimatter packets and increase to warp 4.1," Walters instructed. He relayed the same message to his surviving squad mate. One of saving graces of the minotaur, among its others was its ability to make short jumps at higher warp speeds. He swiped at his face.

"What the hell was that sir?" his copilot asked.

"Beats me Smiley," Walters answered slowly. He and O'Brien had discussed the Romulan plasma cannon in some detail. Walters had questioned why the beam could not move at superluminal speeds. O'Brien had showed him a power consumption curve that suggested that massive energy would be needed to do so. Walters reviewed the power readings taken from Topaz again. All of the spikes had been shown originating from the planet.

"I'd say a few fusion reactors linked together could push the plasma into warp," Walters conjectured. His mind was already working on the scheme to do so. He suspected that the birdies had been busy. "Intel will turn our data loose with the tech boys," Walters concluded.

He hoped that they would find answers. A lot of good people had just been killed in obtaining the information. Walters knew that he would not sleep tonight: Too many demons would haunt his dreams were he to try. April Martinez's bloated and shattered face floated before him.

"You have the ship," he told Porter; turning control of the minotaur over to the ensign. He tucked his gauntleted hands against the inner sides of his acceleration chair: Walters needed to cover up their trembling.

Marlborough, Massachusetts, the old United States, earth, Nov 2157

"We are taking a chance meeting like this," Admiral Erica Soames told Ensign Frank McCoy.

"Did you do it Erica?" McCoy asked her pointedly. Soames noted McCoy's deliberate deletion of her title. She also knew exactly what he meant. That bastard Reed had assassinated Todd Allen Glenn. What is worse is that the major had told her about the deed afterwards. Erica bitterly recalled the encounter where the major had admonished her for her naiveté.

"No; of course I didn't Frank!" she answered honestly. No; she had entered into league with a devil. The trouble was not rather she had done the deed, but rather that she had done nothing about it afterwards. She pointed her holo-recorder at the fall foliage. That was their alleged reason for the both of them walking the streets of the small, bucolic New England town.

McCoy seemed to relent somewhat. "Whatever; it did throw a damper into the Sons' political chances." He looked sharply at her. "Damn good timing if you ask me."

"I had nothing to do with it Frank," Soames said. She pointed her recorder at a fiery red leaved maple. "But you called for this meeting." She paused. "Was it to discuss the assassination?"

No wonder Frank was suspicious. Reed's actions had squarely pitted the more moderate, reasonable members of the Sons' of Terra against the hardliners. Howard Larkin was being portrayed as a softliner who had had enough of the radicals' behavior. Reed couldn't have picked a better person to hang the murder on. With Larkin having conveniently taken his own life, compliments of Reed there were no witnesses to the contrary. Already recalls were in place against some of the Sons' more extreme councilors.

"No," McCoy answered. "We are hitting a wall."

Soames sighed. Reed had come up empty as well. But in lieu of evidence from covert surveillance Soames had resorted to some old fashioned deduction. Erica had after all spent a life time putting pieces together in her capacity as an intelligence officer. With SOT in disarray she had concluded that one hope lay in sparking war with the Vulcans. Things on the border were still tenuous. She told McCoy of her theory.

McCoy snapped some holo-photos in silence. He finally turned to her. "Let's say you are right. What do you think that they would do? A pointie wouldn't walk in to a school with a bomb strapped to him or something."

Soames shuddered at the mention of old horrors. "No but it would be in character for one of them to do something logical." She paused for a moment. "From the outside it seems that we humans are united behind our leaders during times of war."

That was true Erica knew. She had heard aliens tell her much the same thing when she had asked them of their impressions of her race. The fault in the aliens' reasoning she thought was that men tended to unite behind ideas. Sometimes a single leader could bring a group under a banner of ideas. But in the end she thought; it was the ideas that men pursued. Fascism had not died with the death of Colonel Green. Likewise freedom had not ended when the forgers of the Magna Charta had turned to dust. She could tell from his look that McCoy had made the leaps of logic.

"An attack on San Francisco," he declared flatly. McCoy looked around the small neighborhood that they were strolling through.

"Or an assassination attempt on the president," Soames answered dryly. Such a blow would not stop mankind; but it would greatly slow the war effort. And humans would turn with a vengeance on those who had taken their war time leader from them. . "The Vulcans were implicated in the attempt to kill Shran. If that was coincidental then I'm a Tellarite. It took everything the president had to keep the Andorians from tangling with the Vulcans. We are still not out of the woods on that yet."

"All of this is just a possibility." McCoy sighed. "I wonder how many other hidden weapons could be used against us."

"They have to be wondering how you and Brack were in two places at one time," Soames replied. She too was a little puzzled at how the two of them had accomplished that. Erica mentioned that to Frank.

She listened in amazement as McCoy related the tale of his use of a new transportation device. Soames followed technology as far as it related to tactics and strategy. Erickson's name sounded familiar; but she had connected the moniker with new computer circuits. She was particularly engrossed over Frank's story of his last trip through the matter transporter.

"So that is what happened in New Mexico," Soames said thoughtfully; "but what about this transformation and the vision that you had?"

"Erickson has no idea," McCoy answered. "He thinks that I started to hallucinate because I was in," Frank hesitated. "In a state of quantum flux," he concluded.

"Okay, I'm no quantum physicist," Soames said. She supposed that if someone were torn apart molecule by molecule then anything could happen to them. "What about this image they had of you in black?"

McCoy shrugged. "You'll love this one: Emery said that it might have been a quantum reflection; like an image of me from the past or future."

Erica looked around the quiet street. She rolled her eyes slightly. It sounded to her that this Erickson really didn't know what had happened to McCoy. "Does it hurt Frank?" she asked pointedly.

She nodded at McCoy. "I'll take your word for it. I can't imagine it'll be used for anything except emergencies." Erica believed that when sane rational people were told that their molecules would be converted over to energy and then transmitted like a radio wave most people would shy away from the transportation technology.

To her surprise McCoy answered: "I dunno; maybe I've been around Micah too much. Don't get me wrong: I wouldn't recommend it to nobody. But, yeah, I imagine a whole lot of people felt that way about airplanes and later spaceships. I can see a bunch of people feeling frosty and saying; let's transport over to Brussels for a night on the town."

Erica shook her head. She didn't believe that for one minute. But there were other more important issues at hand. "I really don't have a thing. I've set up all sorts of catchall programs to spot anomalies but I suspect that our friends are wise to us. They are certainly onto you. But what about Brack?" she asked.

"He knows some bad characters," McCoy answered. "I know he has feelers out." Erica watched as Frank's nose wrinkled in disgust. "He is being careful. If he leans on the wrong people there are going to be too many questions."

"Why would he lean on someone?" Erica asked. Brack was rich and more than a little eccentric by all accounts. Was he resorting to intimate contact to get information she wondered?

McCoy chuckled. "Sorry," he paused. "Lean is from the twentieth century. It means," Frank stopped again. "It means to pressure someone in a way that isn't exactly nice. Brack reads a lot of history; guess it influences how he talks." Soames noted how McCoy seemed to rush into this final explanation. She had always gotten the feeling that McCoy was hiding something from her concerning the enigmatic Mister Brack.

She thought that Major Reed would like that word. Reed, Erica thought, would probably not worry about who he 'leaned' on: Reed would probably not leave that person alive. Erica realized just how out of control this situation had become. She salved her conscience with the speculation that she and McCoy had twice prevented the Romulans from carrying out crippling attacks here on earth. But would providence had intervened and saved them all without Soames' interference; or the intrusion of the homicidal Reed? She didn't want to consider that possibility.

Time was wasting; time in which the two of them could be arrested by legitimate authorities and time for earth's survival. She sighed. "Keep looking Frank. I'll do the same. I've poured through the security archives. All of earth's nuclear weapons are accounted for. I've been keeping a watch out for large scale chemical purchases that might make a nasty weapon."

"Brack is probably doing the same thing." McCoy looked around. "I'm sorry for doubting you admiral. It is just that Glenn's murder," he took a deep breath. "It was awful coin—

"It is something you think I might've done." Erica took another photo. McCoy was uncomfortably close to the truth. Her silence was tantamount to approving Reed's action; for so she thought. McCoy nodded and turned red. "Don't worry about it Frank. This goddamned war brings out the worst in us all." Her most especially she thought bitterly. "Like I said before; we'll do this and that will be that. We'll each have our conscience to deal with."

"That is enough," McCoy said quietly. "I'll see you at work as usual admiral."

Erica nodded. "I'll approve another security analyst TDY for you."

"You know what is funny?" McCoy asked. Soames shook her head. "I'm really getting good at working security around Star Fleet facilities. One of the contractors actually offered me a fat good paying job for when I leave the navy."

"Something for you to think about Frank," she said at last. She almost added that such a career move would be suitable for her and Thomas. But that was subject was an open wound she realized. She bid Frank ado and headed for the town's small shuttle terminal.

He was amazed that she hadn't seen him. Malcolm stepped behind her as she straightened up with her shuttle ticket in hand. Reed couldn't believe that earth's security had been managed by someone as careless. Still she had done an adequate job he thought. There was much to be said for operating in a world where freedoms were at such a point that a clandestine group could operate outside of the law. Malcolm knew that their activities would have been next to impossible just one hundred years ago.

"Looks like we are going the same direction," Reed said. She spun around; ticket in hand.

"You!" the admiral exclaimed. "I thought you were going to lay low for awhile."

"I was," Reed replied. "But I have the same problem that is plaguing you and the ensign." He looked around. The NIS had assigned him to investigate possible underground groups of military or law enforcement personnel acting on their own. He doubted that he himself was included in the umbrella of surveillance being directed at such people now.

He watched as Soames looked around guiltily. "It is dangerous for you to meet me here." A passerby looked at the couple. Reed could plainly tell that the man had overheard the admiral's soft voice.

"Don't worry love," he said to Soames in a voice that would carry. "Your husband will never know about us. I can't wait to get you to the hotel." He smiled his best predatory grin. He ran his hand over the admiral's bottom. He suspected that she wanted to strike him but was restraining herself.

"I just wish it was longer than two minutes with you is all," Soames answered in an equally loud voice. She shot him a venomous grin. The passerby snickered as he continued to the boarding ramp.

"Very funny," Reed answered quietly. He reminded himself that Soames was not a trained agent; but was probably every bit as dangerous and cagey as he was. "Let's go to the lounge Erica." Reed had picked the relatively empty terminal lounge as a likely place to talk. She followed him slowly.

Malcolm beckoned her to a chair while he went to a servomat machine and ordered two coffees. He didn't find the beverage very interesting. But Reed had discovered that Americans still tended to ruin tea. The major thought that any coffee was better than tea that was either watery or bitter beyond belief. Malcolm drew the lukewarm beverages and went to the table where Soames was sitting.

"The tea is abysmal here as I'm sure you'll agree Erica," Reed said. "But let's get down to business."

"You probably know what me and Frank discussed," Soames answered. Reed could detect the animosity in her voice.

"I do," he answered. "I was hitting the same wall. But it occurred to me that McCoy proposed an interesting idea." When she inquired as to what that might be he told her.

"What would the birdies accomplish by doing that?" She asked sharply.

"You know the answer Erica," he replied; "you already said so yourself. But it got me to thinking about unorthodox ways they might come at us. The president is safe now: Thanks to Glenn's unfortunate demise security for the United Earth president is increased." He laughed heartily.

Soames looked at him. Her disgust was naked upon her face. "What drives you Reed?"

Reed was surprised; nonetheless he answered after a couple purchased some day old sandwiches from the automat and departed. "Why; the same thing that drives you my dear. You just haven't embraced everything that goes with it."

"I can't be a cold blooded killer Reed," Soames declared. Reed could see the lie on her face.

"People like you and me Erica know that a few have to die so that there is a future for the rest." Reed wanted to stand up and walk around while he lectured rather than explaining his views to Soames.

"You've heard the ridicules question posited," Reed began. "What if one could go back and assassinate Li Quan or Osama Bin Laden?" he asked. "But the people of those times knew that both men were dangerous. The Americans knew that Green was dangerous. But nothing was done about any of them when it mattered. I'm not proposing some sort of time travel fantasy. I'm suggesting that we can pull the weeds right now. We can remove those who we know will lead us to annihilation. Screw history Erica; we can write a great history now! Do you think that a victorious prosperous human race will look back searching for answers as to why they are so fortunate? People only demand investigations after a disaster Erica. You know that."

"What happens when all of this is over?" Soames asked. Reed suspected that her plan had always been to renounce her activities and get on with her life.

"Why we'll always be there to ensure that the human race is shepherded along," Reed smiled. It hadn't escaped him that he was using Todd Allen Glenn's words.

"You sound as bad as SOT," Soames declared.

"I have no plan to set up some sort of all encompassing nanny state," Reed shot back. "It was tried: We tried it; so did the Americans—both were abysmal failures. We'll be there in the background only. In fact we'll see to it that those old evils aren't repeated."

"You can't speak to the future Reed," Soames shook her head sadly. He saw that she still had a long way to go. He would have to keep an eye on her until her loyalties were prioritized. "How long, before this shadow organization steps out of bounds? How long, before they decide they know best how to govern?"

"We will have to be watched," Reed answered. "There will be some purges. Remember Erica it is just a few eggs. In the scheme of things what are a few lives here and there?" He smiled.

"I'll turn Frank loose with your theory," Soames answered. She looked at her coffee in disgust. She hadn't drunk a drop.

"Very good Erica," Reed gulped down the rest of his beverage. He reached over to caress her cheek as he rose. She quickly pulled away from his touch. "You'll see Erica; it is all for the best. You are doing good here."


	23. Chapter 23

UES Daedelus, returning to the orbit of the second planet of Ross 128, Nov 2157

The high collared shirt chafed Captain Michael Cromwell's neck. The Englishman felt a bit gaudy in his regulation Star Fleet dress uniform. Michael thought that he would never become enamored of the silky gold dress tunics. He groused that he would never be wearing it save for the death of Ensign Sam Ward. He had conducted the funereal over the red dwarf of Ross 128. Ward's body had joined the material of that star.

"Entering standard orbit," Ensign Kay Stansfield declared. Last year Stansfield had been in her junior year at the European Hegemony's Aerospace Military Academy. This year she was a serving ensign aboard a line cruiser. Such were the fortunes of war Cromwell thought remorsefully.

"Remember to kill your thrust out here ensign," Lieuntenant Robert Harris advised. Cromwell's charlie shift navigator though senior in rank to the late Ward had been the second most experienced navigator. Harris had started his Stellar Navy career in the sciences as an astronomer. He had been a navigator less than a year now. "Our momentum will carry us in." The tall lanky Harris stood back a respectful distance lest he appear to crowd his pupil. Stansfield had been a relief navigator only and was still somewhat green.

"Aye-aye sir," Stansfield shot back.

"Very good ensign," Cromwell answered. He turned to Chief Peter Custis. "Anything new on the scanners?" he asked.

"I retuned the sensors sir," Custis answered. "There are a little over a thousand of those storms on different points around the planet."

"Meteorology says that some of those areas of formation shouldn't even be happening," Commander Lisa Somers interjected.

Cromwell heard the bridge doors open. He turned as Doctor Trudy Schultheiss entered the bridge with Mariel Picard. "You got out of your uniform quickly enough, doctor," Cromwell remarked ruefully. Schultheiss was indeed dressed in the loose fitting blue regulation duty jersey.

"I am going to write those collars up as a choking hazard," the physician answered. "But you look quite splendid in yours Olly. I suppose you wear the same size as when you entered the navy?"

"Heavens no!" he answered with a grin. "That was the one redeeming thing about the uniform change: It gave me a legitimate reason to order a larger uniform." Cromwell turned back to business. "How is our guest?"

"We are keeping him sedated," Schultheiss answered. "My homemade anesthetizing agent keeps him in an unconscious state without damaging his physiology."

"He is terrified," Picard declared.

"Well of course he is," Somers started.

"No; commander you do not understand." Picard had, according to Schultheiss been spending an inordinate amount of time with the stricken alien. "He or rather it;" Picard turned to Schultheiss. "Trudy believes that the aliens are hermaphrodites. It seems to understand that we are not out to hurt it. It is afraid of something though. It refers to the night of the attack and something I have not translated yet."

"Does it know who or what we are?" Cromwell asked.

Picard nodded somberly. "Their people have tales of travelers from the sky."

"Like early science fiction I take it?" the captain asked in reply. Picard nodded again.

"The point seems moot in a sense Olly," Schultheiss commented. She had taken up station near his chair. "Life science reports a significant decline in soil biota. Waste products from dead plant and animal life are abundant. They theorize that the dwarf's declining output is reducing the amount of microbial mutation." Cromwell could see the sadness behind Trudy's usually positive demeanor. "This world is in the final stages of dying."

Cromwell had read the ecology report indicating that vegetation was declining on the surface of Ross Two. The results of photo passes had revealed a slow decline until this last decade. Now the decline was accelerating as there was more bare arid land than forested areas. He had felt guilty about their mission to obtain food until one of the civilian scientists had reminded him that the amount that Daedelus' crew would utilize would never make a difference in the face of the unfolding ecological disaster down there.

That had been some good news amid the tragic death of a world and the personal loss from Ward's demise: The proteins from the plant life on Ross Two could be resequenced to suit human, Tellarite and Andorian digestive systems. The crew of Daedelus would not starve. Already Cromwell and Somers had sat down together and planned the shore parties for the harvesting. Best estimates that Michael had gotten indicated that Daedelus' larders would be fully restocked in five days.

"Do the aliens understand what is happening?" Cromwell asked openly.

"I've listened to their wireless transmissions," Picard answered. "They had thought that the crop failures were regional at first. They seem only just now to be realizing that there is a more serious problem."

Cromwell merely bowed his head. He didn't see what he could possibly do for the aliens. He remembered Ward's two schools of thought regarding first contact. Should he even interfere if he had the answers? Michael didn't need the late Ward's help to consider the implications of reaching out to the inhabitants down below him: Earth had numerous examples of primitive cultures being affected by more advanced ones. Jungle tribesmen from South America had deified aircraft at one time. The culture clash between the west and the Islamic cultures had been a disaster. What would he unleash if he helped these aliens he wondered?

As if she was reading his mind: "Are we going to help them sir?" Schultheiss asked.

"Help them how?" he asked bitterly. "We haven't the technology to alter their sun."

"Couldn't we show them how to treat their soil?" Custis asked quietly. "I'm no farmer but isn't there something there?"

"Doctor Ness has suggested that doing such a deed will only put off the inevitable for a few decades," Schultheiss answered.

"A few decades where they might discover space travel," Picard said quietly. "They could migrate to the third or fourth planet."

Cromwell considered the possibility. Neither world was a prize. But the alternative was sure death. Cromwell knew that a space faring culture could develop the dry airless worlds. But this civilization would be racing against the clock. Michael reckoned that it would take all of the Ro'ha's resources just to make the leap to transistorized circuits. Did he need to interfere at all he asked himself?

What if those unfortunates overcame this problem on their own? Cromwell could not know that of course. Missions could be dispatched that would track the progress of the Ro'ha. He supposed that he would find out in the course of his lifetime. The trouble was that he needed an answer now.

"Is there anyone we might contact down there?" he asked at last.

Picard looked at Custis. The chief spoke up. "Miss Picard has asked me to track their transmissions. She has worked up a search program based on the language she has translated so far."

Picard took up the explanation. "I believe that I've identified a group of scientists headed by a," The rest of Picard's statement was an unintelligible series of whistles and grunts.

"Gesundheit! I take it that is one of their scientists?" Cromwell asked.

"Thought master is the correct term sir," Picard said.

"Very well," Cromwell answered slowly. "So how do we contact a thought master on this world?"

"We can call him on the phone for starters sir," Chief Peter Custis declared. Cromwell asked for an explanation. He barely remembered his history concerning wired communication tools.

"You can do that?" he asked after Custis explained how Daedelus communications' array could be used to contact the alien scientist.

"And we'll say what exactly?" Cromwell asked. "Hello; we are beings from another world. We are orbiting your world and would like to meet with you. By the way your world is dying."

"A mathematical progression," Houk declared. "You humans can't be that oblivious. Well perhaps you can be, from all indications." The Tellarite turned his seat toward the center of Daedelus' bridge. "Something they are on the verge of solving."

"Okay Miss Picard, Houk," Cromwell said. "You two set to work on contacting these people."

"We are going to help Olly?" Schultheiss asked.

Cromwell remained silent. He wasn't really sure what his next move would be. He was also considering that he would be, in effect handing a child a loaded weapon once he turned advanced technology over to the Ro'ha. According to initial reports the three dominant powers had abruptly concluded a world war. Cromwell turned to answer.

"Captain; I know this is going to sound strange but one of those storms is gaining speed," Chief Custis said. He was staring intently into his sensor display. There was disbelief in the man's voice. "It's gaining altitude, brushing the edge of the ionosphere at thirty-one hundred meters." Custis pulled his head away from the hood of his sensor display. "Christ! If I didn't know any better I'd say it is on an intercept course."

Cromwell turned to Somers. "Sound general quarters," he ordered. Somers moved quickly. Her voice boomed out of the intership address system. The alert klaxon sounded as Michael turned to Stansfield. "Increase speed to eighteen thousand mps, move to a higher orbit and alter our heading by twenty degrees." The navigator acknowledged his command.

"Polarize hull plating?" Somers asked. She was clearly incredulous about the whole situation.

Cromwell nodded. "That seems prudent commander. Although I must say this will be one for the books: Being pursued into space by weather phenomena."

"Its sloughed off the vapor elements sir," Custis interjected. "I ran a comparative analysis between this thing and an earth thunderstorm. It shares the same characteristics except that the energy is more," he paused searching for words; "more organized captain." Custis peered into his viewer again. "Its picked up speed again! Changing course; still on an intercept!" the chief, though clearly excited was not panicked. Cromwell thought that it was more of a case of amazement on the part of the enlisted man.

"Helm; engage impulse drive; take us out of orbit," Cromwell ordered. "Harris, take over." He needed experience steering his ship now. "Sorry Ensign Stansfield: You have performed splendidly but this is an emergency." He watched as the lieutenant's hands flew over the navigation console.

"Departing orbit," Harris advised.

"The storm is accelerating," Custis said. "Contact!" the one word exclamation was followed by a period of relative calm.

"Where is it?" Cromwell asked.

"Unknown sir," Custis answered. "We can't scan the interior of Daedelus."

Cromwell supposed that a good proposal for the next series of starship would be some sort of internal sensor arrangement. He would have to go on other data in lieu of such a system. He called Taln in engineering. He was not surprised that the Andorian was already informed of the situation. Cromwell knew that the engineer was monitoring the situation from the bridge feed in the engineering spaces.

"The power junction to lighting and environmental just blew on deck 5," the Andorian informed him. "I'm sending repair teams."

"The storm on the surface seemed to attack Ward," Schultheiss said.

"Or defended itself," Picard countered. "Remember; the ensign was shooting at it."

"The decon chamber is on deck 5," Schultheiss said.

"I'm going down there," Cromwell declared. He was frustrated at having to sit here; seemingly powerless. "You have the bridge commander," he told Somers as he vacated the center seat. "Take us out to one hundred and forty five thousand kilometers and assume a relative position out there. If anymore," he stopped and then added ruefully: "If anymore storms come at us you are directed to avoid them at all costs. I want to find out what has happened here before it happens again." He turned to Trudy and Picard. "You two are with me."

Mariel was puzzled at what had happened. The Ro'ha had seemed to be afraid of the storm. But that made sense: A sensible human would fear a thunderstorm. But the alien's fear was something else. She almost had a sense of the same fear that she had possessed of Alvin Crosby. Could it be she wondered? Could it be that the storm was somehow intelligent?

She needed to talk to Ma'gua some more. Picard believed that the alien accepted her as a friend; at least as someone non-threatening she hoped. Mariel lamented that she vividly understood the need for a friend when someone—no she corrected herself; when something threatened her. She followed Cromwell and Schultheiss down the service crawlways. The two naval personnel slid effortlessly down the ladders while Picard took a little longer. The two waited for her at the entrance to the long neck connecting the command section to the engineering hull. She decided it was the time to voice her theory.

"The brain structures that we know about use electrical impulses to work," Schultheiss said thoughtfully. Picard was surprised as she had expected her idea to be greeted by skepticism.

"The Miletus," Cromwell said. Picard wondered what the Englishman meant. Her look must have betrayed that fact as he explained: "A Vulcan officer once told me that he and his crew had encountered a life form that could alter its form: It could be gaseous and also exist as a solid. Frankly I thought he was doing the Vulcan equivalent of pulling my leg." Picard followed the officers into the lift. The tube quickly proceeded along the axis of Daedelus' engineering hull. "If that is true miss: Is this an intelligent aware species or an animal reacting to external stimuli?"

"It came out here to us sir," she answered. "That means something; rather it is reacting to our presence like a deer in the forest or has a purpose I do not know."

"Or a tiger," Cromwell countered.

They exited the tube near to the decon chamber. She wanted to get to the comm panel so that she might reassure Ma'gua. Picard had been working with Bashir on a program that analyzed brain waves as one spoke. She hoped to come up with a translation device that might be used to facilitate contact with new species. She dismissed those thoughts as she rounded a corner of the corridor. The long narrow gangway was plunged into darkness.

Several technicians were frantically working near what Mariel guessed was the power conduit that Taln had spoken of. She scrambled down the corridor to the decon chamber; ignoring Cromwell and Schultheiss' warnings. She peered through the transparent aluminum. The Ro'ha seemed to be in an agitated state despite the sedative. She hit the comm panel and engaged her program.

"Here is it," a mechanical voice droned out as Ma'gua issued a series of whistles, grunts and squealing sounds. "Want to go away don't!"

"Ma'gua, it is Mariel," Picard's heart went out to the frightened creature. In some ways the alien laying in the chamber had become a closer companion than had any other on this voyage; even Dieulafoy. Perhaps it was Ma'gua's fear of something familiar and yet terrifying. "You are safe here Ma'gua." She said it but suspected that it was not true. Like her and Crosby the Ro'ha and this electrical storm was somehow intertwined. Picard just could not lay her finger upon how.

"Protect yes!" the sound from the chamber were nearly constant now. She turned a pleading glance to Cromwell.

"I can't shoot at an electrical storm miss," he declared. Picard's hopes almost fell until the captain moved to Taln's repair team. "Can you set this area up like an electrical ground?"

"It basically is. Don't you know your own starship?" a Tellarite asked in reply after he took a reading off of a hand held meter. The porcine alien looked thoughtful. "I see what you mean sir. We'll get it done!"

Picard watched as the Tellarite, clearly the one in charge of the engineers, directed two humans and an Andorian to make some modifications further down the corridor. Those three technicians started prying panels away from the wall, exposing circuit junctions. Mariel tried reassuring the alien concerning its safety. She was in the process of doing so when she felt a wind on her face.

Nothing unusual on the surface of a world with a lively weather system Mariel knew. But most unusual when one had been cooped up in a spaceship for several months. Picard instantly became alert as she recalled some of the more experienced crewmembers' description of a decompression: Every spacer's worst fear she recalled.

The air took on the smell of ozone as Picard's short mop of dark brown hair was blown by the wind. She heard Cromwell's warning shout. Picard shivered as the temperature dropped. She gazed in horror as a black cloud formed beyond where the technicians were working.

Ma'gua started a piercing, keening like sound. Picard didn't need her makeshift translation device to tell her that the alien was terrified. She had been terrified by Crosby at times. How she had wished that someone would have come to her rescue when Alvin was being particularly cruel. But she had refused to leave him; so some blame must be laid at her feet she thought. But the being in decon did not need to suffer. Picard sprang forward with no real idea of what she was going to do.

Tendrils of cloud vapor that had been reaching toward the sealed decon chamber wrapped around Mariel. She was only vaguely aware that she was in danger. Her skin tingled and she could feel her hair standing on end. Mariel became aware that the wind had picked up. The cloud seemed to be dissipating. She saw the deck rushing up toward her. Darkness fell and she knew nothing more.

Savannah, Georgia, earth, Nov 2157

Kendra Stiles was concerned about her daughter. Sometimes she felt as if there was a stranger sleeping in Jocelyn's old room. She wanted Jo-jo to speak of her own volition. Kendra sensed that her daughter was concealing something that she had done; something that was eating at her soul. Stiles stirred at the egg batter turning it from a yellow liquid to fluffy golden pieces.

She hadn't cooked for anyone in quite some time. It was a strangely pleasant feeling. Kendra had been making quick meals for herself before departing for her morning rounds. Doctor James Hadley had formerly retired after the death of his son and daughter. Both Hadley siblings had been serving aboard Stellar Navy ships that had been lost to enemy action. James had been released from his reserve commitment after that. Kendra shuddered: As bad an impact that Henry Aaron Stiles' passing had made she still had her children. The Hadleys had only a house full of memories now. She was stirred out of her morbid thoughts by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

"I'm going to pick up five kilos mom!" Jocelyn Stiles shouted down the steps.

"You're too active for that," Kendra answered. "You have more gym equipment than your brother girl." The elder Stiles dished some eggs onto a plate along with some strips of well done bacon. "Juice is in the fridge. This isn't no starship commodore: You'll have to wait on yourself a little."

Jocelyn Stiles stuck her tongue out at her mother. Kendra thought the gesture was more like that of her daughter—before she had gone off into space. Kendra watched as her daughter reached into the refrigerator for the orange juice. Jocelyn's face had assumed that hard, stony set again.

"It's not like that mom," the younger Stiles explained. Jocelyn joined her mother at the table. "We all try to help each other out. There aren't enough people to fight much less to have some fool job like being a waiter: Even our cooks double in some other position."

"Good thing I guess," Kendra said. "If you were too important it would be hard to see Trip." Kendra didn't understand the military despite having two siblings in it. But she knew enough to know that there were certain protocols concerning personal relationships.

Kendra noted how her daughter put down her fork full of eggs at the mention of Trip Tucker. Could it be as simple as man troubles she wondered? She didn't want to push her daughter. Both Stiles children had inherited their father's stubbornness. And Kendra had dealt with a short lifetime of that. Too short she thought sadly. She was about to change the subject when Jo-jo spoke up.

"Mom can I ask you something?" her daughter asked. Kendra nodded; careful not to seem too anxious. She realized that her daughter needed to get things off of her chest. But that would only happen when Jocelyn wanted it to happen.

"It's about dad," Jocelyn said. "Well; you and dad," she corrected herself.

"It still hurts child but go ahead," Kendra answered.

"Did you ever do anything," Jocelyn began. "Did you ever," she stopped short. "Did you ever do anything that you kept from dad; something that was very important, very serious?" Her daughter paused again. "Something that might've ended what you had?"

So that was it Kendra thought; or at least a part of it. "I reckon you mean more than throwing away his college bowling trophy?" Jocelyn nodded.

Stiles thought hard about what her daughter was asking. Her mind had raced over what was wrong with Jocelyn. Her daughter had been responsible for the death of an untold number of Romulans. Kendra had little sympathy for them: The birdies had shown little regard for Henry and everyone else that had perished under their bomb. Still, she could not comprehend what it could be like to hold the power to destroy a world in one's hand. She still had enough old time religion to believe that some things should be reserved for God.

"Sometimes we do things that seem like a good idea at the time," Kendra said at last. "Then afterwards you think about it. Sometimes it is something that weighs you down with guilt. If you want to have something permanent with someone it can't be by living a lie. You got to decide what you want Jo-jo."

Her daughter looked at her and then at her breakfast. It was a long time before either woman said anything. "I did something terrible mom." Jocelyn said at last. "I used Trip to get something I wanted very badly."

"Was it worth it Jo-jo?" she asked her daughter.

"I still don't know." Kendra could see the inner conflict raging in her daughter. "That is the worst part: Even while I was doing it part of me knew that it was just plain wrong. But I just had to do something! None of these people understand what is going on here. They don't know the birdies like I do."

That narrowed it down for Kendra. Jocelyn had done something out there in space. That was why she had been sent home. That was why she had received a personal visit from the president. Kendra had suspected that Thorpe had come there for more than a personal call. She wished that she could help her daughter. There were hard choices in life. Kendra realized that her generation had been spared many of those choices.

Stiles had never been one for politics beyond an amateurish interest. But it had disturbed her when she had discovered just how long certain groups had stood against the president's attempts to modernize the military. Kendra had come to realize just how close the Romulans had come to defeating their ill-prepared forces. She supposed though that like many others she had conveniently turned her head when talk of military appropriations had come around. After all she thought; who could have conceived of a hostile alien attack two years ago? War was a distant thing that her grandparents had told her of when she was still a little girl. Kendra's generation had known nothing but peace and prosperity.

"You'll have to tell him sooner or later baby," Kendra said at last. "Those kind of things usually come down to two outcomes: Either the two of you will be stronger for it or you'll discover that what you had really didn't amount to much."

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to do that," Jocelyn replied. She was about to say more when a loud crash came from the living room. Both women sprang to their feet.

Kendra was behind her younger daughter. A window was shattered and a vase had been tipped off of a table. It lay in pieces on the floor. Stiles wondered if Sparks had went on a rampage until she seen a rock lying on the floor. Jocelyn ran to the window. Now who would throw a rock through her window she wondered? She had a bad feeling that she knew the answer. Jocelyn bent to retrieve a piece of paper from the floor after reporting that she had seen nobody. Kendra gleaned that it had been attached to the rock. Her daughter read it silently. Kendra heard her daughter say the word "bastards". She handed the note after some hesitation to Kendra:

Kendra tossed it aside in disgust. She had received several letters that had read the same. She couldn't believe that anybody human still used that particular racial epitaph. This was what the Sons' of Terra had been reduced to after the assassination of President Glenn. Kendra had thus far shielded her daughter from some of the threatening unmarked messages that she had received. She had found some of them so juvenile that she questioned rather the originator had the wit to carry out their threat. She told Jocelyn as much.

"Mom you have to tell someone!" her daughter exclaimed. "You're right; most of these people are half-wits. But they are dangerous half-wits. One of them assassinated the US president! Don't you think they wouldn't try hurtin' you!" Stiles noted how her daughter referred to Glenn as the US president instead of the president. Things change Kendra thought.

"What am I 'sposed to do child?" she asked Jocelyn. "Am I supposed to hide in this big old house and wait for news about you and Henry Junior? It took me a long time to move on. My heart was still back with your dad—it still is. But taking care of the critters has given me a sense of purpose. I'm not hiding from those racist bastards. That would be exactly what they want."

"I've been away too long," Jocelyn said. "We hear stuff about the Sons' of Terra but it just seems so hard to believe. It is almost like they are painting the birdies as the victims. Never mind what happened to Panama City and Salem One and all of those—people."

Kendra took halting steps toward her daughter as the girl choked. She could see her fighting back the tears. She embraced her daughter. She realized that for this time, the woman who had destroyed a large portion of the surface of a living world was a little girl again. Jocelyn was sobbing freely now. She said nothing however. Kendra hoped that she was exorcising her inner demons but was afraid that her daughter had a long way to go. Kendra sobbed inside when she realized that Jocelyn would never be the girl that she was. Another casualty of this war she thought bitterly.

Tehran, Iran, Capital of the Persian Confederacy, Nov 2157

"I do not see what you want from me," President Gholamreza Sheibani told his guest. Perex could clearly see that the human was put out by the sudden appearance of Perrin and his dangerous female aide. Perrin watched as the swarthy human took a deep breath. The Romulan agent knew that Glenn's assassination had made the Sons' of Terra position tenuous at best. "Hansu Corporation has the funds to charter a freighter." The Iranian got up from his large ornate office chair to look out onto the courtyard of the official residence.

"Hansu has experienced some losses Mister President," Perrin was growing impatient with this lesser being. "You once made a bond to do what it took to end Thorpe's regime." Perex could tell that he had to come at the human from a different direction.

"Think of restoring the glory of your nation!" Perrin exclaimed. "You once told me that you were nostalgic for the days when your empire was feared. I want to help you to achieve that. We have lost something as humans when we gave up our national identities." Perex hated the lie that he was human. He wanted to announce out loud his superior Romulan heritage. But he could identify with the humans loss of their heritage as his people were sundered from their own brothers.

"Your own reasons for helping our cause seem," the Iranian licked his lips before continuing. "They seem nebulous to me." The Romulan realized that even this human; blinded by his prejudices and preconceptions was beginning to suspect things were not as they seemed.

"I only want the same as you Mister President," Perrin smiled. The motion called into use muscles that his face did not normally use. He locked eyes with the human: "A return to the old ways; an end to allowing people to go about haphazardly. Let us restore good government that ensures that our people are taken care of. We know that most, except for those of us the top, aren't really capable of making good decisions in their lives."

"Whereas I agree with that statement I was just concerned about your means," Sheibani replied.

"The same means as yours of course sir," Perrin answered. He wondered if the same brain implants that created Galamides could be used on these humans. Perrin knew that after the humans were conquered the sciences division would be free to experiment on the creatures.

"I have heard disturbing rumors of poison gas, sabotaging our communications array," Sheibani said. "Some say that there may be Romulan agents on our earth."

"Surely you don't question my humanity?" Perrin asked pointedly. Because if you do he thought, then the Iranian's life would be measured in human minutes, perhaps seconds.

"No of course not my friend," Sheibani said then issued a guttural forced laugh. It is just that we could have agents among us. The Sons' of Terra has stood firmly against anymore alien influences into our way of life here. It would be a mortal blow to our organization if it is discovered that we are nothing more than pawns of an alien power."

Perex had been on earth long enough to pick up the human trait of a belly laugh. He wanted nothing more than to burst forth with one of those now. Sheibani's offhand assessment was correct. Perex could not have asked for more willing servants for the empire than the Sons' of Terra. The group had done more to contribute to earth's political disarray than an entire phalanx of Tal Shiar operatives could have accomplished. Perex wondered why these particular aliens were even a challenge to the empire.

The Romulan agent recovered enough to answer the statement. "That is complete nonsense Mister President. Do you believe that you have been influenced by others?" There appeal to the being's vanity. That seemed to be a constant that was true for the rulers of every empire.

"Of course not!" the politician roared back. "I decide the issues in my government." Perex noted the emphasis that Sheibani put on the personal article.

"Is it not true that you think this war to be a misguided effort sir?" Perex asked quietly. He could see the Iranian's consternation as Sheibani tried to fathom out why Perrin was asking that question.

"You know that I have said that," Sheibani answered at last.

"Then even if there were any truth to the rumor about Romulan agents would it not behoove you to engage such agents?" Perrin sat back as Sheibani turned away from the window and looked at him. "It is after all probably a case of aggressive colonization as you yourself have said. These agents were they to exist, would probably be agents seeking a peaceable solution." There; Perrin had effectively trapped the human under his own position: Sheibani's voice had been one of those that had loudly proclaimed the earth's president's refusal to negotiate with the empire.

"Be that as it may," Sheibani started; "I am still puzzled by your request of a freighter."

"We have contributed many credits to our cause," Perrin answered. "Hansu is currently experiencing a cash flow problem. I am coming to you as a friend sir. We need a freighter to close a lucrative arrangement we are working on in South America."

The truth was that whatever organization Ensign McCoy and the mysterious Mister Brack worked for was keeping close watch on the Romulan front corporation. Perex doubted that the corporation could purchase a stylus without the earth intelligence agency knowing. This final thrust was his last hope.

"You have financial backers I am sure," Sheibani returned to his seat. Perex got the sense that the human was closing the matter in his favor.

"That is unfortunate as we won't be able to fund the organization as we have," Perrin countered. "That will mean that we will have to close our doors." He almost added: As you humans like to say. But the agent was far too skilled to allow a mistake like that. "Our stockholders will be very interested in where our cash on hand went."

"That is of no matter to me," Sheibani looked at what Perex assumed was an appointment calendar. "Now if you will excuse me Mister Perrin—by the way what has happened to Mister Loch?"

"He has a health issue." Perrin almost laughed at that. It was not a lie: Death had affected his former commander's health quite drastically. It was time for a change of direction here Perex thought. "There will be an investigation called for. I imagine the authorities will be very interested in credits that were funneled to your daughter and son-in-law's lunar mining concern."

Sheibani sat upright abruptly. "How did you…" the question hung in the air. Perrin merely smiled.

"In compelling you not to seek reelection President Thorpe wasted the effort: Your own people would recall you if your constitution permitted such." Perex had regained control of the situation. In this his experience at the Praetor's court helped as much if not more than his Tal Shiar training. "When the Sons' of Terra find out that you took funds meant for their efforts and diverted them for your own self interests you will have no support." More likely Sheibani would be murdered by someone in that organization Perex thought.

Or was it a case of McCoy's organization doing the killing? Perex had examined the killing of Glenn. All evidence seemed to point to the disgruntled Mister Larkin's taking matters into his own hands. But Perex wondered; for if there was more to that assassination, then earth's shadow intelligence agency was performing exactly as would his own Tal Shiar. Perex had to assume the worst. But it made the game of P'elirix that much more interesting for him. He was opposed by adversary as devious as his own organization.

"You resort to blackmail sir," Sheibani answered sourly.

"Pray, do not seek to lecture me Mister President." Just when Perex thought that he had a grasp of the human value system something happened that reminded him of the differences between Romulans and humans. This was one of those times. Sheibani had clearly used his ties to the Sons' of Terra for the gain of his family. Yet now confronted with that truth he tried used human morality to deflect his wrongdoing. Perrin much preferred the Romulan sense of absolute right and wrong. "I simply wish to avail myself of your goodwill as you did of mine and the Sons' of Terra."

"There is the western cargo freighter," Sheibani started. Perex already knew the schedule for sub-orbital passenger and cargo freighters that were under the confederacy's control. "The freighters are returning empty since we are sending our share of war material to San Francisco and Brisbane. I suppose your venture would enhance our earnings." Sheibani spat out this last bitterly. Perex suspected that the Iranian expected Hansu's venture to enhance Sheibani and his family. The Iranian looked on his computer console. He tapped a few commands into a keypad. A piece of paper spat out of a desktop slot. "I'll tell the CEO and he shall see to it that the crew is off so that your people may use the freighter." He slid the paper across the desk to Perrin.

"Very good then president," Perex rose and took the paper. He reached across the desk than and took the Iranian's hand. "We'll have an earth for mankind President Sheibani: You'll see." The Romulan turned to Kanya and beckoned for her to come along. He was beginning to have doubts about the allegiance of his augmented human associate.

"You could be more inconspicuous Perrin," Karzai said. The Romulan Tal Shiar colonel looked around at the sumptuously appointed villa where Perex had taken up his residence.

"You were among these people for almost two of their decades and yet you know nothing of them." Perex spoke using the Rihannsu tongue. "They no longer keep track on what they consider as law abiding people. I've no doubt that McCoy and Brack are accessing credit transactions clandestinely. But with the free flow of wealth on this decadent world this villa is but one more purchase by someone with too much wealth."

"You should speak their language!" Karzai sprang out of his overstuffed chair as if McCoy was in the next room listening.

"Calm yourself. You should be using the language of the conquerors," Perex admonished his commander. "Our victory is near to us. Like Careaza leading us on the great diaspora; from the darkness our greatest triumph was to survive to conquer. Think, Karzai of those ancient Rihannsu venturing across space with limited supplies, no hope of a home and no allies to succor them. Yet they found the subspace anomalies hat led them to our green world of Romulus."

"Careaza never lived to begin that journey," Karzai countered. Perex noted that he sat down at last. He wondered at his commander's agitation: So much time had Karzai spent among their unemotional brothers. He looked at Perex. "Do you not wonder why our brothers have no recollection of Careaza?" Perex was actually surprised that Karzai used their common language.

"Surak and his followers wanted to impose their logic on our brothers," Perex answered. "If the existence of a single great figure, leading his people into exile, would have become known then perhaps more would have joined our clans then."

"I don't know." Karzai bowed his head. "I studied the issue at great length while I was on Vulcan. Both Careaza and Surak lived during the same period. Both led a substantial population of our common peoples. One only prevailed; but why? The Rihannsu had the might to force a final resolution yet Careaza chose exile."

"What are you saying?" he asked pointedly. Perex sipped on a small glass of Arabic Arak. The odd tasting liquor held a strange appeal to his Romulan palate. He wondered at Karzai's direction. His fellow Tal Shiar agent lacked, Perex felt, a spiritual side.

"Careaza was said to have perished after the final meeting that led to the great schism," Karzai explained. "Surak later walked out of the great expanse. It was said that he finished his last writings then. I wonder." Karzai looked uncomfortable. "It is convenient to appoint as these human say a, larger than life savior to anoint our supposed greatness. Perhaps Surak's people prevailed while ours retreated; banished by those tired of war."

It was Perex's turn to spring up. He had heard many things in his life but he was angered at where Karzai's thoughts were going. "Careaza was as real as Surak! We too have our writings. Do not forget that!"

"Most of those exist from an earlier period." Karzai rose and peered out at the crowded city beyond the villa's courtyard. He turned back to Perex: "Why did Careaza not leave us with anything more than; voyage now to a new greatness my brothers and sisters?" Karzai asked.

"Are you questioning one of the basic tents of our society?" Perex asked calmly. He watched as his superior paced across the room; a very human gesture he thought.

"I wish that you could have studied on Vulcan, Perex," Karzai said at last. The Tal Shiar officer turned back at Perex as the latter took his seat again. "But I am here to discuss another issue: Admiral Valdore has ordered that the acts of terrorism against the humans must cease."

"I am not plan—

"I know of your activities in this part of their world," Karzai interrupted. "I know of your attempt to wipe out the life here. I further suspect that your obtaining a freighter is directed toward the same outcome."

"Valdore does not believe that we can win here," Perex countered. "I believe that he is wrong. The strong will always overcome the weak."

"If you think these humans weak then it is you who has failed to understand a culture after being immersed in it." Karzai argued. "These humans, weak and frivolous on the surface, given over to seemingly pointless pursuits; yet they ventured out in space after a cataclysmic war. They have come far in both technology and culture. in so short a time. They fall upon each other in petty squabbles yet I believe they would stop their conflicts to turn on a hostile outsider."

"The Sons' of Terra were near to winning a majority," Perex argued. "Had that happened in all likelihood they would have sued for peace."

"But it didn't happen," Karzai said. Perex was beginning to see that cool, practiced Vulcan demeanor descend over his superior. "It is arguable that without our support your precious Sons' would have been relegated to a fringe group. The empire poured much wealth into this operation. Yet the very humans we sought to unseat are stronger than ever."

"The admiral must have faith in our ultimate victory," Perex said. He came to a decision. "You deem this Thorpe stronger than what he appears. I merely plan on removing him and his government. In the meantime Admiral Valdore must continue on the offensive. These humans have not the constitution for a long fight. Without their leader to inspire them and a seemingly endless war to fight they will yield. When that happens, the rest of the Triple Alliance will fail."

"You are wrong Perrin," Karzai said returning to terran English. "The humans are loosely united against us. If you were to do as you suggest then you would create a victim that finally even the doubters would rally behind."

"Very well then Carson," Perex answered using the terran alias that Karzai had adopted. With his surgery complete the agent passed for human with only a vague resemblance to the former Vulcan ambassador to earth. Nayyar entered the villa as Perex stood up.

"We are ready to move Mister Perrin," the augment said. She nodded respectfully toward Karzai. "I shall pack the access wafers for you."

"Very well," Perrin hardly acknowledged the genetically enhanced woman. Her scars were almost entirely healed now. He turned to his commander. "I shall consider what you said Carson." Nayyar made to gather up the Tehran Express' access codes. Sheibani had come forth with a sub-orbital freighter for Perrin's use.

The unmarked terran data wafers were in a stack on the table that had separated the two Tal Shiar agents. Karzai turned to take the wafers before Nayyar could. Perex knew that the trained agent was not so foolish as to allow another Romulan, other than a lover or family member, within arm's reach of him. He sat calmly as Karzai reached for the data wafers.

"You were planning to act all—

Perex imagined rather than heard the small syringes spring out of the apparent wafers into the unsuspecting Karzai's hand. He watched as his commander withdrew his hand and cursed him in their native tongue. Perex supposed that at least death reminded Karzai of his heritage if nothing else did. The blonde sat impassively as Karzai reached into his tunic. Nayyar started to tense up he noted.

"Cease, Kanya," he said softly. He knew the agent would interrupt Karzai's life signs enough to set off the micro pellets of plasma in the colonel's blood stream. He was pleased that Karzai did not scream out in pain as he burned to death from within: That was how a Romulan should face death he knew. Perex felt the brief, intense flash of heat in his face as his former commander burned out of existence.

He applauded in the human style. "Now we can get on with my plan Kanya."

"My people are making the crew change now Perex." The Indian stamped at the burning carpet wear the former Romulan colonel had stood. "We can be airborne for San Francisco in three hours."

"We'll proceed to Guatemala first," Perex said. "I am worried about the allegiance of Sheibani. I would order him killed but that would be the final sleep for the Sons' of Terra. If we appear to do exactly as I told him I believe that things will go as planned."

Perex walked over to the woman as she turned away. "I must see to the preparations Perex." He took her arm. The Romulan was now the last of his people on this world. He was not about to let things to chance. She turned to face him.

Somehow McCoy and Brack had learned where the last of Green's Aryan Option weapons were concealed. Never mind how they had both gotten halfway around the world under an hour without a subspace shuttle at their disposal. Perex was still trying to fathom that out. The Romulan suspected that perhaps the earthers did indeed possess an invisibility screen as reports had told of. Perhaps they had a shuttle but it had not been visible he thought. Perex knew that the full weight of Romulan science was behind that problem.

"Your people are competent Kanya," he said firmly. "We'll amuse ourselves while before we depart for the ship." He looked intently at her. She seemed about to argue then thought better of it. She disrobed before him. He motioned toward the villa's bedchamber. She walked that way as he followed.

Star Fleet Engineering Taskforce holding at the former position of the Tellarite station Kamaga, Nov 2157

"Well I'll be damned," Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker proclaimed. He pumped his friend's hand furiously. "I guess they finally decided that you needed a real job!"

Captain Jonathan Archer smiled in turn. "You guys have been out here mucking it up! We'll show you the right way to do things now."

"So that is the new me?" he asked gesturing toward a clumsy looking ensign. The youth was visibly gawking around the shuttle bay of the Tannhauser class Trafalgar. Crusher's space bag sat leaning against the ensign's leg. Archer had left Crusher behind when he had sighted Trip.

"Jason Crusher," Archer answered. "And yes; I needed someone strong in warp theory. This is his first deep space assignment."

"That's Crusher?" Trip asked incredulously. "I've read some of his work. I thought he was older." Tucker had indeed read some of Crusher's papers. He had considered contacting the warp theorist at one time. He had never imagined that all he had to do was to contact the new Star Fleet Academy. "His first deep space assignment huh?" Tucker asked as Crusher collided with one of Trafalgar's chiefs as that technician went to service the shuttle that had brought Crusher over from the transport.

Archer laughed. "Don't tell me you were never that young Trip!"

Tucker laughed. "Well I hate to admit it Capt'n, but I spent almost three hours tryin' to requisition fallopian tubes to drain the stardust chamber when I was a cadet trainee on the old London." Tucker laughed as he recalled the grizzled old chief who had set him up for the joke. He hoped the old bastard had lived to collect a retirement.

"They are still doing the fallopian tube trick?" It was Archer's turn to be incredulous. Tucker nodded and grew serious.

Trip looked around and noted that they were relatively alone for now. The hangar bay was crowded but the naval personnel had gravitated to whatever crowd they were going to leave with. "Have you heard anything about her sir?" he asked his old CO quietly.

Archer sighed. "Not a damn thing Trip." Tucker knew that Archer was referring to Daedelus as he had been. "But Cromwell is just too damn," his old friend paused. "He is too damn British to die out there."

"Amen sir," Trip answered. "But don't sell our baby short; if any ship could go out and do that mission and bring its crew back alive it is the X."

Archer nodded. "I hope that you're right Trip." His old superior officer looked around. This was not the place to discuss secret missions and black operations. "What do you think about this Deep Space One project?"

Tucker sighed this time. The mysterious computer virus had been traced to Trafalgar. Officially Star Fleet had absolved Tucker of any responsibility for the virus: It had seemed tailor made to attack human networked computers. Unofficially Tucker believed that the reason him and his ship had been detailed for this duty was his failure to find and combat the virus before it had done its damage. Captain Valdez had taken the news of the assignment well. But Tucker could see the blame in his captain's eyes. Publicly Admiral Forrest had celebrated the retaking of Deneva. Privately, everyone on the admiral's staff knew that heads would roll on the next slipup.

"We won't be retaking Topaz anytime soon if the reports are true," Tucker answered at last. "This is the alliance's first project. The president wants to show everyone what this federation can do."

"Not unless we want to lose a hell of a lot of people," a tall, lanky dark-haired man said. His gold jersey and stripes declared that he was a commander. Trip saw the Valley Forge patch on the man's breast. Tucker guessed that the man was in command of the engineering taskforce's fighters. He was struck first by the man's age: probably only in his early to mid twenties Trip thought. But it was the haunted, hunted look in the man's eyes that stirred Trip. Tucker guessed that many men and women had that soulful look now. "Sorry; I heard you mention Topaz—I was there."

"It's true then that the Romulans can project their weapon at warp speeds now?" The new arrival nodded.

"Yes sir," the commander answered. "Lieutenant—make that Commander Bill Walters sir," the man declared extending his hand. The trio made introductions all around. "With Topaz's system the way it is I can't imagine going in there and having it end in anything other than a slaughter."

"No one ever said this war would be a short one," Archer declared. They were joined by Ensign Jason Crusher. Archer introduced his protégé. Tucker was impressed by Crusher's youthful exuberance. But he also noted a sad undertone in the ensign.

"Hey it's just a hop, skip and a jump to Romulus," Tucker said; "once the Conquerors start rollin' off the line."

"Star Fleet is rebuilding Utopia Planitia," Archer said. "It shouldn't be much longer. We are lucky that the goddamned Romulans didn't come with more ships there instead of at Hell's Gate."

"The Iron Maiden kicked their birdie asses there," Crusher said with a grin.

Archer made a show of clearing his throat. "Ensign; the Iron Maiden," he started, painfully emphasizing Commodore Jocelyn Stiles' nickname; "is involved with Commander Tucker here." Crusher went red and so did Archer. Trip saw his old commander looking at him.

"We are still an item Capt'n," Trip answered. At least he hoped that was true. The two had enjoyed a passionate and sad parting. Tucker had heard that Jo-jo was on earth: Orders from Admiral Forrest. He knew how she burned to make the Romulans pay for what they had done.

Trip had learned after his sister Elizabeth's death that no matter what, those people who had been killed would not be coming back. One could either choose to move on with his or her life or they could fester in a pool of grief and anger. As much as he loved her Trip knew that Jo-jo had chosen the latter. Tucker hoped those emotions would not consume her life. He wondered what she was doing now.

"Sorry sir," Crusher told Trip. "I didn't know…"

"Forget it ensign," Trip said. He smiled at the younger man. "I had all sorts of nicknames for my CO's and most of the admirals too."

Trip felt Archer's firm grip on his arm. "Nicknames for commanding officers huh?" Archer asked. "I don't suppose that you had one for me?"

"Well you know capt'n—

"Attention on deck!" a chief petty officer roared out. Captain Xavier Valdez walked in the shuttle bay. He called everyone to rest and proceeded over to a service stand. Tucker was glad for the interruption. He hoped that Archer would forget his question. Valdez mounted the stand and stood head and shoulders above the crowd of milling alien and human personnel.

"You all have a general idea of why we are here," the captain bellowed out. His rich Central American accented English was loud and clear. "This new deep space station will be the first of its kind. The Tellarites have gathered together the scrap from Kamaga and we have brought materials to start the initial construction of this station." Tucker was a little puzzled as engineers rolled a large video monitor into the shuttle bay. "I have been instructed by command to relay this video from the president."

The group formed a large semicircle around the video screen. Valdez motioned to one of the engineers who dimmed the bay lights and started the digitalized presentation. The screen projected a crisp image of President Christophur Thorpe, Shahar Shran and Creel Zarn of the Tellarite Union. Tucker looked around the assembled group. He noted a man in the company of a rather fetching looking Andorian woman. Trip got the impression that the two were more than casual associates. Shran's voice boomed out of the video unit's speakers.

"A terran year has passed," the Shahar proclaimed. "A dark time for us all; but no where was it darker than for our friends from earth. Each of our races, Tellarite, human and we of the ice were alone then. But war changes things. We Andorians and Tellarites needed the humans to remind us of our old oaths. We in turn came to the aid of our ally. But this union should not be temporary! Once upon a time Shahar Rastan asked me how we Andorians could stand alone against the stars. He believed that we could only do so alongside others. Christophur Thorpe and his people have proposed this union of worlds, this federation. I am here to announce that the Caldonè of Andor has accepted this union." Trip watched as Shran motioned to Zarn.

"There is way too much talk!" the surly Tellarite started. "Tellarites do; and we are doing by joining this federation of worlds. We are relinquishing what was once our territory for this new station. When this federation finally takes root there won't be anymore territories. This new station will be a starting point for exploration, trade and diplomacy. The humans and Andorians divide the galaxy into quadrants because they are too simple minded to see the bigger picture. Deep Space One, when finished will be the gateway to the Alpha Quadrant; and it will be the federation, not the Romulan Empire that will rule the Alpha Quadrant." The Tellarite stepped aside.

"This is the first step in what I hope will be a long relationship between our worlds. We each have had our childhoods. But we have grown up." Tucker briefly remembered the haggard beaten man whose voice and image had informed humans that they were at war with an alien power. Gone was that defeated man. This Thorpe was a strident man looking towards a future full of hope. Would this indeed be the great union that the aliens from the future had spoken of Trip wondered?

"Legislation recently passed has laid the groundwork for the federation," Thorpe explained. "But we still have a long journey before us. It may be as long as five years before the federation exists as anything but bits of information on a data wafer. But now we have tasked you; the first members of the federation's Star Fleet. You are tasked to build this station with the economies and personnel of three worlds behind you."

"Deep Space One," Thorpe continued; "is the continuation of a plan devised by earth's Stellar Navy and the Andorian Imperial Guard to set up a series of ports. These ports will bolster our furthest flung holdings in space. As Zarn mentioned these stations, along with the K stations will be safe havens for our explorers and diplomats. But it is also my hope that they will be meeting places where new races, yet undiscovered will come to learn about and possibly join our federation. The future is in your hands!"

Trip watched as the image faded on the three leaders joining hands. He was silent for a minute. "Do you think that we will have all of this goodwill when all of this is over?" Trip threw the question out to all of them.

"Beats me," Archer said. He looked at Trip: Both men knew of Thorpe's tale of time travelers and their prophetic words about a galactic union. "Look how long it took us to get together." Trip knew like any human that his race had followed a rocky road.

"Maybe there is something to what the president said about us growing up." Tucker stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Hard to believe that we'll be all buddy-buddy with aliens," Trip concluded.

"Oh I don't know," Commander Walters interjected. The trio followed Walters' gaze to the human man and Andorian woman. The human, a Stellar Navy lieutenant commander gave the blue-skinned woman's hand a loving squeeze.

"You've had the word ladies and gentlemen," Valdez said; once again taking the floor. "We have personnel from Fearless along with our people from Trafalgar. We have fighter protection from units detached from Valley Forge, Ticonderoga and Hornet. The Imperial Guards Engineering Section has provided people along with the Fifth Fist of the Tellarite Army. We have a job before us, the people to do it and the materials. Let's get to work!"

UES Daedelus holding off of Ross Two in the Ross 128 system, Nov 2157

"The harvesting shuttles are away sir," the voice declared from the darkness. Mariel Picard felt an intense pain as she opened her eyes.

"She is coming out of it," Trudy Schultheiss declared. Picard tried to close her eyes as the surgeon shined a light into each of them in turn. "How do you feel Mariel?" the surgeon said in a gentle voice.

How did she feel? Her body felt strange. Mariel wiggled her toes; that felt odd to her but why should it? She focused on the face of the surgeon. Cromwell's face swam into her vision from the other side. They both looked odd in a way that Picard could not describe.

"How is she?" another voice implored.

"She seems responsive," Schultheiss began; looking toward the unseen voice.

"I," Picard found her—she thought hard about the word, her tongue. "I am alright." The sound was odd, harsh and clipped.

"Very good," Cromwell said and moved out of Mariel's field of vision. Another face replaced his: Dieulafoy.

"Mariel, Mariel," he repeated softly. She nearly jerked away as the digits of his hands intertwined hers. The feeling was strange but she realized that Marcel was concerned about her.

"I am alright Marcel," she answered at last. Picard began the strange task of sitting up. Her body felt strangely disjointed. Firm hands gently compelled her to lie back down.

"Not yet young lady," Schultheiss cautioned the mathematician. "Can you tell us what happened?" the surgeon asked. "We thought that you were in the process of—of whatever happened to the beings on the planet."

"I cannot say," Picard said after considerable thinking. She remembered darkness then a feeling she had once had before: As a child playing outdoors in a thunderstorm her skin had started to tingle. Only the timely intervention of her father had probably saved her from being struck by lightning. She reiterated her sparse memories of the event to Schultheiss and the captain.

"The phenomenon was grounded out," Cromwell said. "We haven't had any visitations from storm fronts since then."

"Are you going to continue with your plan captain?" Picard asked pointedly.

"Harvesting food?" the captain asked in reply; "why yes—

"No, contacting the Ro'ha and telling them what is happening?" Picard asked.

She watched as Cromwell nodded towards Dieulafoy. The archeologist took up the explanation. "Using your brainwave program and what you have translated so far I sent them the Kolmogorov–Arnold–Moser theorem and the Schwarzschild solution. According to my analysis of their history—and that is far from complete; they have solved neither problem."

"You spoke with H'Liq?" Picard asked anxiously.

"Who is that?" Cromwell asked.

"One of their leading scientists," Dieulafoy answered. "He—it; he dabbles in physics and has also started launching small rockets. He has put down in writing speculations about guidance systems that are quite advanced." Dieulafoy looked at her. "But we have not spoken to him—her, the doctor. We have used a translator program with a machine voice to do the work."

"Rockets?" the captain asked.

"Sciences does not believe that they are anywhere near a spacecraft sir." Dieulafoy sighed. "No one has observed a developing civilization like this before." The Frenchman gulped. "Ensign Ward brought up some excellent points. I had spoken to him before…" he trailed off. Picard watched as Cromwell gestured for him to continue.

"He said that it is possible that new civilizations might be influenced to develop at different rates." Dieulafoy seemed more comfortable. "For instance what if their nation states unify and share discoveries at an earlier point than men or Andorians had? What happens if a developing civilization is facing a killer virus and unites to push the medical and biological sciences ahead far enough to find the cure? No one knows."

"And what happens if they are facing death due to an astronomical calamity?" Cromwell posed the question rhetorically.

"Exactly sir," Dieulafoy answered.

"I do not believe that H'Liq has the answer," Picard said suddenly. "M'Altz've's research has not been considered."

Picard looked on as the captain looked puzzled while Dieulafoy merely looked confused. "But Mariel," he said in a voice full of confusion. "That scientist's results were discounted. Most of his solutions involved metaphysical ideas."

"And what if these people cannot construct a spacecraft?" Picard retorted. "Perhaps there are other ways that a people might survive. Energy after all, cannot be destroyed."

Dieulafoy was visibly skeptical. "I believe that the Ro'ha could construct a space ark a lot sooner than they could change their consciousnesses into another form—we cannot even do that. You were the first to dismiss M'Altz've earlier when we were discussing this very thing."

"We must be open to considering everything." Picard was going to get no where this way. "What would we do with the sure knowledge that our civilization was nearing its end?" she asked softly. "It was just a thought: M'Altz've is one of their leading thinkers. I was just considering the possibilities if we involved the honorary in whatever we intended to do."

"Honorary?" the archeologist asked. "We are becoming most formal. I have not heard that term before."

"They use it among themselves," Picard explained quickly. "I had translated it. I just forgot to inform you Marcel." She smiled. "I am sorry."

Picard observed that he smiled in turn. He seemed to accept her apology. The emotions were similar she thought. But she was greatly concerned about this vessel's mission. Some things were on a course where some certainty existed. Daedelus could seriously affect the outcome of those things. She would have to see what she could do.

"Has H'Liq agreed to a meeting?" she asked. When Cromwell replied in the affirmative she continued. "Have you considered how that is to be done?"

"The Vulcans at least looked somewhat like us." This time Cromwell took up the conversation. Picard realized that the captain of Daedelus had once been attracted to her. That could be useful she thought. "I had thought to be the man behind the curtain so to speak. Of course he returned our phone call," the captain answered wincing at the use of the ancient term. "Once he realized the value of the information that we had sent him. I think hermaphrodite or not that I shall stick with "he"."

Picard thought for awhile: The Wizard of Oz. She laughed softly. "I would like to be on the contact team sir. I believe that I could contribute much." She considered the remainder of Cromwell's statement. "You were all of the same sex for awhile when you were in the womb captain. Perhaps relying on one sex for procreation rather than two is a superior scheme in evolution." She smiled and laughed softly. "I mean us of course!" Picard needed to be careful here.

"I suppose that it could be," Schultheiss answered. She had been in the process of taking Picard's vital signs. Mariel noted how the surgeon eyed Cromwell. "Just not as fun," she added. Picard watched as Cromwell reddened. She found this display of embarrassment interesting.

"It is preliminary sir," the surgeon continued; "but our initial lab work suggests that we might go around down there without suits. We have found nothing we have tested endangers either us or the Ro'ha."

"That will be a relief for the harvester teams," Cromwell said. "But do not forget: We are at war. We have a mission to complete. I don't want to see an intelligent species die anymore than the rest of you do. But I have to consider that this sort of things takes place all the time in the universe; that there are not always a group of benevolent aliens waiting to give a dying race the secrets of star travel. I can ill afford to sit here while we school the Ro'ha in the necessary electronics, engineering and physics that they will need to survive."

Picard guessed that he was still unsure of what his people should do down there. She was only just beginning to understand how advanced the starship's technology was in comparison to the Ro'ha. Cromwell's indecision would figure into her plans as well.

Las Vegas, Nevada, the old United States, earth Nov 2157

It's a nasty habit. The voice in his head argued. Brack chuckled softly under his breath. He took a final drag off of the cigarette then discarded the butt. He had smoked on and off during his long life. Brack enjoyed the habit but he knew that it did not leave even his immortal body in the best of shape. Brack did not know if he could survive being blown up or burned: But he did not intend to find out. Part of his long life had come from being in fit enough shape to run away from deadly events.

"Have another?" Bit asked. Brack knew the man as Bittle Caulridge. Caulridge had explained that he had been named after a distant ancestor who had perished in San Francisco's Bell Riots. Brack had been away from America then. He recalled the time as a nostalgic period for him. He had spent almost half a decade tramping about Tuscany. Micah shook his head at the offer of a second cigarette. He remembered a time when Colonel Green's people were executing people caught with tobacco in their possession while serial child molesters were left free because of a supposed genetic superiority that the Progressives had claimed.

"Thanks, no," he answered. He looked intently at Caulridge. "Tell me something Bit; you are an intelligent man—

"Why did I pursue a life of crime?" the man laughed. The cool night air blew off of the arid Nevada countryside. The lights had gone out in the flat that Brack had provided to Eileen Thomas as a refuge.

"I tell you what Brack," Caulridge started. "I finished school and all. I just don't like authority. I was all set to space out for Topaz when the birdies showed up. Hell I wanted to find a place further away than that." Caulridge laughed again. "As much as I hate the birdies I can't see me peeling potatoes in the SN though."

"I see your point." Brack had known his share of criminals. He had found many to be brilliant rather they had been formally educated or learned their illegal trades on the streets. He guessed that Caulridge fell into this class.

"I figure besides making a pocket full of credits off of you I'm helping against the birdies here." Caulridge's guesses concerning why they were protecting a pregnant woman were all too shrewd Brack thought. Caulridge looked intently at Brack.

"The Sons' of Terra as well," Brack answered. "Thomas was one of its members and might have fallen into disarray with them."

"Those," Caulridge used a term that seemed to say the Sons procreated much. Brack hadn't heard that word for many decades. "They are worse than the birdies if ya ask me. The birds are aliens—they probably don't know any better. The dumb asses in SOT are practically buddying up with the rommies. What kind of dumb ass buddies up with people who are trying to kill him for Christsakes? It's those morons in the Sons' of Terra," Caulridge said answering his own question.

"You are wise beyond your years Bit," Brack said. He looked at the darkened house. It was quiet; oddly quiet Micah thought. He reached into his jacket for his old semi automatic firearm. "The Wayne's have a noisy shepherd."

"Cripes, Brack you're right," Caulridge proclaimed. Bittle took out his sidearm as well. Brack noted Caulridge's fearsome Scimitar needle gun. The weapon had no muzzle flash and could chew a man to pieces in seconds. Brack lamented that he himself had helped to develop that pistol.

They two stared at the house from the edge of the cemetery. Brack could make out nothing until a shadow moved where it should not have. Micah looked over and nodded to Bit. Caulridge moved off to the opposite corner of the house while Brack made for the back of the Wayne's home. He suspected that Spiro, the Wayne's German shepherd would be either anesthetized or dead. He saw the unconscious form of the dog as a black heap on the ground.

Another shadow moved across a driveway. The masked intruder stepped into the pale moonlight. Brack noted a long dark weapon in the assailant's arm. He guessed it was either a hunting weapon or a leftover from the war. Weapon ownership had been made unlimited and unregulated after the Post Atomic Horror and First Contact. Brack had lived through several periods of man: He was always astounded by the low crime rate of societies where gun ownership was not controlled. Here, right now, everyone could have a gun and yet, except for a few, no one had them.

Brack leveled his .45 at the intruder. It would be an easy shot he thought. But he needed to find out who he was shooting at. Caulridge would wonder when these uninvited guests started exploding into plasma. Micah needed to know how many were there too. This could be a lone assassin or it could be a group. Brack decided on the direct approach.

Sticking to relative shadow one could become practically invisible. Brack smiled slightly when the burglar looked right at where he was standing without seeing him. The voice intruded on him again. It warned him not to resort to torture. He shuffled the last few paces coming to within arm's reach of the masked individual. Brack figured that the intruder was a man. The breathing was deep and seemed to come from a larger set of lungs. Centuries of moving by stealth had taught Brack much.

Brack took a final step: In short order the masked gunman was spun around, knocked to the ground, his weapon taken from him; the stock of the rifle used to administer a numbing blow to the base of the man's skull. Micah knelt and pulled the unconscious form back into the inky shadows. He was glad that the body hadn't erupted into a torch of plasma. Behind Brack the Wayne's apparently slept; unknowing of what was going on just a few meters from their home.

Brack started to get up when he heard a telltale zing. He dived and rolled. Brack knew that the bullet or hyper accelerated slug was a near miss anyway: Otherwise he would be on the ground until his remarkable constitution repaired the damage. He saw a shadow of movement. The black shape took form in the outline of a man. He leveled a rifle toward Brack's general position. The gunman jerked and stopped suddenly. Brack could hear the sharp exhalation from the assailant. The intruder's head vanished before he could utter a cry. Brack knew that Caulridge had zeroed in on the man. The mangled corpse hit the ground; its gun making a slight metal on concrete sound that was muffled beneath the body.

Brack saw another gunman across the street. The man crossed briefly into the light from a street light as he crouched behind an aircar. Micah crawled back into inkier darkness. He could barely make out the scuffle across the street as one of Caulridge's partners stepped out of some brush: The unknown attacker didn't realize that he was not alone until it was too late. Brack could see that danger being dragged back into the brush. There was no flash of plasma.

"That was the last one," Caulridge called softly out of the shadows. Brack relaxed somewhat and rose to his knees. Caulridge stepped out from the shadow of the porch. Brack stood up and kneaded the unconscious attacker's ribs. He was rewarded with a grunt. Brack waited until Bittle joined him.

"You want that we should work him over Mister Brack?" Caulridge asked with a grin.

"Let's see how reasonable he can be first," Brack kicked the would be gunman in the ribs. "Kind of late to be out here?" he asked.

The man rolled over and sighed. Brack knelt and pulled his mask off. The potential assassin was not Perrin. Micah looked at a slightly balding black man. Blood ran freely down the man's chin. Brack guessed that he had hit his nose when he had put him on the concrete.

"You warmongers!" the man spat back.

"We weren't trying to break into a house at night," Brack retorted. "Apparently we warmongers have better manners. What was your mission here?" Brack followed the question with a ringing slap across the man's cheek. "This can be pleasant," he said adding another hard slap; "or not. It is all up to you." He hit the man again. Brack could hear the warning voice from within; the fight for control.

"Go to hell you bastard!" the man croaked out. But the challenge was weak. Brack had broken more than one man before. This one's resolve was ebbing like an outgoing tide. Brack started frisking the assailant.

"Let's see what you are about." Brack stopped suddenly. "Bit; make sure your people check these guys!" He tore open the gunman's shirt revealing a several small packs made into a belt that encircled the man's abdomen. Brack fished through the man's jacket coming up with a control mechanism. He examined it: Digits were counting down to zero. The red lit display was showing fifteen; then fourteen. There was no apparent shut off on the device. "Get the hell out of here Bit!" Brack stood up pulling Caulridge up with him. He fired a single shot into the intruder's chest.

"What the hell is going on?" an angry voice asked from the Wayne's porch.

"There's another one!" a voice shouted from across the street.

"Get the hell back into your house!" Brack fired a single shot past the man standing on the porch. Brack ran toward Wayne as the man stood rooted. He scrambled onto Wayne's porch as the man finally started retreating into his home.

Brack turned in horror as another masked assailant ran toward the house. This one was firing as he went. The ancient machine pistol's rounds threw up wooden splinters around Brack. He ducked. Thomas stepped out onto her bungalow's small front porch. Micah peered over a weather beaten old porch swing. He fired two quick rounds into the man's chest. The gunman staggered and shot back. Brack felt an intense wave of heat and was knocked through the porch railing on the opposite end.

He rolled over slowly and staggered to a standing position. Brack knew that the authorities would be here soon. There would be too many questions. He ran as best he could after being shaken by the bomb blast. He wondered who could whip these people up into doing such a thing. He forgot about it as he looked at the supposed safe house where Eileen Thomas had been hidden: Half of the residence was gone.

"This one has been disarmed boss," Caulridge proclaimed as he pushed another bomber before him.

"You goddamned warmongers!" the man yelled out. "We got that treasonous bitch! The Sons' of Terra ain't done yet! We'll show all of you alien loving bastards—

Brack fired a single shot. The round went neatly into the man's skull. The bullet exited with much of the bomber's brain and the back of his skull along with it. He felt a stab from Mistral. Too bad he thought, some times necessary things had to be done. Brack entered the bungalow. Fire was starting to crawl up the old woodwork. Thomas was lying in a heap across from her bed.

Construction site of the future Deep Space One station, Nov 2157

"We'll be able to dock up to twelve ships simultaneously," Tucker informed the room full of people. He was doing the briefing on the initial structural layout of the new space station. The small group of officers and enlisted people were clustered around the briefing table peering intently into one of the three video screens.

"What about defenses?" Commander William Walters asked. Trip switched the view: The screens, all arrayed in a triangular formation when viewed from the top, changed to another display.

"For now, we are relaying on off-the-shelf weapons," Tucker explained. "We are currently installing the highest mega wattage lasers produced so far. We've already incorporated them into the support structure." Tucker smiled. He knew that everyone in the room possessed the Star Fleet's highest security clearance. "This doesn't leave this room: By late next year Star Fleet will begin replacing narwhals with the cachalot. Besides havin' a higher yield nuke the cachalot will be able to boost at warp four for an effective range of nineteen thousand kilometers."

"It must be a short boost," Crusher interjected. Trip was about to tell the ensign when Crusher spat out the figure. Tucker eyed the ensign who started turning a light shade of red. "Sorry sir."

"Don't worry about it," Tucker answered. "I was just checking to see if any smoke was coming out of your ears."

"We could make short order of the pirates with something like that," the Andorian Talas proclaimed.

"We better hope that they don't figure a way to mount their warp driven plasma cannons onto ships," Captain Jonathan Archer said. Tucker had been puzzled by his former commanding officer's silence; then it had occurred to him that Archer had not yet seen combat. Here he was on ships full of combat veterans now. Tucker envied his friend though: Trip had seen far too many things that no one should have had to see.

"I was reading an article about a new kind of projected energy weapon," Crusher said. "It works on the rapid nadion effect."

"It looks sweet on paper Jase," Tucker answered; "but we'd have to have mam reactors with at least four maybe five times the output we have now." Tucker had found himself taking to the nervous ensign. He sometimes thought that he saw a younger, more carefree version of himself. True; Crusher had lost an older brother. But he was young and he would bounce back from that Tucker hoped.

"What is the status of our mams?" Captain Xavier Valdez asked.

Tucker changed settings on the viewer. "Reactor one is online capt'n," he answered. "Two will be online in a week."

Tucker was proud of their accomplishments. In a little less than a week they had built living quarters and powered up the matter antimatter reactor that had traveled strapped to the belly of Trafalgar. The skeletal structure was taking shape. The ribbing and stringers for two of the planned three out flung docking arms were visible. Control towers would rise from the end of the docking arms. The center section would incorporate the shops, living quarters, and recreational facilities for weary star travelers. The installation was laced throughout with the turrets of Mig-Bell Ultra Zeus lasers. Six racks of merculite rockets were complemented by three tiers of spider area defense missiles.

"How about backup fusion?" the commander of Trafalgar asked.

"That is up as well," Tucker answered. He suspected that Valdez had his share of misgivings about him after the computer incident at Deneva. Then again he knew that Valdez, like any good captain, wanted to make sure that the backups were in place.

"Looks like you engineering types are well ahead on your timeline," Commander Bill Walters proclaimed. Due in no small part to Walters' own contributions Tucker knew. Tucker had worked with the fighter squadron leader. Walters had expressed his interest in going to the Star Fleet Academy after the war. Trip wondered what that would be like after holding the reins of command. But he knew that many of those who had been brevetted in combat would end up reverting back to lesser ranks.

"We'll have the functional parts of this station complete in a month," Tucker answered. "Then they'll be time to add the fancy stuff." Trip had looked at the final specifications: Hotels, bars, restaurants, diplomatic conference rooms and a whole host of support services.

"Captain Valdez, Ops," a voice called out of a small overhead grill.

Valdez eyed Tucker who switched on the comm system from his computer terminal. "Go ahead," the captain replied. Valdez had left strict orders that the briefing not be interrupted unless a serious situation arose.

"Sir, Ensign Chandra here; we just received part of a distress call from Borei," the tension from the station's communications' officer was evident. Chandra had been put in charge of operations; that had no doubt increased the young woman's stress. Then again Trip thought, who would have thought that anything could happen out here?

Trip had seen the tactical dispatches: The Romulans had been resorting to small ship hit and run attacks. The bulk of their forces were thought to be bottled up around Topaz although no one had made a close enough approach to scan that system. Deep Space One, along with Trafalgar and Walters' fighters were thought to have the firepower necessary to protect against all but an all out Romulan attack.

"Pipe it down here," Valdez responded. Not technically accurate, Trip thought as the briefing room was above the temporary operations center relative to the galactic plane.

An explosion of static and hissing pops filled the briefing room. "—rei on a heading for foxtrot-tango-epsilon." A set of coordinates followed. F-T-E was the designation for this volume of space. Trip clasped his hands before him on the briefing table. Borei and her charges were close to their position. "Romulan force encountered they are usin—

There was one loud final snapping noise; then nothing. The assembled Star Fleet personnel looked at each other. Valdez ordered the station to a standby alert condition after ascertaining that there was no immediate Romulan threat. Despite that news no one was reassured. This war had taken too many twists and turns Tucker knew. No one knew a damn thing about the birdies he thought. For all anyone new a couple of shiny new cabbages and jellyfish had arrived near allied space.

"Those guys were intended to augment out forces here," Captain Archer declared.

"Add to that the fact that we never received the routine coded response from Taskforce 37," Valdez said. "Subspace being what it is I discounted that fact until now."

"We would have had the repeater network going except for the birdies," Tucker added. Thirty seven's lack of communication was common. Subspace signals boosted from a starship's subspace communication array were sketchy at best. Tucker knew that their reliability decreased as the distance out increased.

"That means that the closest allied ships are a week away," Commander Walters said what was on Tucker's mind. Trip knew that it was on all of their minds most likely. Tucker watched as Walters turned to Valdez. "I'll order increased patrols captain; with your permission of course."

"Granted commander," Valdez answered. "But keep your people close. I wouldn't put it past the birdies to lure our fighters out and make a run against DS1."

"If that is the case they'll try to blow by our fighters," Captain Archer interjected. Trip could see that his former commander was sharpening his skills as a warrior. "A fighter umbrella might be rendered moot."

Trip watched as the younger Walters nervously sipped at a glass of water. "I'm no real officer here," he started; "but that doesn't mean I don't have any ideas." He looked at Tucker. "Mind if I commandeer the screens for a minute?" the commander asked. Tucker gestured for Walters to do so.

Walters punched in some commands finally calling up a three dimensional display of Minotaurs on the move. "I've been working on formations that allow fighters to pour more missiles into a target without getting their asses shot in the process." Trip watched the display cycle through images of typical fighter formations." Tucker grew interested when fighters seemed to come from random vectors but launched all of their missiles toward a single heading. "My idea is to rotate Minnies along a set of revolving random courses. They would all be positioned though to launch toward a single target or group of targets along the same heading."

"Looks like by the time the last one got done your first guys would have loaded tubes again." That fact hadn't escaped Tucker.

"Exactly," Walters agreed. "It gives our guys a greater rate of fire and doesn't put them out there getting piecemealed in a dogfight with Eightballs."

"That also gives you better laser coverage," Lieutenant Talas added. "The pirate fighters would have to fly into the mouth of a zarthra—until you lost a fighter."

"That is my plan's downfall lieutenant," Walters answered. "The whole thing relies on the squadron surviving intact: If I lose more than two planes out of a squadron the game is over."

"But they could stand here and add to DS1's guns," Valdez interjected. "Have your people trained for this commander?"

"A few have," Walters answered. "I have enough that I could put them out into the remainder of the group."

"See to that then," Valdez ordered the fighter squadron commander.

Chandra's voice intruded over the briefing room speaker once again. "Captain Valdez we are getting sensor echoes of," there was a long pause, "of a large force on approach. They are spread out in a weird formation sir!"

"Sound battle stations ensign," Valdez ordered. He watched as his current commander turned to his old boss. "Captain Archer; with all due respect to you this is your first combat experience. I would prefer that you take command here while I fight Trafalgar." Valdez stood up. The rest of them followed.

Lacking a working klaxon Chandra's voice boomed out of the speaker again seconds later. "All station personnel battle stations; I say again battle stations. This is not a drill."

Trip watched as his old commander walked over to his new captain. He seized Valdez's hand in a firm shake. "DS1 will be here when you get back sir."

"I know it will be," Valdez replied. He took out his communicator and sent warning to Trafalgar. Commander Valz answered from the bridge of the Tannhauser class vessel.

"We already see them captain," the Tellarite answered. "You better get over here before we clear moorings. If you don't, I won't leave any pirates for you!"

"Trip; you're with me!" his captain said as he closed the channel with Trafalgar.

Tucker turned to Jason Crusher. The young engineer was accompanied by Chief Lindquist 'Jack' Clemmons. Tucker wanted to tell the chief to take care of the station. The man simply had more years than did Crusher. "She's all yours ensign. You'll want to watch over the power relays feedin' the hull plating around the mam. I guess if I was a Romulan I'd go after that first—not that we'll gonna let any get through."

"I'll do my best," Crusher replied. Trip knew that a beta shift engineer had been enroute aboard Borei. It seemed that after the woman would be late now Trip thought; if she still lived. Lieutenant Commander Griffith would have been Trip's Deputy Chief Engineer. She would have taken command in engineering upon Tucker's departure on Trafalgar. But without her presence that left the station's engineering section in the charge of Ensign Crusher.

Tucker clasped the young man's shoulder. "Good luck Ensign." He nodded to Clemmons. "Don't be a hardhead Jase. The chief here has a lot of years. Listen to what he has to tell ya."

"Same to you sir," Crusher answered. The ensign nodded to the chief. "I'll do that sir; just leave us a few birdies to kill."

"See you all on the other side," Commander Bill Walters said. It was obvious that Walters wanted to get to his fighter group.

UES Borei, leading Star Fleet supply group Delta, Nov 2157

Captain Karl Dobrynin examined the indicators for each of his charges. Not that there was much to see. The freighters Krakatoa and Vesta each had excellent crews. The Powhatons Housatonic and Phaeton were each fresh out of the docks as was Dobrynin Borei. Karl supposed that checking readings was a way of keeping awake. He checked his chronometer: It was almost time for Comrade Gagarin to relieve him. Dobrynin guessed that his first officer was in the armory flirting with the pretty English lieutenant there. Karl sighed. Yuri was married and should know better he thought. The trouble was that Lieutenant Dayton was fairly attractive and interested in turn in the short, pudgy Gagarin.

"Chief Gav, please give me an update on our transit time for the space station," Dobrynin asked.

"An hour and two minutes less than the last time you asked that captain!" the Tellarite replied in perfect Russian. It smarted more for Dobrynin that the Russian's attempt to learn the chief's language had been abysmal at best.

"We should be able to make the station without dropping out of warp," Lieutenant Bonnie Neilson interjected.

"I would normally declare with great fanfare that will cause us to arrive sooner lieutenant. But this station; from what I've been briefed is an intergalactic camp." Dobrynin supposed that the crews would do the normal exchange if items when they got to Deep Space One. Stellar Navy supply petty officers had a strange sense of humor.

Karl had heard of ships that had an overabundance of one or commodities while seriously lacking others. Vital supplies were usually there but commissary items were up for dispute. His crew had converted some of their uniform trousers to gym shorts. Fortunately most had gym shoes; although they were wearing thin. Borei's liquor ration was also skewed as Dobrynin's supply officer had requested extra rations of vodka over scotch. Gagarin, who doubled as supply officer had been quite upset to find himself awash in scotch. Karl hoped to even things up from Trafalgar's larder.

A flash of light signaled the arrival of Commander Yuri Gagarin onto the darkened bridge of Borei. The bridge door trundled closed behind the commander. Karl turned slowly in his chair. Gagarin paused to allow his eyes a few seconds to adjust to Borei's bridge lighting. Dobrynin smiled briefly. He knew that his first officer would be unable to see the gesture. Karl needed some sport to keep him amused.

"Are things in order in the armory Yuri?" he asked his first officer.

"How did you—aye sir, all is fine in the armory," Gagarin replied.

"Are you polishing the missile there Yuri?" Dobrynin asked pointedly. There were snickers from different alcoves around Borei's bridge. Even in the relative darkness of the Torsk's bridge he could see his first officer's face reddening. "I'm sorry comrade; I meant to say missiles."

"I was conducting a routine inspection of certain areas sir," Gagarin replied tersely.

"I'm sure that you were," Dobrynin answered soberly. "One must be careful in those areas my friend; especially when those areas can be inspected at one's home."

"I will take your advice to heart captain," Gagarin answered. Karl doubted that was true. Perhaps Lieutenant Dayton's career would be enhanced by a transfer the captain thought. As much as he hated interfering in his crews' personal affairs he had a personal stake here himself: Yuri's wife was friends with his own Ludmilla.

But then again perhaps it was time for Yuri to move. The fleet was always short of good first officers. Dobrynin thought that it was too soon for Gagarin to be appointed to captain. His present conduct was proof of that Karl thought. Dobrynin feared that Gagarin would be picked up as a captain once his name showed up in the personnel pool. He liked Yuri and knew that one day he'd make a fine captain. But now was not this day.

"I hear that Valerie's pregnancy is coming along fine Yuri," Dobrynin commented referring to his first officer's wife's medical condition.

"Da, captain," Gagarin answered.

It was time, as the Americans liked to say, to let Yuri off of the hook Karl thought. "I'll do the bridge briefing and then—

"Sir, the sensor readings are obscured," Lieutenant Bonnie Neilson reported. She did not say anything else as the sensor panel in her alcove exploded in her face.

"Battle stations!" the captain exclaimed. This could be a systems failure but Karl had been at this for too long to expose his ship.

Gagarin crossed over to Neilson and spun her chair around. Karl did not need to be a doctor to determine that the lieutenant would not need medical attention; not now and never again he thought sadly. Much of her face was a burned pulpy mass.

"Radar is functional," Gagarin reported. Dobrynin watched as Gagarin put his earpiece in. The commander started a group wide check. Several minutes later reports were pouring in. "The rest of the ships have reported similar problems. Engineering reports that it will be several hours before subspace sensors are avail—unknowns tracking in toward our position sir!"

"Guns load tubes!" Dobrynin shouted. "Yuri; disperse our fighters. Warn the other ships."

"Unknowns closing at warp 3.1!" Gagarin exclaimed. The Romulans, if they were that Karl reminded himself, had either upgraded their warp drives or were pushing their reactors at critical. "They are pulling ahead captain."

"Lay down a pattern into their estimated flight path Ensign Amoruso," Dobrynin ordered his gunnery officer.

"I'm working a solution now sir!" Ensign David Amoruso answered. Dobrynin watched as his gunnery officer furiously punched numbers into his console's computer keyboard.

"They are passing their ordinary line of deployment sir!" Gagarin exclaimed. "Emerging into normal space!" he added breathlessly. So; they were moving in close Karl thought. Dobrynin supposed that whatever the unknowns had done, it had to be Romulans he thought, that they had not destroyed their own sensors.

"I have a rough solution captain!" the gunnery officer bellowed.

"The other ships report the same sir," Gagarin added. "Fighters are moving to engage—more readings; possible launch of Eightballs sir! We are bracketed!"

Brought to bay Dobrynin cursed softly under his breath. Radar showed multiple images; far in excess of his own force. "Fire!" he ordered. "Chief Gav, drop out of warp."

"Firing and away!" Amaruso roared. Dobrynin felt a slight tremor through Borei's artificial gravity as the Narwhals boosted away from his ship. "Working another solution sir!" the ensign exclaimed.

"Gav, make us as lively as possible," Karl ordered. "Engage in a series of random zigzags. Permission grated to exceed structural and field limitations chief. Coordinate your course changes with the rest of the group."

Dobrynin quickly buckled his restraints. He knew that things were going to get rough. The first wave of disorientation was no surprise to the Russian. Karl felt another shudder. He knew that vibration was more than likely the blast waves of a near nuclear detonation. He called for a video presentation of what was happening. The screen switched to a radar view; little more than different colored pips really and IFF identifiers. Karl watched as one of those pips, which had represented the freighter Vesta winked out of existence.

"The Minnies are recovering but are taking a pounding without subspace sensors," Gagarin reported. "Half of our escort fighters are gone sir!"

"First salvo was ineffective captain," Amaruso reported. "I've got a solution on the second salvo. Radar interference is heavy."

"Fire when ready!" the captain exclaimed. "Do your best on separating the enemy out of the chaff ensign."

"Inbound Moolah!" his first officer shouted. "The Spiders missed it sir."

"Evasive starboard chief!" the captain yelled.

Karl felt a wave of nausea wash over him as the Tellarite tried turning the Torsk class away from the incoming Romulan antiship missile. This time Borei's shuddering was far worse. The few bridge lights failed plunging the cruiser's command center into darkness except for the glow of the instrument panels. Emergency lighting took over for a brief few seconds before the normal lighting was restored. A control panel in the auxiliary engineering alcove exploded temporarily blinding Karl. Spots swam before his eyes as his vision returned.

"Shuttle bay two is holed!" Gagarin reported breathlessly. "The engineer reports that hull plating on the port quarter is heavily damaged. The primary magnetic field on the reactor is destroyed; backup is engaged."

Karl realized that the battle was rapidly deteriorating. His immediate need was to warn the space station. Since Romulans were in the vicinity it followed for the Russian that the new station might be their next target; if it hadn't been destroyed already he thought. He ordered his communications' officer to open a channel to the station as he received Yuri's news of the destruction of Housatonic.

"Near detonation by an unknown," Amaruso reported. "Imagery suggests that it is a cruiser of some sort sir. Port missile tube is damaged and unusable—the armory is open to space captain! Starboard tube loaded."

"Fire at your discretion, ensign," Dobrynin ordered. He turned to Gagarin as his first officer, visibly shaken by the news from the armory spat out a litany of damage reports. The Romulan Aeons had been busy. Several decks of the beleaguered Torsk were airless now.

"Firing and—

A large explosion came for the starboard side of the bridge. Dobrynin reeled in his seat. He felt several sharp impacts to his abdomen. He simultaneously wondered why someone was punching him in the side and why Ensign Amaruso was standing by the communications' alcove. He felt a warm, moist feeling in his crotch. Karl realized that Amaruso's torso had been flung across the bridge and that he himself would bleed to death from the wounds in the lower part of his body without medical aid.

"Channel open to Deep Space One!" Lieutenant Karla Zeller announced. Dobrynin thought that the woman was remarkably calm for one about to meet their maker.

"Krakatoa has been destroyed!" Gagarin exclaimed. Dobrynin could see the look of fear and sympathy in his first officer's eyes when Gagarin realized how badly wounded that his captain was.

"Can we go to warp Yuri?" he asked. Dobrynin thought that maybe some of them could be saved.

Yuri shook his head. "Both warp nacelles have been destroyed." Dobrynin watched as his first officer turned and examined his status board and then the carnage on the bridge. "We are going to lose her Comrade Captain." Karl nodded. He was not thinking too clearly now. He thought of his son running through the snows of Saint Petersburg.

"Encode our final dispatches and fire the log buoy," Dobrynin said clearly. He flipped open his communication switch. "This is the Star Fleet cruiser Borei on a heading for foxtrot-tango-epsilon; Romulan force encountered they are usin—

Dobrynin never got to finish the rest of his message. A Romulan Moolah maneuvered wildly past an intercepting Spider. The missile's warhead exploded less than twenty meters from the Torsk. Lacking protective hull plating the Stellar Navy cruiser briefly held its shape before succumbing to the heat of the nuclear explosion; then it was no more.


	24. Chapter 24

San Francisco, California, the old United States, earth, Nov 2157

Ensign Frank McCoy closed the video circuit in the communications' booth. He sat back with a numb feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nothing was really on his mind. The rays of evening sun caused him to turn away from the view of San Francisco Bay and the old Alcatraz prison. He blinked back tears that were not caused by the bright evening sun. The sun slowly slipped into the Pacific. Frank McCoy saw none of that though. He was vaguely aware of a pounding on the door of the public booth. McCoy vaguely wondered if Soames had chosen the public holobooth over his handheld as the most personal way that she could deliver the news.

"I need to call home you fool!" an irate woman demanded as she tapped at the booth's door with the handle of her umbrella. McCoy got up and pushed the door open. "There are other places for you to stay and waste people's time!" she cursed at Frank's back as he headed out into the cool California night.

"Yeah sorry," he answered softly; oblivious of the woman for the most part.

It was time for him to concentrate on why he was here. McCoy was not really sure of the answer. He had received a mysterious message on the public network. The text only message had beckoned him to come to the United Earth seat of government. Frank would have disregarded the note except that it had mentioned Fujairah. McCoy had flashed Soames. Both had agreed that it was almost certainly a trap. Yet there was little to go on save for an anonymous warning about space freighters. Frank got in his aircar.

The bridge was only a short distance away. He had no intention of meeting anyone on the great supporting spans of the Golden Gate Bridge under that person or person's terms. McCoy allowed the gravity generator to gently take the car up. He made a small turn and after keying the autodrive, McCoy sent the Toyota-Chevrolet into the local traffic stream. The simple onboard navigation console told him that he would pass over the bridge in five minutes. He made a quick call to Groom Lake in the meantime. Frank took up a small carryall and put it over his shoulder after the call.

He checked the car's progress. The lights of San Francisco filled the interior of his aircar. He reached in the carryall and withdrew a set of night vision glasses. The car neared the first span. Frank was not surprised when he saw nothing. He made one more call. At first he had planned to alter this scheme and land the car atop the span. But he thought, if it failed and he was reduced to something like a bug hitting a windscreen so be it. The car would fly on under its autodrive system. McCoy checked the setting one more time. Satisfied that the trusty little vehicle would make its way back to the rental agency he put the glasses in the pouch. He removed his Colt 2001 and took the safety off. He wondered if he would fall on his ass as the car faded away around him.

McCoy got his answer as he materialized in a sitting position. He fell backwards with a curse. He put his hands out as a great wind wafted around him. The cold steel of the ancient bridge quickly penetrated his clothes. McCoy sat up leveling the colt. He yelped as the pistol was kicked out of his hand. The augment, that McCoy had come to know as Kanya Nayyar stood over him. She had little time to be surprised as the bullet from the small pistol that Brack had given him struck her shin.

He had, upon Micah's advice concealed the museum piece up the sleeve of his jacket. He was pleased now that he had done as Brack had suggested. McCoy slowly pulled himself to his feet keeping the weapon leveled at the augment. Nayyar rolled and stood up despite the wound. The two adversaries faced one another. McCoy drew a bead on her forehead. He doubted that a genetically enhanced human being's skull was impervious.

"I told you about the Aryan Protocol you fool!" the woman roared.

"No more games, no more superior human crap," McCoy roared back. "Some superiority: Blowing up innocent people too powerless to defend themselves. I hope killing my father and Eileen makes you feel good. You can think about it on the way to hell, bitch."

She was about to speak when McCoy squeezed the trigger. He was surprised and distressed when he saw that she had moved out of the bullet's path. The acrid smell of gunpowder assaulted his nostrils while Frank considered that she could not possibly had outrun a bullet. He guessed that she had moved sometime while the hammer was striking the firing pin. McCoy fired again. Nayyar dodged aside. Frank saw that her right leg, below the shin, was soaked with blood.

"You stupid people must be inferior!" she yelled. The wind was fairly ripping over the high structure carrying her voice away. "I'm trying to help you!"

McCoy fired again. This time he fired one shot after another; just as Brack had told him not to. Frank squeezed the trigger of the old pistol only to find that it was jammed. The augment had stepped aside from his first shot: His second however had gone low, ricocheting off of the steel structure of the mighty bridge and striking Nayyar in the arm. Frank really had no conscious thought as he sprinted into the startled woman. He felt her wiggling away from him when the two of them plunged over the edge.

McCoy's stomach dropped out from under him for a second. His breath caught in his throat as his fall was abruptly stopped. Frank only had a second to wonder why he wasn't falling to his death when he felt the steely grip digging into his wrist. He looked up into the fierce face of Kanya Nayyar. McCoy's instinct to live returned when he saw that she was holding onto an edge of steel beam with one hand while suspending him with her other hand.

"Use the rivets and push with your feet McCoy!" the augment ordered him. "Listen McCoy: I'm going to pull you up. Grab me around my waist and hold on. Believe what you will but I can't hold you here much longer. If your thirst for revenge is that great then you were wrong that day on the space station: We are like you."

His arm was going to come out of its socket Frank thought. He marveled as Nayyar pulled him up until he could throw his arms around her muscular midsection. "If this is some kinda goddamned trick," he huffed out. Muscle that was something human and more, tightened in the augment. He felt Nayyar pull herself up taking him with her. Frank's foot caught onto a protruding piece of steel. He pushed. The two of them were soon lying side by side. "That was fun." His breath was settling down from great heaving gasps to something around normal.

"Okay; you better start talking!" he declared. It was false bravado he realized: She could have let him fall to the bridge roadway below. She could easily kill him now McCoy knew.

"Perex intends to crash a suborbital freighter into the presidential complex." Frank watched as Nayyar pulled herself to a sitting position and tended to her wounded arm. "I left those travel pamphlets for you to find. I thought even a—I thought that they would lead you to the correct cities." Her slipup did not escape Frank's attention.

"And you did this out of the kindness of your heart huh?" McCoy answered sharply. "How do I know that this isn't some elaborate trick of yours and your birdie masters?"

"Because, I don't want the Romulans as our masters, McCoy," she said. The augment stared at him until McCoy looked away. He pulled himself up wincing in agony as he realized that his wrist was probably broken. "I have—I have had a change of heart as you humans say." She looked at him as he nursed his wrist. "Deal with it! It'll heal hum—McCoy."

"You're human too; rather you want to admit it or not." Frank realized that he had lost Brack's museum piece handgun. The import of her words got his attention. "We had a crank report from somebody about a freighter. What are you saying?"

McCoy listened as the augment related details of Perrin's plan to crash an Iranian freighter into Thorpe's residence. The Tehran Express was, according to the plan that she was confessing to McCoy, supposed to be over the western edge of the United States in another two hours. Nayyar's part consisted of launching a small tactical nuke into the city center in an attempt to snarl traffic and short out the electronics. Then the freighter would come in; delivering a final blow to earth's seat of government.

"I suppose Perrin intends to pilot her in?" he asked.

"My people will do that," Nayyar answered.

"Why do you hate us so much?" he asked pointedly.

"When the Romulans woke us from cryogenic suspension they wasted no time in telling us how our people had exiled us." For a moment she looked less like a killing machine and more like a woman. "We were sent into exile at a younger age: The children of Chrysalis and the Great Khan. Neither I nor my companions remember earth save for our servants. I spent my childhood and teenage years learning how to hate humans."

"I 'spose you were told that you would get your own back?" he asked.

She nodded. "Being here," Nayyar looked at the San Francisco skyline, "on earth among our people. They were nothing like the Rihannsu claimed. I was beginning to have doubts after I killed your Admiral French: He was defiant even in death." She looked intently at him making Frank quite uncomfortable. "When you spared me McCoy my doubt increased."

McCoy's anger was unabated when he asked: "Then why in the hell did you kill my father and then—

He choked in anguish. McCoy wished that, despite what she had told him, that he still had the handgun. Frank didn't want to show weakness but he could not help it just then. He looked at her with tears in his eyes. He was amazed to see her shaking her head

"Were I to have done that I would have said so McCoy." Nayyar rocked back hugging her knees close to her. She unfolded her legs and stood up slowly. Frank realized that her leg wound must be agonizing, even for a genetically enhanced human being. "Perex may have arranged something without my knowledge but I know nothing about the death of your father or the woman. We discussed doing something like that but Perex determined that Thorpe needed to be removed."

"We have to stop that—if it is true," McCoy answered as he stood up in turn. "Brack can help. Maybe I can get the information leaked to the regular civilian authorities."

"I believe that Perex distrusts me," Nayyar countered. "The timing of the attack may be suspect. But I know that is the freighter. We can obtain the transponder codes and locate it. There may yet be time." She reached out with that inhuman speed and seized his arm. "I am sorry about your father and your woman McCoy. I would not condone such an act of cowardice now."

Despite his best efforts he wanted to believe the augment. If she were lying, there seemed to be a thousand things that she could do to put a stop to him. "Eileen is alive—for now anyway. There is no brain activity. They are keeping her alive hoping to save the baby."

"I did not know that she was with child McCoy," Nayyar answered. She released his arm. McCoy watched as she seemed to stare through him. "I cannot undo the past; but I can affect the future."

Frank pulled his handheld out of his carryall. He wondered how it had stayed with him through the tussle. "Will the crew take her in or are your people intending to get out?" he asked her.

"With few exceptions they believe in the superiority of the empire," Nayyar replied. "They look toward the promised day when they will be your appointed rulers over your—our people. A few were openly skeptical of our benefactors: They were removed. So the answer I believe is yes. Your people have air defenses around the government seat. Perex determined that the freighter could be knocked off course before it hit its target."

"Unless it was flown by human beings," McCoy concluded. McCoy started thinking. This spy stuff was giving him headaches. "If you're not trusted and you were put here," he stopped and thought about his next statement. "You were put here for a one way ticket. You wouldn't stand a chance up here once that freighter goes up." McCoy knew that the Tehran Express' fusion reactor would scram on impact. There was no danger there. But the freighter's hybrid hydrazine maneuvering fuel could easily take out a portion of San Francisco.

"A test of my loyalty?" she asked him. "I know that Perex has been suspicious. But he has the freighter. My people are flying it."

"The freighter probably figures into this." McCoy thought frantically. He needed help of some kind here. He needed to contact Admiral Soames. Brack had finally arranged for a secure link into the admiral's apartment. That did not include using his handheld unfortunately.

"McCoy," Nayyar said his name in a quiet voice. "How did you get here? You came out of the light."

"Get your gear!" The navy CPO in him snapped out.

He watched as the augment picked up the small shoulder launcher. McCoy keyed a sequence into his handheld. He looked at the augment. She looked like a scared but defiant young woman. "Fasten your seatbelt!" he declared.

San Francisco vanished. McCoy still hated this procedure. Transportation made him wondered if he would ever be human again. McCoy's Baptist roots called to him: This whole method of tearing people apart molecule by molecule seemed unholy. Frank wondered each time if his soul had made the trip along with him. His apartment appeared around him. Nayyar stood beside him, still impassive. Frank was a little disappointed that the trip hadn't seemed to affect her. Maybe the augments really were supermen he thought.

Without warning she vomited onto his carpet. "You do this all of the time?" she asked moments later as she wiped at her mouth.

He nodded. "More than I'd like to admit." McCoy looked at her. He was about to tell her to go to another room while he contacted Soames. He guessed that her hearing was enhanced as well. He shrugged and initiated a public net call. McCoy quickly inserted a data wafer into his call unit as he punched in the admiral's code.

"Hullo Frank," the hushed tones of Erica Soames came out of the small speaker grill. It was plain from her image that he had awakened her. He quickly filled her in on what had taken place. "You don't trust this woman do you?" she asked. McCoy was fully aware that Nayyar could hear everything that was said.

"It is no more crazy than anything else admiral." He sighed. "Is there a way that you can scramble the air defense forces without people asking questions?"

Soames was thoughtful; finally she replied after what seemed like ages to Frank. "There were too many questions after—after Las Vegas. The president called and asked me directly if I knew anything about Miss Thomas. The Las Vegas police found your name among her things."

"They don't think?" he asked in a hushed tone.

Soames gulped. "Think that you killed her; no. You were at a briefing here remember? But the connection between you, me, her and the Sons' sent some flags to the president through his own investigators."

"Damnit, we have to find that freighter admiral!" McCoy exclaimed. "Are you saying that your hands are tied?"

"Perhaps not," Soames was silent yet again. "I think that I can do something." Soames peered into her screen. "You should go to Las Vegas Frank. Whatever happens this night, whatever happened between you and Thomas is past. You need to go see her—before the end."

Frank nodded. "Good luck Erica." She nodded back and wished him the same. She cut the circuit between the two. McCoy withdrew the data wafer and sighed. "Well I guess—

His apartment was empty. McCoy wondered if he had just sealed earth's fate. He was too tired and grief stricken to care anymore. He gathered up a jacket and headed out for the shuttle terminal. McCoy realized that there would be questions if he just showed up in Las Vegas. He wanted to be there now but he knew it was not possible. He hoped he got there before it was too late. McCoy closed the door of his apartment behind him. The pain in his wrist was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.

Langley AFB, Virginia, the old United States, Nov 2157

The gate guard saluted Erica Soames smartly. His uniform was a throwback to the past: The US Air Force blue jacket and pants topped off smartly with the beret. She realized that he would wonder why a Star Fleet admiral wanted onto the flightline this late at night. But he would not dare question anyone so high ranking.

"Guess I'll be wearing one of those in another month ma'am," he said looking at Erica's blue Star Fleet jacket over her gold command tunic. Erica knew that after the Sons' of Terra crumbling support here that the US Congress had finally voted to disband all but ceremonial units of the US military and integrate those who volunteered into Star Fleet.

"I am sure that you'll do splendidly airman," Soames answered with a smile. She returned his salute then drove onto the base. She was soon navigating among a network of hangars. For a few minutes she was a young girl again; climbing into the cockpit of an RAF Crusader training aircraft. The world was simpler then Soames thought. She chuckled out loud as she arrived at her destination.

"Guess I'll be wearing one of those in another month ma'am," he said looking at Erica's blue Star Fleet jacket over her gold command tunic. Erica knew that after the Sons' of Terra crumbling support here that the US Congress had finally voted to disband all but ceremonial units of the US military and integrate those who volunteered into Star Fleet.

"I am sure that you'll do splendidly airman," Soames answered with a smile. She returned his salute then drove onto the base. She was soon navigating among a network of hangars. For a few minutes she was a young girl again; climbing into the cockpit of an RAF Crusader training aircraft. The world was simpler then Soames thought. She chuckled out loud as she arrived at her destination. A tired looking man in an Air Force flight suit stood outside one of the hangars.

Erica got out of the car as the easily one hundred eighty eight centimeter George Riker walked over to meet her. His black hair was peppered with some gray. That was different from the last time that she had run into him. That experience had been a fun one. Soames wondered if anything else on Riker was aging then shelved that thought as she recalled that he had gotten married recently. The two hugged; as friends.

"The war has been treating you good Erica," Riker remarked while he peered at the stripes on her sleeve.

"What about you George?" she asked. "I can't see you as a man who wants to stay behind." She was glad that he had chosen to remain where he was though. She doubted that she could sell her scheme to anyone else.

"I was ready to make the plunge," Riker explained. "The Stellar—Star Fleet is conducting a short integration course for officers and enlisted people from earth's remaining national services. I would have started as an ensign with the equivalent time to move on to lieutenant after a year."

"Did," Soames searched her mind for the name, "Carol have anything to say about it?"

"I'm happy for the time we've had together," Riker smiled broadly. "I've seen the birth of my son and we have a girl now, Tanzy Renee. A lot of the guys in the navy can't say they seen that." Riker sighed. "I have to admit too that I swore to defend and protect the Constitution of the United States. That didn't include running off to fight in space."

"Congratulations," Soames said. She felt a pang of emptiness over her own childlessness. "I'm sure that they are lovely children George." Had it been that long she wondered? She pushed down the thoughts in her mind: Soames had other issues to deal with.

He nodded his thanks and smiled. "But I don't think my family life or talk of old times is what brought you out to the flightline tonight Erica." Riker looked into the sky. "You picked a nice night to fly though. Just how long has it been Erica?"

Soames knew that he was talking about her last time in a cockpit at the primary controls. "I won't lie to you George: It has been well over ninety days." Actually it had been well over a year. "But I've blown off some steam in the sim." Eight months ago she had borrowed some time in a shuttle flight simulator.

"This is a tough call Erica," Riker answered. "Me and you go back a long time; we've," he left that statement open. Soames was well aware of what she and Riker had done in the past. "How is your spatial 'd' problem?" he asked pointedly.

"You know that I've had reconstructive surgeries on my inner ears," she answered. The doctors had recommended that Soames fly light aircraft only, but nothing rated for acrobatics and most certainly nothing rated for combat: The surgery had only repaired so much.

"I know you did good before," Riker answered. "But I had to take the controls when you tried that roll. Maybe I should go up there with you?"

"I like the roll we took after the flight," she answered coyly and smiled.

Riker laughed. "Those were good times Erica." His face grew serious. "I'm just worried about turning you loose with an F-309. Christ, Erica it is almost midnight here. All of a sudden you call me with a request about recreational flying."

It was time to see how much their brief relationship had counted; time to see if she had impressed upon Major George Riker what kind of a person that she was. "This is not a casual request George. I need that fighter. I need to go up alone. I'm still having some spatial disorientation problems. You know that; or I'd be on duty on a cruiser instead of a bloody desk. I'll take it easy George; no wild stuff, no Immelmanns. I promise."

"Is this something official Erica?" he asked. "I know that you probably have double top secret clearances but this is me Erica!"

"Do I get the plane or not George?" she asked at last.

He rubbed at his neck frantically. He looked at her, shrugged and beckoned for her to follow him into the hangar. "Remember there is no AG unit in these babies; no cushy fake gravity. It's you, your instruments and the seat of your pants."

"There is more of that last than I'd care to admit," she answered and laughed. Too much time at a desk she thought. "Is the eastern training area still open?" She needed an area where she could disappear. The block of airspace reserved for military training flights would suit that purpose just fine she thought.

"It is," he answered simply. "But you could go up over the Atlantic if all you want to do is some cloud chasing; after all you said you weren't going to do any crazy flying."

"Nothing crazy; I promise George," she answered. Riker's skepticism was visible.

"Okay Erica," he answered at last. He escorted her into the locker room. Erica noted that he was not shy as she shed her Star Fleet uniform before him. He got a small flightsuit out of the locker room storage room and handed it to her. "Nothing has changed from the last time. We got an upgrade in our avionics suite. You might know more about it than me."

She smiled and nodded. Soames knew that Riker was referring to her position in intelligence. But she had specifically looked up the specifications on earth's last finest atmospheric fighter aircraft as she had hatched this plan. She did not miss Riker's perusal of her body as she threw the flightsuit over her shoulders and zipped it up. She hoped to God that there was still time. She remembered McCoy's caution that the Romulans might not trust this augmented woman, Nayyar. She was packing the necessary flight items into the many leg and breast pockets of the suit. Soames became aware that Riker was speaking again.

"Anyway in another month you'll be my superior officer," he said. "Carol took it hard but the navy needs people; even thirty five year old relics like me. I leave for San Francisco after Christmas."

"We are making progress George," she brushed a hand against his cheek and kissed him. "I hope that you won't have to be away long." Soames was about to offer to help Riker find a suitable position. But she knew the officer well enough to know that George had to make his own way. "You'll be a lieutenant commander before you know it George. We need good leadership out there, bloody hell we need it badly."

"Nothing wrong with your memory Erica," Riker said. She was finishing the final touches cinching up her acceleration harness. She realized that he was referring to how she had put on her harness without thinking about it.

"Thanks again George!" she said as she finished dressing. She pressed herself against him and threw her arms around him. How she wished that she could tell him the real reason for this flight. "You'll do fine in Star Fleet."

He embraced her in turn—as a friend and nothing more. She released him and looked into his eyes. He stroked at his chin. "Anyway I could never grow a beard in the Air Force. I'll be able to do that in the navy." He motioned for her to follow him. "Let's go."

"You're McCoy?" the doctor asked. He was a tall older man, absently scribbling notes onto a clipboard.

"It should have been you!" Kara Thomas spat out. Frank had missed Maurice and Kara Thomas as he had raced through the antiseptic hallways of the hospital. Frank McCoy turned in time as the palm of Kara's right hand landed squarely against his cheek. The sound of the slap echoed through the hospital hallway.

"Come on Kara this isn't going to solve anything." Mo Thomas laid a consoling hand on his wife's shoulder. Maurice looked at Frank. "Frank we know that you didn't have any--

"So you are Mister McCoy?" the doctor asked again.

"Of course I'm McCoy you fool," Frank roared back. He was tired and frustrated. His wrist was a throbbing mass of agony. "How—

The question hung there. Frank knew the answer before the doctor spoke. He was no stranger to bad news. The man continued staring at his clipboard as he declared: "I'm sorry; Eileen Thomas passed away five minutes ago. We did everything that we possibly could. There was nothing to be done with that much cerebral damage I'm afraid."

Kara Thomas burst into sobs mostly except that she managed to call McCoy a bastard. Maurice Thomas shot Frank a sorrowful glance as he put a comforting arm around his wife. The couple shuffled back to the waiting area. McCoy turned to the doctor again. There seemed to be little else to be said or done. The doctor glanced down at Frank's mangled, bruised wrist.

"Let me see that," the doctor seemed to become more human. He gave McCoy's wrist a thorough going over. "My name is Bob Sollenberger. Sorry about all of that. This is a part of the job I can never get used too. They will need some time." Doctor Sollenberger nodded toward the Thomas's. "Goddamned Sons' of Terra garbage anyway; they can't win at the polls so they start going crazy and murdering their own."

"Can I—can I see her doctor?" he asked. He realized that he should be crying but he was instead empty of feeling.

"Are you allergic to any drugs Frank?" Sollenberger asked. He felt a tiny prick in his wrist. Sollenberger withdrew a small syringe from the flesh of Frank's arm. The pain in his hand and wrist seemed to abate somewhat. "You can see her." He put a guiding hand on McCoy's shoulder. "Come on." Sollenberger seemed to lighten up somewhat. "On the good side your child survived." He looked sharply at McCoy. "I assume from what the deceased's parents told me that the child is yours?"

"What the hell are you saying?" Frank asked absently. They arrived in the hospital room. Frank felt a pain in his heart as he seen Eileen. Her head was bandaged. What flesh was visible was badly bruised. McCoy took her hand. It was still warm.

"Tissue rejection is still a risk factor in such situations of course," Sollenberger went on as Frank looked at Eileen. She was not going to wake up miraculously. He squeezed her dead hand gently. "But the recipient's immune system is somewhat highly developed. We see that from time to time since the Horrors; survival of the fittest and such."

"I'm sorry baby," he bent over and kissed her lifeless lips. The tears came at last. Sollenberger's words; which had been mostly mumblings to McCoy started to hit home. "What the hell are you talking about; and yes: The baby was mine." Of that McCoy was sure. He had used her to obtain information but their relationship had become something else. Now his actions had killed her.

"The fetus is approximately eight weeks old. We can't keep humans that young alive outside of the uterus. The Vulcans have a technique to handle early pregnancies but you know since the war and all." Sollenberger seemed full of explanations except when it came to answering Frank's question. McCoy peered at him. "Oh sorry; a volunteer stepped forward and we transplanted your son into her: I thought that you knew? Tissue rejection was negligible; like I said a remarkable and highly adaptive immune system. That will be some small comfort for her parents." Doctor Sollenberger sighed. "You have good friends Mister McCoy."

"What?" he asked in a confused tone.

"Why the mother—the surrogate mother," Sollenberger explained while looking confused in turn. "I'll need to put your arm in a cast. But I have this new bone knitting device. You should be able to discard the cast and use your arm in a—

"What about the goddamned surrogate mother?" he asked angrily. The room was swirling around him.

"You are going into shock Frank." Sollenberger started guiding McCoy to a chair.

"Let me see the surrogate mother!" He was nearly shrieking.

"Very well," Sollenberger seemed to relent. McCoy felt another stab, this time in his arm. "The sedative will take hold in a few minutes. I suppose that there is no harm in you seeing Miss Nayyar." The floor rushed up at McCoy's face. He knew no more.

Soames pointed the Condor's nose down the runway. She had elected to perform a short field takeoff rather than the more fuel wasting vertical takeoff that the Condor could do. After a quick departure clearance she punched in some course corrections into the onboard navigation computer. Seconds later the tower called with takeoff clearance. Erica gently pushed the Condor's throttles up. The craft rolled slowly then picked up speed rapidly. She was airborne.

The g forces pushed her back in the heavily padded pilot's seat. Soames reveled in the feeling of freedom that flying gave her. She pushed the stick a little to the left as she pulled the nose up. She would be severely fined if she broke the sound barrier at this altitude. She reached down and turned the fighter's lights off as she broke three thousand meters. She was on a course that would put her in the training area in less than an hour. She pushed the craft's speed up to just below eleven hundred kilometers an hour.

Traffic control was unhappy with her speed but the Condor's advanced radar allowed her to easily clear the multitudinous number of freighters, passenger liners and privately owned aircraft. At twenty-three hundred kph and twelve thousand meters Soames switched to fuel saving supercruise mode. She had decided to coast to the training area while slowly accelerating to mach three. She looked at her chronometer. Three hours had passed since Frank McCoy's desperate phone call. She briefly wondered how McCoy was but then she turned back to the problem at hand.

Soames studied the specifications for the Tehran Express on her handheld: Built early in the twenty second century the Boeing suborbital freighter was the first craft to make use of artificial gravity. It used the gravity web as a secondary system while relying mainly upon simple aeronautics during climbout and descent. Soames read down through a list of technical specifications. The big freighter grossed a little over six hundred and eighty thousand kilograms. It had a remarkably safe service record save for an incident in 2132 when one of them had broken up over the Kamchatka Peninsula. Soames was close to the leading edge of the training area.

"Saint Louis control this is Condor one-eight closing on the alpha-zulu intersection," Soames released the radio switch and called up details of the decades old freighter crash. Very interesting she thought as she studied the details of the crash.

"Condor one-eight the box is empty tonight," a bored sounding woman replied. "Request EFC?"

"Zero-nine-one-five," she answered. Her fuel state would force her to go somewhere by that time. Soames had peeked at the freighter schedule at a public access terminal. She was learning how to cover her tracks.

"Okay Condor," the controller answered; "cleared into the Whiskey one-five area until zero-one-nine-five 'z'. Go to standby on your squawk and call center ten minutes prior to exit."

"Roger, roger," Soames answered. She gently rolled the sleek jet black craft and started a plunging descent towards the ground. She turned off the radar transponder. Erica pulled the 309 out of its descent and slowed to below mach two. The craft, devoid of external lighting and near undetectable by radar should for all intents have disappeared Erica hoped.

Soames knew that the 309, lacking a fusion generator would also be invisible to subspace sensors. Those scanners were, for the most part pointed out into space. She was thankful that the new scanners had not been everything that the pointy heads in the scientific community had promised. Otherwise this little flight of hers would be fruitless. She turned on the craft's powerful search radar.

Overhead the stealthy little craft was the high altitude suborbital routes. Soames guessed that if there was anything to this kamikaze style attack that was where the Tehran Express would come from. She plugged a new destination into the computer. Soames pulled the fighter's stick back while slamming the throttles forward. The readout of the digital altimeter spun around crazily as the fighter headed for twenty-six thousand meters. Soames grew nauseous.

Where was the bloody goddamned horizon? "Not now, not now," she said softly. Soames forced her eyes to fixate on her heads-up-display. She panicked. Erica desperately wanted to pull the stick back further before she crashed. She had to be in a nose down attitude her body told her. "No, no, no!" she exclaimed. Her breath which had started to come in great heaving gasps started to settle down. Soames realized that she had gone to full oxygen into her helmet. She switched the regulator back to automatic. Despite the heat in the fighter's cockpit she was shivering.

Her fighter was climbing through fifteen thousand meters. Soames looked at a group of radar returns along the suborbital route. Anyone of them, she realized could be the Tehran Express. Her craft's collision avoidance system squawked a warning. She was penetrating the low altitude shuttle routes. An unknown was converging on her heading but it was over seven kilometers away. At thirteen hundred kilometers an hour she guessed that it was a passenger shuttle. The moon was behind the shuttle making her Condor a black speck in an inky black sky.

The Condor's ascent slowed as she approached eighteen thousand meters. She let the flight and engine computer calculate an optimal climb for her. Soames needed the fuel to loiter up there. She desperately hoped that she was not too late. Soames changed the radio frequency over to the one used by high attitude traffic. Erica doubted that tactic would bear fruit as air traffic was mostly automated except for the need to advise the occasional acrobat or military fliers such as herself.

Her spatial disorientation had settled down. Soames sat back in the padded seat and checked her heading, airspeed, attitude and systems. She wondered what would happen if she experienced a malfunction. Erica determined that the Condor would have to be engulfed in flames before she would abort the flight. Soames noted that the Condor was just clearing twenty-three thousand meters.

Erica rolled the craft causing it to spiral up the rest of the way to the altitude that she desired. The night was black and the moon was full. Erica looked up and watched a freighter pass overhead. Its radar signature identified it as the London Star; a new Mikoyan-Bell. Soames wondered if the cagey augments would try changing their codes. That would have presented a problem for her except that the Express was a faster mach six freighter, relying as it did on its aeronautics to get it up and down and not a gravity web. Soames grew agitated as she got closer to where she wanted to be. She busied herself setting up an orbit.

Soames listened as the occasional bored controller contacted some of the inbounds, asking them inane questions about where they had come from and their destination. She found herself nodding as the Condor started its first orbit. The controller was inquiring about the UK's chances in rugby this year: Abysmal Soames thought, they might as well be Americans. She usually didn't resort to criticism of her countryman. But she felt in this case that it was warranted. The pilot returned with an equally silly question about the attempted revival of baseball. British companies were trying to reorganize the London Kings.

Soames wanted to close her eyes. The autopilot would level the Condor off. She had set up a patrol orbit. "What do you think about cricket this year?" the controller asked.

"Singapore is going to take Division Two," a chipper female pilot answered. "Those buggers from Tehran will probably win in Division One."

"What about it Tehran Express," the controller asked. Soames came alive in the seat. "Tehran Express center you are at the edge of my scope, over," the controller waited.

So did Soames. She busily punched the controller's frequency into her direction finding gear. There was silence. That was not unusual Soames knew. The controller would ping the freighter's communication node if something important came up. The flight crews could turn their radios to silent although most didn't. Erica did a mental review of the airspace that the controlled reigned over. She wanted to kick something when she realized that the freighter could be coming from the east or up from the south.

Her search radar showed a few promising targets. The Romulans had been smart to commandeer the flight as a charter. That meant that their crew didn't have to file a flight plan until just before their departure. Soames couldn't do a detail search without having left a trail in the data networks. Reed had warned her to in that regard.

She had narrowed it down to three choices when a voice chimed into her helmet headset. "We don't follow cricket, control." A harsh, flat, Soames guessed oriental voice answered. An indicator displayed on her HUD lit up with a heading. Erica rolled the Condor toward the heading and moved the throttles forward.

She felt the kick as the fighter accelerated past mach three. Erica's head started to swim. She swallowed hard and stared intently at her instruments. The freighter was twenty-eight hundred kilometers away on a converging heading. She did some mental arithmetic: The freighter was closing on her at six thousand kph. She pulled her speed back. She wanted a better position to come at the big suborbital craft from. The two aircraft would cross paths in less than four minutes.

Soames saw a light on the horizon. The light did not move and was growing in intensity. Erica shut off her collision warning system. Her search radar had acquired and locked on to the Tehran Express. Soames let her gloved finger caress the Condor's air-to-air cannon. She sighed and cursed under her breath. The circuit breakers for the fighter's weapons had been pulled for the training flight. Riker would wonder what had happened to some of the hardened duranium slug ammunition if she punched the breakers in and took the shot. That would not bode well for her or McCoy if the freighter was destroyed by cannon fire. She decided to press on with her plan.

The distance decreased. She had to be dead on or she would be the dead one Soames thought. She slammed the throttles forward. The Condor's speed picked up. The lights formed the shape of a large triangle. Soames' radar told her that she was less than thirty seconds away. Erica maneuvered as delicately as she dare. She threw the Condor hard over and pushed in the Condor's engines' afterburner. The augments would no doubt catch the brief flare.

Soames switched to a rear camera: The huge, stubby triangular wings of the freighter were clearly visible. The Express looked like a fat dart to Erica. It was a dart that was in trouble. Soames grunted hard as she threw the fighter into a turn. The Tehran Express rolled sharply to the port and back to the starboard as she lost sight of it. She tried to imagine the pilots, genetically superior or not, trying to fight the burst of supersonic wake turbulence that she had just left for them. Soames inner ear told her that she was falling backward. Her hand jerked on the control stick.

"Just give me a few more bloody minutes,' she mumbled. She throttled back and made her turn more shallow lest she blackout. Her radar reacquired the freighter which had slowed below mach three and was rapidly descending.

"Tehran Express you have departed your filed reentry profile," the controller still sounded bored but there was a small note of anxiety in his voice.

Erica leveled her fighter out. She accelerated through mach four. The augments had shut off the cargo hauler's running lights but they could not shut off the moon. Soames saw the delta winged freighter silhouetted against the lunar orb. She should be able to fly right over top of it. The Condor's speed approached mach five. The black dart was visible to Erica as an airship for a split second. The Condor broke mach five as it flew overtop the freighter. Soames guessed that no more than fifty meters separated the two craft. She grunted against the g forces as she threw the 309 into another turn.

Soames guessed that she would be able to complete the turn in thirty seconds or so. She fought against her senses by keeping her eyes glued to her instruments. The search radar pinged in her helmet headset as she rolled out of the turn. The electronic flash suppressor in the visor of her helmet saved her vision. For one second Soames saw the freighter clearly: One of its delta wings peeled off like it was paper. The Express turned sharply; looking like a weathervane twisting in the wind. The freighter exploded creating a massive fireball. Soames pulled back hard on the stick.

The concussive wave of the explosion sent the 309 reeling. Red lights started appearing across her instrument panel and on the aircraft's HUD. Erica no longer knew what was up or down. The compass spun wildly as the fighter fell in a tight spiral toward the earth.

"Computer relight protocol!" she exclaimed to the plane's voice activated emergency system. The fighter's engines had flamed out somewhere between the blast and her abrupt pull up. Soames vision swam as her spatial disorientation fought to overtake her. She fixated on her instruments again: She immediately wished that she hadn't. Flight Lieutenant Marla Fitzpatrick's smug, condescending voice echoed in Erica's mind.

"Sometimes the aircraft is unrecoverable," Fitzpatrick had lectured a fresh Cadet Soames. "In that case you pull that red handle and shoot your prim little arse out of the cockpit."

That would be fine except the authorities would come upon the wreckage of the Condor. That would effectively put an end the Soames little spying adventures. The Condor was falling like a rock. It struck Erica that ejection might be her only option. If she lived she could at least protect Frank during the investigation. Fitzpatrick's voice floated through her haze of nausea and confusion.

"If you really get in trouble you twit, try putting out your landing gear." Soames had cultivated an active dislike for the flight lieutenant during her training phase. Nonetheless she found herself grasping the gear handle. Soames watched as red lights turned to green. She checked her instruments one last time as she grasped the red ejection handle.

The compass stopped spinning. The Condor flew straight ahead with a somewhat nose down attitude. The indicators for the starboard engine came alive. Soames looked at the shards of the Tehran Express: Pieces of flaming wreckage spiraling toward the earth.

"That's what you get for snubbing cricket you arrogant bastards," she proclaimed quietly. She released the ejection handle and pushed the right engine throttle up and retracted the 309's landing gear. The port engine ignited. Soames nursed it along as she pulled the fighter's nose up to abate her descent. Her aircraft had fallen little more three thousand meters.

The search radar showed little traffic before her. Soames turned in a general heading for the warning area. Her fuel was good. Riker would doubtless give her hell about cutting into her reserve. But she could explain that. Let the president investigate her now. The luckless Tehran Express had encountered some particularly bad clear air turbulence. She guessed—hoped that the augments would have disconnected the flight recorder. Soames would worry about that when and if the time came.

Construction Site of Star Fleet Deep Space One station, Nov 2157

"Those uniforms aren't authorized anymore," Ensign Jason Crusher told Chief Lindquist 'Jack' Clemmons. The older man followed Crusher's gaze. A middle-aged chief petty officer was wearing a holdover dark blue Russian flight suit instead of the Star Fleet tunic and black slacks.

Jack took a deep breath. This wasn't the first new officer that he had broken in. "We were shorted on coveralls when we came out here sir. That and the temperature in this environmental junction; my engineers need something they feel comfortable working in." Clemmons could see the spit-and-polish lecture in the workings of Crusher's mind. It was not the first time that Jack had heard it. He didn't need to hear it again. "I'll tell Chief Revmir to change ensign;" after she had completed her task. The primary heat exchanger was nearly as important as the power relays. If the birdies hit that he thought: The station personnel would be in space suits. "Let's look at the sensor readings ensign."

It felt good to leave the environmental area for the main engineering section. Clemmons walked over to what had been the sensor panel from a Minotaur. Some spare parts had come Jack's way and he had put them to use. The formal engineering-operations center interface panel had yet to be installed. Crusher stepped out ahead of him awkwardly. Clemmons gestured for him to take the lead.

"Any thoughts on why they are hanging out there chief?" he asked Jack. Clemmons was surprised that the ensign cared about his opinion. Jack supposed that Crusher had learned to patronize enlisted people in one of those Star Fleet courses. No, Jack thought, he had to give Crusher the benefit of the doubt.

The Romulan attack group had halted just past fifty thousand kilometers. Clemmons had watched the sensor images, piped down from the operations center, as the Romulan cruisers had spread out. Sensor images had showed the enemy cruisers discharging their version of mumbo-jumbo. Jack knew that the radar obscuring material was no match for subspace sensors. But it made the job of the sensor operator about one hundred times as difficult.

"The Minnies will find out soon enough, ensign," Clemmons answered. Commander Walters had dispatched two of the stubby fighters to scout out the situation. Clemmons took a seat and loaded up the doomed Borei's final logs. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Crusher turned to examining the station's sewage recovery system. "That's been cut off ensign," Clemmons said quietly. "The station's sections are all independent until the attack is over."

Clemmons continued his analysis as Captain Archer's voice boomed out of the address system. "This is the captain. The scouts are making their way out toward the Romulan positions." Jack tried to listen as the fighters returned reports of more solid masses existing in the chaff. But he had discovered an odd pattern imbedded in Captain Dobrynin's last transmission.

"Mister Crusher; you are supposed to be a warp field expert," Clemmons began; "Take a look at this sub-carrier wave here."

Crusher walked over and looked over Jack's shoulder. "It looks normal—

"Yeah, that is what I thought," Clemmons said. "There should be a background harmonic from their subspace sensor emissions."

"Maybe they," Crusher stopped as Clemons started from the beginning of the recorded signal.

"We got pinged by the Vesta's navigation beacon before the attack," Clemmons added. "Take a look how the harmonic goes off scale for just a few nanoseconds."

"Their beacon is missing the same harmonic," Crusher said.

"So either they turned off their sensors," Jack said; "or else they had them turned off by someone."

"Some kind of feedback wave," the ensign was speculating and not asking. Jack nodded. He realized that despite his impression of the ensign as being somewhat arrogant that Crusher was indeed an engineer. "We need more information here chief."

"Sir," Jack took a breath. He knew that he was going to have a problem selling this. "It ain't exactly standard procedure to turn these things off." In fact, it bothered Clemmons that many crews were becoming more reliant on the new sensors. Jack was never one to disdain any new technology but he also believed that new technologies had to be thoroughly examined before they came into widespread use.

"Chief if we have to go to radar its going to make this a short fight," Crusher answered guessing where Clemmons was headed.

"If we lose sensors in the middle of the fight what will happen?" Jack retorted then added: "Sir." He continued. "If we set up for radar now we'll still have an advantage. If we wait we'll be hung out until we get a good radar picture."

"We've been working on a way to jam subspace sensors chief," Crusher answered. "We haven't had any luck because the generated waves are too randomized."

"It's a little arrogant to assume that just because we haven't done it the birdies can't sir," Jack said. "If anything the birdies have shown us that they can adapt left and right."

"I can't call Captain Archer with guesses chief," Crusher said. Jack realized that it was a contest, between Crusher's ego and his intellect. Jack made a decision of his own.

"Ops, engineering," Clemmons started. Crusher glared at him. When Ensign Chandra replied Jack explained what he thought of as a danger to the station.

"Good call chief," Archer answered. "Trip just sent us a coded text saying the same thing. We are transitioning to subspace radar. Go to standby on the sensors for now."

"That was Ensign Crusher's call sir," Clemmons countered. "We'll make the changes here sir."

Clemmons closed the circuit. "I never would have made that call—without some tests first chief." Crusher looked angry and embarrassed.

"I understand sir," Clemmons answered. "Look, you'll work out just fine out here. I don't mean any disrespect ensign. I heard that you lost people out here. But this is no glorious struggle out here. You go to a hospital on Terra Nova and earth and you see your buddies burnt from radiation and sterile or decompressed so badly that their lungs ain't never gonna work right again: It'll open your eyes. Most days I'm just glad that I'm alive. A lot of us feel that way. We know we might die and personally I hope it's gonna be a quick one: Blown out into space or burned up all at once." Jack shuddered as he recalled his old friend Fred Turner: Burned over ninety percent of his body by delta radiation. Turner was on permanent life support and would be until he drew his last breath.

"I guess I'm new at this chief," Crusher answered. "In the academy I had all sorts of training situations and simulations. I remember the NCO's telling us how it is nothing like the real thing."

"Things are never black and white here ensign," Clemmons answered. "You need to check your ego at the door though."

"It's gonna be tough chief," Crusher answered him. "Okay chief I'm going to issue an order then: Tell me when I'm being an idiot, Chief Clemmons." Clemmons was surprised to see Crusher laugh.

"You got it sir," Jack answered. "And call me Jack. I can't call a man an idiot unless I'm on a first name basis with him. But I'll still call you sir." Jack hastened to add this last: He had been in the navy too long.

"Okay you got it chief—Jack," Crusher said agreeably. Jack stepped aside so that Crusher could help him with his analysis. Maybe the hotshot would be okay.

Archer listened with growing trepidation as Walters' Minotaurs reported in. The fighters had shut off their sensors just in time. Crusher had reported a spike through subspace communications that seemed to be a spillover from the sensor bands. Archer guessed that such an emanation would have caused massive damage to the station's sensors. The Minotaurs had gotten some sensor readings though; before they were almost destroyed by plasma fire.

"Radiologic readings along with readings of heavy metals," Commander Walters had relayed the findings from his fighters.

"Nuclear bombs," Archer said at last. He had been busy looking at the weapons' dispersal pattern. "It's a mine field."

"In that volume of space?" the commander asked. "I don't know the number but there would have to be millions of mines for that."

"Look at this," Jonathan answered. He reconfigured the viewer that he had been using. A graphical representation appeared showing the station surrounded by groups of unknowns. "These minefields don't have to be that big." He pointed at what he suspected was one of the groups of mines. Then he illuminated a second group of moving targets. "These images are moving consistent with the observed movement of Romulan Aeons. If we send fighters out to any of these open areas—

"We'd be blanketed by Eightballs," Walters finished. "Christ I should have seen that for myself." Archer understood why the man had come with Admiral Buchanan's highest endorsement after Walters added: "I bet these mines are arranged just so that if we try sweeping them their cruisers can fire cannons at us from behind the minefield."

"The range is just right," Archer said. He knew that subspace communications were being jammed. There were no schedule taskforces for another week. Deep Space One was surrounded with no chance of getting their few ships out.

"I figured them for more capital ships though," Walters continued. "We got older readings of Topaz. Their force could be twice this and they could still defend Topaz. But this is going to be settled by fighters; that much is for sure."

Archer nodded. The fighters would wear Deep Space One defenses down. Once that was accomplished a single Chowder or Cabbage could finish them. "We don't have enough." Archer had read the numbers. Intelligence had assumed that another group of Minotaurs would be on station before the Romulans would attack. The building of the station had been kept secret for the most part.

"I'm afraid not captain," Walters said. "But I've briefed the crews on my plan. If," Archer noted how the commander emphasized that last word. "If it works then I can use the Minnies to act as mobile fire teams. They'll stand and fight adding to the station's heavy guns."

"Their fighter count is pretty large," Archer said.

"Which means that I should get out there with my crews," Walters answered.

"Negative, commander," Archer replied immediately. Henry and Sally Archer had never raised him to be arrogant. Jon knew that he was just barely in his league when it came to commanding this shell of a station: He was completely out of it when it came to ramrodding a fighter group. "I need you expertise in here." Archer held up his hand when he saw that Walters was about to protest. "Save it commander: I've read your record. You commanded an entire taskforce at Hell's Gate. I'd guess were I in your place that I'd want to be out there with my people. But that is what happens when you pick up extra stripes. You've trained your people; now it time is time to put your trust in them."

Archer watched as Walters laughed. "I guess that you are right sir. I just never figured I'd end up being first officer of a space station. That will have to rank up there with dog catcher or something."

Now it was Jonathan's turn to laugh. "I don't know: I think that these stations might become very important places in the future. But you have to be higher up than dog catcher; if you are then I can be somebody important!"

"Sir; the scouts are tracking inbound Eightballs on radar," Lieutenant Commander Jeff Sutton declared. The operations' officer on loan from Fearless had assumed the post of sensor officer.

"It's begun," Archer said simply. "Commander Walters; recall your fighters and institute your plan."

"Lasers are charged and radar solutions are available, captain," Lt. Talas reported from the gunnery position.

"Trafalgar is calling sir," Ensign Chandra announced.

Archer nodded at her. "Put it on the overhead ensign."

"Deep Space One this is Valdez." Captain Xavier Valdez's voice floated out of the overhead speakers. "I'm sending you a chart of this area sectioned off into pieces. The Romulans have us boxed in but the corollary is that that can't make a close pass to us without heavy casualties. We'll do damage control by moving to the section where the attack is the worst."

"That would be just about everywhere about now." Archer heard Commander Walters say.

"Coordinate with our gunnery crews so we don't shoot at you captain," Archer said. "We have your IFF; make sure to change it on a rotating basis." Valdez acknowledged with his agreement. Archer closed communications with the Tannhauser class cruiser. He looked sharply at Walters.

"Sorry captain, just thinking out loud," his first officer answered. "They've come here with less than a hundred cruisers. But if you look at the numbers of Eightballs it looks like each Cabbage and Veronus was packed to the gills with fighters."

"Pirate Aeons are moving past their minefields captain," Sutton informed Archer.

"Lieutenant Talas," Archer started. "Hold your fire until they are just beyond Mambo range."

"That will give them an optimal release point for their weapons captain," the Andorian woman retorted. "I have targeting solutions that can hit them a lot further out."

"And give them a chance to evade," Archer replied. "We'll also lose emitter energy. I need every shot to count here lieutenant. If we destroy most of the first wave chances are the Spiders can deal with the few Mambos that get through." Archer shook his head. "No lieutenant, wait until you see the whites of their eyes."

Archer laughed as he heard the Andorian mumble to Sutton: "Whites of their eyes? Do the pirates have white eyes Jeff?" Jonathan knew that the two were an item. He remembered seeing them upon his arrival at the station.

"It means don't shoot until they are close enough to see," Archer heard Sutton quietly explain. The two officers Sutton and Talas occupied stations that were within earshot of one another. The lieuntenant commander turned to Archer. "That will be in twenty seconds sir."

"Fighters are in position," Walters said. "It looks like they are concentrating on beta and lima sections. I'm moving Minnies to set up there."

"Lasers tracking captain," Talas proclaimed. "Holding until I see their eyes!"

"Trafalgar is moving against a fighter group coming through charlie section sir!" Ensign Chandra exclaimed.

"Missiles on the fly!" the sensor officer yelled. "Looks like a premature launch; should be easy for the Spiders to pick them off captain."

"Firing lasers sir!" the Andorian announced.

Archer turned to the operations center's monitor. He had ordered the radar display to be shown there. Small high speed blips of light made their way toward the center of the screen while quite a number of green information displays representing Romulan Aeons started vanishing. Two of the faster blips got very close to the center of the screen. Archer knew that just a few hits would end this, his first battle command.

"Spiders intercepting sir," Talas reported.

The ops center rocked as the artificial gravity tried to recover from the micro shock waves of the exploding Mambos. The lightning blinked on and off then back on. Jonathan listened as Trafalgar and Walters' fighter groups took up positions firing upon wave after wave of incoming Aeons. He watched as the moving lights representing their enemies started to thin out. The floor of the ops center shook again nearly throwing Archer to the deck. He looked on in alarm as a light on the environmental panel turned from green to red. The station was losing atmosphere he realized.

Before he could ask Ensign Chandra chimed in; "engineering reports a blowout near the crew quarters in the habitat arm. Ensign Crusher reports that he is dispatching teams."

"Tell him to assess the damage and fix the worst of it." Archer realized that his engineers were going to be needed elsewhere if they were to live. "Hull plating and weapons are the priorities. The crew can sleep at their stations if restoring pressure becomes a major job."

"Aye-aye captain," Chandra replied. The woman listened as information came over her earpiece. "Engineers reporting that a piece of shrapnel penetrated into the central corridor. They are sealing the fissure. Power couplings are unaffected."

Archer and Walters both seized with what passed for stationary handholds as the control center of Deep Space One shook again. "I never thought that I'd be strapping in on a space station," Archer proclaimed sardonically. He made his way to the station commander's chair.

"Another wave of fighters is inbound captain," Sutton reported. "They appear to be making a move toward epsilon."

"Targeting lasers now," Talas interjected.

"Keep an eye on lima lieutenant," Archer advised the Andorian. Jonathan saw the potential for some of the surviving Eightballs to turn back upon the station. That particular group of retreating fighters seemed to be taking their time.

"They are trying to bracket Trafalgar!" Sutton exclaimed.

"Chandra, keep a feed open to Trafalgar," Archer ordered. He was not surprised that the Australian had already done so. Archer spoke to the overhead pickups. "Captain Valdez; I suggest you move your ship to present a low profile to the power section. We'll give you cover fire with the lasers and merculite rockets there."

"Acknowledged DS One," the voice coming out of the speakers was obscured by static.

"Firing lasers sir," Talas announced as the Romulans started their second attack.

The ops center shook violently as a second wave of Mambos exploded just short of the station. Archer spun around in his seat at a loud popping sound. Several lights blew out in a shower of sparks. More red lights appeared on the environmental board.

Jason peered down the corridor. The lights flickered and the artificial gravity made it seem as if the station were being rocked. The pressure displayed on his helmet display showed that his team had repaired the breach. Nonetheless he cautiously swung his visor. The air smelled acrid causing Crusher to choke and cough. Jason recognized most of the torn structural components in the debris; except for a few pieces of greenish tinted metal. Crusher assumed that it was some alien materials. Part of the station was being built out of the debris from the Tellarite station Kamaga. Crusher motioned for two of his team members to start a sweep down the damaged section of the station.

"Kowalski!" the chief roared at a scared looking technician. "Don't forget to get some permanent sealant over the hole." Chief Clemmons walked up to stand next to him as the enlisted woman went about applying the temporary patch over another hole in the section. Jason watched as the enlisted man surveyed the torn arm of the station.

"Whoa there Mister Crusher," Clemmons started as he stared ahead intently. "Farahd; back away from that!" the chief snapped as the technician bent to examine some of the strange pieces of debris. There was a flash and Crusher was thrown back against a bulkhead. He slid down to the floor gasping for breath.

Crusher recovered enough to see a sheet burning in the corridor. Jason assumed that someone's bed ware had caught fire somehow. After all these were the crew quarters he knew. Then he realized that the burning sheet was Technician Farahd. The older Saudi man was engulfed in flames. Chief Clemmons tackled the man and covered him with a blanket to staunch the flames. Jason became aware that the luckless engineer was screaming. Crusher forced himself to his feet and grabbed a fire extinguisher. He proceeded to put out some of the flames where the insulation had caught fire.

"Get a medic!" the chief shouted as Jason put the last of the fire out. He nearly became ill as he seen what had been the face of the badly burned Farahd. Clemmons shot him a quick glance. "Christ son it must have been a fuel tank for what passes for a push motor for one of those birdie missiles."

"I didn't know," Jason said as he knelt beside Clemmons. Crusher recalled endless lectures about sending people out to die. None of them had penetrated the man. The immortality of youth flowed out of Crusher at that moment.

"Why in the hell did these guys go down that gangway without checking ahead first?" Clemmons asked to no one in particular.

It occurred to Crusher that he had neglected to order a sweep prior to allowing the technicians to go down the corridor. That was basic damage control straight from his academy classes and yet he had forgotten. Jason wanted to confess what he had done to the chief. Farahd was an experienced engineer: He should have known better Crusher thought.

"Chief I, uh," Crusher started. He was cut off when the older man ordered a woman to conduct a check of the corridor with a handheld scanner.

"Stay with him until the medics arrive sir," Clemmons said; indicating the burnt engineer. "I'm going to press ahead and do an assessment of this section. This doesn't look too bad." Crusher watched as Clemmons looked over the damaged crew quarter arm of the station. "I have a feeling that things are only going downhill from here."

Clemmons left before giving Jason a chance to reply. Crusher felt alone despite the hubbub of engineers and off-duty personnel racing past him. He stared reluctantly at the wounded engineer on the floor before him. Where in the hell were the medics? Crusher started as Farahd roughly seized his hand in a grip that belied his medical condition. Jason nearly wretched as the smell of the man's scorched flesh wafted up towards him.

"We'll hold the station together sir," the Arab assured him as he expelled a ragged cough. Crusher listened as the technician started chanting in what he guessed was Arabic. He seemed to be making an appeal Jason thought. Rather that was to him or a prayer to god he did not know. Perhaps it was neither Crusher thought.

"It'll be okay chief," Crusher said in an attempt to reassure the man. He looked up in time to see the station's doctor rushing down the corridor with her team.

Doctor Howard knelt over Farahd. She placed a small medical unit on the burnt man's chest. She turned to one of her technicians. "Mark the time of death Oscar," she looked at her wrist chronometer; "make it eleven fifty four."

"Can't you revive him?" Crusher asked desperately.

"I wish that I could ensign," Howard answered. Her eyes were hard yet full of compassion. "But the fact is we probably have ten more just like him. I don't have adequate cryo facilities here and there are others who have a fighting chance." He watched as she gently covered his head with a blanket. "Let's get below Oscar." Howard rose and left a mute Jason Crusher kneeling by the chief's body.

"Mister Crusher I need your help in environmental," Jack Clemmon's voice announced over the corridor PA system. Crusher stood up. He felt that he should say something but despite the technicians milling about he was alone with the body. Crusher turned away guiltily and headed away to help Clemmons.


	25. Chapter 25

Washington DC, the old United States, Nov 2157

"You've sacrificed a lot President Harris," United Earth President Christophur Thorpe declared. He shook the hand of the older man. Donald Harris was a thinly built dark skinned American with a thick, wooly pate of white hair.

"I could probably be reelected," Harris answered. "The Federal government will go the way of the Canadian and British Parliaments I reckon: Ceremonial for the most part. But our adolescence is over." Thorpe was about to agree when Harris continued. "I don't mean American adolescence; I mean for the human race. We had missiles buried out in the Dakotas; the Eacos had them buried in the mountains of Iran. Funny thing: If the Romulans had just waited another five years or so we'd probably have taken care of our own selves for them."

"You don't think that Glenn would have actually done that?" Thorpe asked the new American president. There had been many revelations these past few days Christophur knew. Glenn's private journal relating his desire to return America to the days of the Progressives had come to light.

"Todd needed an issue," Harris answered. Thorpe watched as the man bit at his lower lip. "And he had a romantic notion of government. I guess it never occurs to some people that folks can do just fine without a commissar in everyone's home." Harris laughed: "Too lazy to be a farmer, too stupid to be an engineer."

"What do you mean?" Christophur asked. The words registered on Thorpe's memory but he could not recall their origin.

"Just some words from a classic author," Harris answered. "My memory is getting fuzzy lately. I wish the Pointies were still around. Their docs had a treatment for that. But I was just thinking about the political class as a whole." Harris looked at Thorpe with a piercing gaze. "We politicians—and I'm including myself; we get into this because we can talk a good talk; not much good for anything else. Sometimes character creeps in and there is a leader who lives up to the image. But mostly we bumble through and hope to hell that we can live up to the great ones when the boys have to be put into harm's way." Harris eyed him so harshly that it was all Christophur could do to not turn away. "Finish this thing Mister President; not to go down in the history books or win another election, but to have some kind of final resolution for those who have died. And don't put those people in harm's way without any intention of following through."

"I might end up being one of those bumblers," Thorpe answered. Harris' shrewd assessment of the situation had weighed heavily upon Thorpe ever since the war had begun. "I just wanted to do good things and do my part to foul up government so that the people had the most freedom possible." Thorpe stood up and walked over to the Oval Office window. The serene garden below was in the final throws of seasonal decline. "Now I find myself at the head of what may well be the first stirrings of empire."

"You can't see the future sir," Harris answered. "But this federation of yours won't be worth a hill of beans if it's founded on secrets. Is there a secret agency operating in the background Thorpe?" Harris asked abruptly. "I'll tell you what though: If I find out that there is I'll withdraw the US from the world government. Yes sir I will; in a heartbeat."

"I've had my people investigating that very thing President Harris," Thorpe responded. He turned and faced the man. He had heard the rumors himself since the assassination of Glenn. The suicide of Sheibani would raise even more questions. The crash of the Tehran Express had diverted the people's eyes for the moment. "I was about to issue you a lengthy legal reply. But I'm going to speak simply instead: I don't know. I would never sanction such a thing. I've had people investigating to no end."

"We've gotten the preliminary findings back from the freighter crash," Harris said as he joined Christophur by the window. "You know that someone on the crew was…

"Augmented?" the word hung in the air like an obscenity spoken among refined people. Thorpe continued. "I waited for your people to do the work. The implications are disturbing to say the least."

"I know that some survived the purges after the Eugenics War," Harris said, "but those individuals supposedly integrated into society. My experts tell me that their particular genes would have been diluted into the larger pool of normal humans. Are you going to order blood screenings sir?"

"No," Thorpe answered. His imagination had run wild when the word of genetically enhanced human beings had surfaced. He had no idea what would happen when a war weary population received that horrifying bit of information. But Christophur knew that whatever happened, it would not be good. "It is entirely possible that the whole thing is a coincidence. Could you imagine being an augment in our society?"

Harris laughed. "I reckon it would be about the same as it was for people with my skin color three hundred years ago; or Jews throughout history. Okay I suppose that some descendent of an augment might have been earning a living with this Hansu Corporation. They seemed shady enough." Thorpe knew that Harris was referring to the mysterious company that had backed the Sons' of Terra.

"I don't have much on them," Thorpe said. "Their company officers seemed to have vanished. But the company's founder was a bit of an eccentric."

"Arik Soong?" the US president asked in reply. "I had heard that he was killed on Deneva."

"No one knows," Thorpe answered. His investigators had been very interested in the billionaire. The Unified Intelligence Service had checked out a rumor that the scientist turned investor had surfaced for awhile on Mars. But that lead had turned cold.

"I'll turn over all of our law enforcement data to your people Thorpe," Harris said. "I suppose there won't be much of a need for national law enforcement services much longer anyway."

"You're right about our adolescence President Harris," Thorpe said after a long pause. "The Romulans forced us to see something greater than ourselves."

"Kinda sad really," Harris said. "I remember when my daughter left home for college. It occurred to me that a child was walking out the door but an adult was leaving the house. Our kids won't have this good old earth to protect us anymore."

"It'll still be here," Thorpe said; "for our children to come back and visit sometime."

Langley, Virginia, the old United States, earth Nov 2157

The surprised officers and NCO's snapped to attention at Thorpe's entrance. He had not scheduled the visit to Langley. But he had business with Admiral Soames. His conversation with President Harris came back to haunt his thoughts. Thorpe had other business in the Stellar Navy's office of Naval Intelligence. But his suspicion that only a select number of individuals could run a shadow intelligence agency weighed heavily on him. Admiral Erica Soames was one of the people on that list. She too sprang to attention when he entered her office. Thorpe was alone having abandoned his dour security detachment. Sometimes he almost wished that someone would try to assassinate him so that the man and woman would have the opportunity to exercise their skills.

"Mister President," Soames began.

"I know that this is unannounced admiral. I'm sorry." Thorpe motioned for the woman to take her seat. He sat opposite her after observing the sunny view outside of her window.

"I thought that this building—

"It is a hologram sir," the admiral answered. "A childish self-indulgence really; this place was a dungeon when I set up shop in here."

"I see what you mean." Thorpe had the same feeling beneath the government seat in San Francisco. Thorpe watched as the admiral stared back at him calmly. Are you breaking the law; he wanted to ask her. Her body language betrayed nothing however and he had the report from the NIS. According to Admiral Vasilof his best investigator had checked Soames out. Thorpe recalled the man's name as being Steed or Reed or some such. Soames had not been observed doing anything untoward.

"I need someone to go to Vulcan," he said at last. "The same prohibitions apply here as before Erica. Soval wants someone who is not in the spy game as it were."

"Tara, I mean Lieutenant Commander Gupta has been silent for some time now." Soames sat down at her desk. "Thank you for signing off on his promotion sir. It is a bloody pity that he won't know about it for awhile. But I relayed your desire for him to go to ground until help arrives there."

"Soval believes that if V'Las' control of their communication network is broken then his government will collapse." Thorpe knew that there were a lot of ifs in his last statement. "I believe that Soval may not help the Federation; but nor will he ally with the Romulans; that in itself will be a help."

"We'll be in a bloody mess if they do hold hands with the Birdies," Soames answered. "They could well split the alliance planets and pick us off one at a time."

"Exactly what Admiral Forrest fears," Thorpe answered. It was also his fear as well. He wondered how the feelings of benevolence generated by the Vulcans had turned to this distrust.

"But if they discover us sneaking our blokes in sir…

There is still the admiral's final option for the Vulcans. Thorpe reeled inside as he realized that he had almost said final solution. "I don't want to be responsible for destroying a civilization that has existed for thousands of years." He looked around to make sure that they were alone. "Things are not going well out there Erica. You know that there have been increased incidents between Vulcan and Andorian cruisers. I can only expect the Shahar to concede for so long."

"This Soval seems to be on the level." Thorpe noted how Soames British accent made part of Soval's name rhyme with vow. "But I have to wonder here Mister President; what if he can't hold a coalition government together? From what I've studied and Tara has sent me it seems that any new government there would be beholden to these Syrranites. Perhaps this Syrran himself will choose to take up the reins."

"At least the Syrranites are pacifists and won't support the Romulans anymore than they would support us." Thorpe hoped that proposition was true. Soames echoed his desire in that regard.

"So we are at the meat of it at last admiral." Christophur was not going to play politic here. "Do you have a suitable candidate to sneak onto Vulcan?"

"I have an ensign in my command that could go," Soames answered.

"Frank McCoy?" he asked. He saw how her face registered surprise at his knowledge. Thorpe also noted how quickly her expression returned to normal. "A lot of things have been happening lately Erica: President Glenn's assassination raises more questions than the Putin assassination ever did. Now we've discovered that at least one of the Tehran Express' crewmen was something more than human. You were flying that night weren't you admiral?"

"Since you were or are investigating me then you know I was up there sir." She rocked back in her seat. "I am still a rated pilot and still enjoy flying." Thorpe could hear the terseness in her voice. "I am limited to non-aerobatics. You also know that I put in for a space assignment at the very beginning of this thing. I was turned down for the same reason that my flight status was curtailed: A lame inner ear. If you think I'm subverting the government sir I am sure that you could waiver my physical shortcomings and put me aboard a cruiser as intel officer. I'll take a demotion and pay cut sir. I just wanted to fly to clear my mind sir. This Topaz conundrum has us all on edge."

Thorpe wanted to believe her. Soames had indeed retained her limited flight status. But save for a few light civilian aircraft flights had not flown a military craft for some months. He realized that in lieu of any evidence that he had to take the woman at face value. "I can't spare you here Erica. No one has a handle on this Romulan situation like you do. No demotion; okay, you were out for a recreational flight. But I do know that McCoy is on leave for a personal loss. I need someone to ship out for Vulcan next week at the latest."

"McCoy has a diverse background," Soames answered. "Also looking at it realistically Frank is no more or less prepared for this than Tara was. His girlfriend chose to associate with the wrong people sir," Soames continued. "I cautioned Frank concerning his involvement with someone from the Sons' of Terra. I was mainly concerned about his complicity in their activities while he wore the uniform—he distanced himself from that. I never saw what did happen however."

"No one did," Thorpe answered. The Sons' of Terra had brought home the lessons of history to Thorpe. Playing politics at a time of war seemed to belong to the madness of earth's past. That the Sons had convinced many that humans had invited the attack only added to the sense of bedlam that the situation created for Christophur. "At least the movement seems to be dying; what with poor Todd Glenn's murder, the killing of this woman and President Sheibani's repudiation of the movement in his suicide note."

"We are winning too sir," Soames answered. "If we resolve the Pointie issue it seems as if we can finally come to grips with the Birds. At any rate we will have the ships necessary to retake Topaz."

"That needs to happen soon." Thorpe recalled Max Forrest's warning about Topaz. Some of those Sabinus and Veronus class cruisers could carry the equipment necessary to build shipyards. "That is why this mission to Vulcan is so important. Right now retaking Topaz would be suicide; in more ways than one."

"We would lose the majority of Star Fleet in attempting to get past those new plasma cannons," Soames agreed grimly. "That is before we even arrived over Topaz Prime. The science lads are hard at it coming up for a counter. It doesn't make it any easier with all of these Birdie small ship tactics. The people out there," Thorpe knew that she meant those in space putting their lives on the line for all of them. "They are calling them wolf packs like an ancient German navy once used."

Thorpe got up. "Just put Star Fleet on Topaz before the middle of next year admiral. You know that Forrest estimates that if we take any longer they could become so well entrenched that the entire planet would have to be bombed to retake it."

"I'm aware of the time constraint sir," Soames answered. "I'll inform Frank of the trip. It has been hard for him but I think that he is the best one suited to do this. Just what you think an extra man could do there is beyond me sir. But then again Tara has averted a few disasters for us by being there."

"Very good admiral," he said as he took her hand and shook it. She saluted smartly. "I'll see you for the sitrep next week in San Francisco?"

"Lieutenant Tom Vanwinkle is coming along," Soames answered. "I'm going to have him present the weekly. But, not to worry sir," she said and smiled ruefully. "I'll be there to bail him out if he gets in any trouble."

Thorpe bid the admiral a good day and departed. Was Soames telling him the truth he wondered? Thorpe wanted to take her at her word. But he had read enough history to understand that the temptation to influence policy and make things right frequently ended in disaster. He retrieved his body guards on the way out of the building.

"It'll be good to get back to Frisco sir," Joachim Hernandez said in an uncharacteristic display of openness.

"Don't like this snow eh?" Thorpe asked the man. He knew that his male body guard had grown up in California whereas his female counterpart was a native of Germany.

"It's okay I suppose sir," Hernandez answered. "I prefer to ski on liquid water though."

"What about you Mariska?" he asked the German. Thorpe guessed that she had not spoken more than fifty words to him since she had been assigned to his detail. The woman seemed to like working out mostly Thorpe recalled.

Mariska Helm opened the door to Thorpe's aircar as she said: "Yah; it will be good to get back. I was hoping to pump some iron and pull the wings off of some defenseless insects, sir."

Construction Site of Deep Space One, Nov 2157

Crusher wiped at the thin trickle of drool that was on his mouth. He realized that he must have fallen asleep. He would normally be embarrassed as he lay slumped over a console in a small chamber with twenty or thirty other people. But not this night, or day or whatever it was. It was nightmare time. The shaking of Deep Space One from repeated near misses had stirred Jason out of his fitful nap.

The room was dark as several of the light fixtures had exploded. The acrid smell of burning insulation and electrical component s assaulted Crusher's nostrils. Jason's head pounded; Doctor Howard had started administering Hyronaline to all of the humans and Andorians. Crusher remembered that Tellarites had a higher resistance to radiation. Clemmons returned to the chamber. Jason watched as he swung his visor and took a sip of water from a small bottle.

"Right now it's a question of rather the vacuum would kill you before the rads did outside the station." Jason grew ill as the chief waved a packet of combat rations under his nose. "I'm bettin' your head feels like it's going to explode boss. You better try to eat something."

"I think I'll pass Jack," Jason answered.

"Hyronaline is wicked stuff," Clemmons stated. "I know." When Crusher asked him how he had obtained his knowledge he replied:

"Back in the forties you probably remember readin' about it at your academy. The government detailed the navy to clean up and dismantle the old fission reactors that were still around. Me and my crew were detailed to take apart the one in the Yunnan Valley. Some of the old concrete gave out: The thing had survived an airburst in its day ya know. Anyway we discovered that some of the core material was still intact. It dropped and heated up before we could do much. I was lucky got some bad exposure but nothin' the Hyronaline couldn't cure. A few of my buddies were close to it though. They burned up from the inside out; some of them died in minutes. Me; I just got a couple doses of medicine lost a little hair and my old guitar."

Crusher fought his nausea down and started to eat. "You play guitar Jack?" he asked as his feelings of sickness abated with each bite of the combat ration bar.

"I used to," he answered. "It pleased my granddaddy. We Clemmons are supposed to have had some sort of big musician in our family tree; played rock and roll and country music."

"Rock music; that was like the same time as baroque?" Crusher asked. His knowledge of ancient music forms was sketchy at best. Jason guessed that country music had something to do with nationalism.

"Might as well have been," Clemmons answered. "I used to play music by a fella name of Hank Williams. He was my granddad's favorite. Lord knows why: That stuff would cause the dog to howl somethin' fierce." Crusher laughed as he tried to imagine what could sound like that to offend an animal's ears. Or was Jack yanking his chain again he wondered.

Jason was feeling much better except for the fatigue. He gripped the console as the station rocked yet again. Clemmons somehow held his place despite standing without aid. He looked at the blinking emergency lights which cycled, momentarily plunging the auxiliary environmental control station into darkness save for the dim glow of the instrument panel lights.

"Alert, alert, engineering teams to docking arm three," the voice of the station's first officer boomed out of the overhead speaker as the lights came back up.

"Damn!" the chief exclaimed. "Let's get going Mister Crusher. Ain't no ships going to dock there anytime soon but there are four laser turrets along that section that we need."

Crusher pulled himself to his feet uneasily. His head swam for a few seconds; one of the side effects of Hyronaline. Jason realized that the unfinished docking section in question was little more than a skeletal outline right now. One small temporary, flexible corridor acted as a gangway for access to the four Ultra-Zeus laser turrets that dotted the arm. If the Birdies had waited another month Jason reflected bitterly they would have completed the wafer shaped docking bay at the end of the arm. That bay would've held yet more laser turrets as well as a standby fusion reactor.

Crusher swung the visor of his helmet closed and followed after the chief. Jason smelled a reek. He realized that sour smell was his own body. He had taken a shower a day and a half ago he thought; or had it been longer? The two men stalked out into the central junction. Pieces of trash and uniforms littered the corridor; the flotsam of yet another pressure blow out that had been repaired. Crusher's stomach lurched as he stepped off of the gravity web. Clemmons had recommended that the central section lift tubes' artificial gravity be deactivated. Crusher knew that travel in zero g was the quickest way around the station: Especially as only one lift had been installed before the attack anyway.

Crusher pushed himself along the lift's track towards the junction of the central core and docking arm three. The warning blinker inside his helmet flashed persistently: Radiation. The lighting died again. Jason switched on his suit lights. The red glow of emergency lighting showed him where the junction to the beleaguered area lay.

"Looks like the mouth of hell doesn't it Mister Crusher?" Clemmons asked.

"I could think of a lot better places to be," he answered. He wondered what his older brother had seen before the end. Did David Wesley Crusher die quickly or were his last few seconds full of the terror generated by the foreknowledge of his death? Jason was rescued from his morbid thoughts by Clemmon's voice.

"Not me," the chief said. The two cycled through to the airless service corridor for docking arm three. "Oh I'd be nuts to want to be here getting my ass shot off. But that is what we signed up for. We get to see the wonders of the universe and in return when the folks at home need protectin', well here we are. You know something Mister Crusher? Those wonders are worth getting your ass shot off for. And it is worth being here so the people at home can have their lives."

"I never saw it that way," Crusher answered. The lectures of countless officer and NCO instructors came back to him. Those lectures about duty and fidelity had seemed pointless at the time. Crusher jumped as a gauntlet struck his helmet.

Jason shuddered. It was only an abandoned piece of a space suit. He hoped that a hand was not inside of it. He floated past a hatch leading to a laser turret. The gauge in his helmet showed radiation well into the lethal range. Crusher guessed that without his suit he would die in less than a minute. Crusher's handheld read past the intense contamination to reveal nothing out of the way ahead of them. The flexible corridor swung dangerously.

"Looks like they are hammering us here hoss," Clemmons declared.

Crusher was about to agree when another voice intruded over his helmet speaker. "Turrets two and eight in docking arm three aren't responding. We aren't getting any fire support out of them either." Jason recognized the voice as Captain Archer's.

"Crusher here captain," he answered. "We'll split up and investigate." He rolled over slowly and faced Clemmons. "Two is right up here Jack. You check that out; I'll move to check eight."

Crusher glided slowly forward. It should be about thirty meters to the turret hatch he thought. His radiation indicator flashed. The self-contained warning system squawked an audible tone into his helmet as he passed a small rent in the gangway wall. The automatic flash suppressor saved his vision as a Birdie nuke exploded out in space. Jason moved faster. The hatch to laser turret eighth was dead ahead. It seemed to be undamaged.

Crusher slowed himself using some handholds. He stopped before the turret turning slowly before the hatch's bullseye. The light of a distant explosion faded away to the velvet blackness of space. The blister that should have held the Ultra Zeus laser turret and its two gunners was gone. Crusher stared mutely at the stars.

"It's a mess in here hoss," Clemmons voice burst over his helmet speaker. "The crew has had it; looks like the aux fire control computer is tits up too."

"We've got to reestablish the trunking to the main fire control computer," a voice came out of Jason's mouth. The delicate electro-optical cables had been severed by a freakish shrapnel impact. A piece of metal had neatly sliced into the cable bundle at one of the view points that were not armored.

"We can try splicin' through the comm cable," Clemmons voice returned as Crusher shoved himself down the corridor. "It won't carry all of the data but it should be enough to let them slave this baby to the main fire control computer."

Crusher agreed. He held out his hands and glided to a stop. Clemmons had closed the hatch behind him after entering the turret. Crusher used the manual entry handle. The padded door slid open. A helmet floated out past him. This piece of flotsam was occupied. Crusher squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered as he saw the pulverized remains of the gunner's head in the space helmet. He remembered her as being a pretty enlisted girl, fresh out of space training. Part of her face had been recognizable through the gore.

"Watch out Mister Crusher," Clemmons voice warned him as the enlisted man ejected the remains of the other gunner and the rest of Helen Vucavich's body. "You okay?" the chief asked as the two faced each other; helmets nearly touching. Jason nodded.

The chief flipped over and pushed himself back into the turret. Crusher swam into the laser blister behind Clemmons. He turned and closed the hatch. He turned again to survey the damage. Miraculously, most of the instruments and consoles were intact. It appeared that the metal fragments had sought out the crew for the most part. That was true except for the auxiliary fire control computer. Crusher thought that it would make an interesting project to see what could be made out of the bits and pieces. He turned again to see Clemmons pulling at some cables. Crusher moved to help him.

"This is the captain," Archer's voice intruded on the engineers' work. "Another wave is inbound. Crusher, you need to expedite your work there or get out—better be prepared to lose the docking arm. I'm going to evacuate the last two turrets. There isn't enough coverage."

"Another wave," Clemmons said on the private channel shared between the two. "That's a surprise." Crusher heard his tone change to a serious one. "I can't jerry rig much hoss; time to cut our losses and go."

"Standby," Crusher said as he rolled over and pulled himself into the primary gunner's chair. He cycled the controls to manual and brought up the video targeting display. His mind rebelled. He needed to listen to the chief and Archer. "I'm going to lay down fire manually. Try to link up to the main computer Jack!"

"I hate to tell ya Mister Crusher but there is a reason why these lasers are guided by computers," Clemmons started; "no flesh and blood can make the calculations to hit anything unless it is coming at them along a straight line vector."

"Captain Archer; give us a little time," he implored over the command network. Crusher had once defeated a simulation on the academy fire control computer. He thought that it was probably arrogance to assume that he could do so again. He wondered if his arrogance would kill him. An Aeon took shape on the video display but Crusher was looking at the numbers showing its relative course and speed. The equations formed in his head. Jason fired and selected the next Eightball as the first one turned into a piece of spherical slag. Another Aeon was gone as Crusher picked his next target.

"Kee-rist boy!" the chief exclaimed. "Just keep that up while I get this connection goin'!"

Crusher only heard the words as distant echoes as he banged away with the laser barely waiting for the recycle time. The flight of Aeons thinned out. Crusher realized that he was getting help from the other turrets along the arm. He was relieved that Archer had not evacuated the corridor. Nine Eightballs were no more as Jason guided the laser emitter from one target to the next.

A surge of weight hit Jason. He realized that the docking arm must have taken a hit. He saw, on his video display a piece of the flexible gangway spinning away into the blackness. Crusher had only a few seconds to realize that the laser turret crew was trapped in that wreckage. Just a few seconds before a Birdie missile finished the section. Jason continued firing. Had minutes passed or was it hours?

The image of a Minotaur entered the monitor. Crusher's finger jerked over the firing stud. He watched as the fighter engaged an incoming flight of Aeons. The fighter nimbly vectored away as the Eightballs bore down on its location. Another Minotaur appeared at a different location. More Aeons were destroyed. The equations of distance and speed crystallized in Crusher's mind. He fired away out of the Zeus' normal range.

"I've got that connection made," Clemmons said; "running final tests now. Get ready to get out of here Mister Crusher. We are soaking up too many rads out here." Crusher continued firing. "Standby to release controls to auto;" Crusher relaxed somewhat. He shivered. He realized that he was soaked with sweat beneath his spacesuit. Fewer Romulans appeared for him to shoot at as Clemmons transferred control of the laser tracking system. "That does it. Let's get the hell out of here son."

"Docking arm three has been evacuated," Commander Bill Walters announced. "Laser fire control of the last turret is slaved to the main computer core sir."

Archer swiped his hand over his face. He felt greasy. But that made sense as he had not bathed for over a day now. "We'll probably lose that on their next run," he said in a tired voice. "What is the count on fighters?"

"We still have most of our people," Walters answered. "Maintenance is reporting trouble turning around four of my birds. That's going to hurt when the next attack begins."

"That won't be much longer," Archer said. The only reason they were still alive he realized is that the Romulans could only funnel so many fighters through their minefields before allied missiles started taking their toll. But their opponents were getting better he thought bitterly.

"Trafalgar is reporting that their number two turret is repaired." Archer looked as Walters stretched out in his chair. "Engineering has finished installing the new turret new the power core, captain."

That was one bit of good news. But Archer knew that it was amid more tragedy. The engineering crew had sent two of their people—his people he reminded himself, outside to complete the final installation of the laser turret. He knew the science of it: High exposure to a lethal dose of radiation. Doctor Carmella Howard stepped off of the ladder of the ops center access tube. Sick Bay had been established below the command center. Both rested atop the matter/antimatter reactor; the most fortified parts of the station.

Archer was about to admonish Howard for not wearing a space suit when he saw the blood stains on her blue medical jersey. He also saw a smudge of blood on her cheek as she approached him. He was struck by how fatigued she looked. But he also noted strength in her eyes. She stood before him with her arms folded over her chest.

"Shouldn't you be in Sick Bay doctor?" he asked her.

"Everyone is as comfortable as they can be. Krenzler and Montgomery are in isolation," she replied.

Archer winced at the mention of the two engineers that had volunteered to do the spacewalk. "Is there any chance?" he asked flatly.

"The only hope is that they die quickly captain." Howard slouched against a console. Her face softened. Despite the situation Jonathan felt a longing for something that he had denied himself. He dismissed the feeling quickly. "Sorry sir. There is nothing that I can do for them. I've sedated them both and administered the maximum dose of painkillers. The tissue damage is proceeding along rapidly. It shouldn't be long. Casualty list is growing: Mostly radiation sickness, burns and decompression related injuries." Archer watched as she uncrossed her arms. She absently swiped at the blood on her face. "What's our chances here sir?"

"It's a miracle that we've held on this long," Archer answered. "I think that the Romulans were counting on taking out our subspace sensors and taking us while we were blinded." Thank god for Crusher's discovery. "Right now it is a matter of how much more they wear us down."

"I've dispensed amphetamines to your crews Bill--Commander Walters," The red headed woman announced. Archer wondered if she and Walters weren't an item. He looked from one to the other. Hell of a time to be thinking about romance he groused.

"They can only go on stims for so long Mel," Walters answered. "They need real sleep."

"Tell that to the—

Contact!" the sensor operator announced cutting off Carmella Howard's last statement. "Another wave of fighters," Lieutenant Commander Sutton paused before adding: "In the company of two Chowders and a Cabbage; looks like they are going to try to break us with their big guns."

"Keep the pressure up on those cruisers commander!" Archer snapped. He turned to the Andorian Talas. "Lieutenant; concentrate our lasers on the fighters. Let's allow Trafalgar to maneuver against those cruisers."

"Captain Valdez calling sir," Chandra announced. "He is moving to intercept the Veronus'."

"Just like he read my mind," Archer said quietly. "Put me on station-wide ensign." Chandra nodded at him after pushing a few buttons. "Attention all station personnel; move into the protected areas and stand ready for decompression."

"Twenty seconds until weapons range," Sutton reported. "They appear to be slowing to plasma cannon range."

"Missiles on the fly!" the Andorian exclaimed.

"Blue Squadron moving along random vectors," Walters interjected.

Archer watched as the main viewscreen filled with illuminated pips. Three large data notations showed the maneuvering enemy cruisers. Jonathan could only imagine the electronic warfare taking place as Mambas and Moolahs fell to the concentrated laser fire from Deep Space One. Jonathan would have cheered after one of the data streams vanished if he were not so tired: A Romulan Veronus was destroyed. Archer watched as the power readings representing the Sabinus flared briefly and disappeared. The ops center pitched up as the artificial gravity fought to keep up with few missiles that were getting through.

"Stand by to engage fighters with Merculite rockets," Archer ordered. He would have preferred to keep the Tellarite weapon in reserve. But he needed everything he had if the station was to survive.

Without the protection of Walters' fighters many more of the Eightballs made it into missile range of the station. Archer would have to wait a few more seconds. "Launch Spiders Talas," he said as the glowing dots representing the Birdie fighters got closer. "Fire the rockets!"

"Firing and away," Talas responded.

The radar showed a massive solid return as the swarm of small needle like projectiles left their racks. The radar image briefly showed separate, succinct points of lights. The lights contacted the indications showing the approaching Aeons. Archer looked at a video image displayed on his small command screen. Distant flares of light bloomed in space. Jonathan saw only two small dots before they fell to the concentrated rocket fire. He listened as Sutton reported that just two Eightballs had made it through.

"Laser turrets can sweep the stragglers up," he said. "Talas; coordinate the bulk of our laser fire to cover Trafalgar and track along the potential plasma cannon arcs."

"Shall I energize subspace sensors?" Sutton asked. Archer knew that without the new scanners the advantage was back to the Romulans if they chose to employ their plasma cannons.

"Negative," Archer answered. The sensors were linked together to improve efficiency. Unfortunately that made them vulnerable in this situation. Neither Trip Tucker nor Jason Crusher had been able to advance a theory on whatever the Romulans had used against Borei's taskforce. But it was not as if the Birdies had given the engineers the time for esoteric study.

"Tri-dimensional chess," Talas piped up in a tone that would have been considered thoughtful were she human.

At Archer's prompting she explained. "We learned the game from the Pointies. Of course Andorians mastered it and consistently defeated their so-called champions." Archer allowed the alien her pride. He grinned in spite of himself. "That is what the pirates are doing now: They are forcing us to sacrifice a piece."

"Either the hull plating over the central core or Trafalgar," Commander Walters interjected.

"Move and counter-move eh?" Archer said quietly. He unstrapped and stood up despite the possible impact of a plasma cannon volley. He walked over to stand before the ops center's viewscreen. "I've played a game or two of two-dimensional chess; always considered myself pretty good." He stroked his jaw as he studied the viewscreen. "There," he said pointing to a group of distant flashing lights. "Most of the Eightballs have returned to this point."

"Those that we didn't get," Walters answered with a smirk.

Archer smiled in turn despite his fatigue. "So these indications out there could be tankers?"

Walters crossed his arms over his chest. "We don't have much solid data on Birdie ships." He sighed. "But we have sensor and video recordings of them returning to their motherships; we've always assumed that it was to make a pit stop."

"If; as you say," Archer said to Walters, qualifying his theory; "this is going to be determined by fighters then the Romulans would be pretty reluctant to lose their refuelers."

"I could move gold squadron up for rotation," Walters answered taking up his commander's thought.

"This minefield of theirs works two ways," Archer said. "Commander, have your fighters use your random vector attack. They'll be in plasma cannon range but they should be able to maneuver away before the Birdies acquire them and figure a solution. Fire some Amazons first to clear some mines; second for some of your fighters to move up and make an attack against their tankers."

"I'm moving gold up now," Walters said as he split his attention between Archer and the task of ordering his fighters out. "We'll be able to jump those heavies before they can run. If we're lucky we might even inflict some damage if their impulse drives are cold. They've been in the same spot a long time captain."

Archer turned to Talas. "If I was a smart Romulan chess player I'd move a piece to protect my king." Archer took another look at the viewer then returned to his seat. "That would be the Veronus out there with the plasma cannon pointed at us." The station's artificial gravity dropped off for a few seconds causing Archer's inner ear to protest.

"Engineering reports a glancing blow to charlie section hull plating!" Walters seemed to be driving his earpiece into his ear canal as he listened and relayed the reports to Archer. "Repair time is at least twenty minutes. We're vulnerable there sir!"

"Deploy Spiders along a programmed routing," Archer said. He hated to waste the efficient anti-missile missiles but he could think of nothing else to protect his broken station. For a few seconds he recalled spending time on Long Island with his father. The two would often fly Archer's model ship. Henry Archer would also take his son there to build sand castles. Jonathan remembered the tide hammering away at his little castles. He felt like he was in one of those sandy fortifications now. "Launch them out but don't touch them off. I want them sent out in minefield of our own."

"Ablative armor," Jeff Sutton declared. Archer nodded at him.

"If they get another cannon volley in the Spiders should absorb it," he answered.

"And if they don't?" Doctor Howard asked.

"You won't have to worry about treating the wounded anymore doctor." Archer's face grew hard. He watched as Walters and Sutton discussed vectors and formations. Minutes later Talas announced that the Spiders were away.

"Gold Squadron just ripped a hole through their minefield," Walters announced. "One of them—

Archer heard Walters issuing quick concise orders. He realized that one of the Minotaur crews was doing other than what Walters had ordered them too. Archer was relieved to hear Sutton announce that the Veronus was turning away to engage the fighters.

"Ben!" his first officer was shouting into his commlink. "Get your ass the hell back here!"

Archer was amazed to see a blip representing what he and Walters had guessed was a Romulan tanker, disappear. Another pip of light was moving away. Data beneath it identified it as a Minotaur.

"I've got a shot at this guy," a garbled voice replied out of the ops center overhead speakers.

Archer watched as a blip representing what he and Walters had guessed was a Romulan tanker, disappear: He knew that a Minotaur would have to have gone beyond the safe recovery point to accomplish that. Another pip of light was moving away. Data beneath it identified it as the Minotaur that had just extinguished the tanker. Several jittery images pursued the retreating Star Fleet fighter. The fighter's graphic vanished suddenly. Archer sympathized with Walters as his first officer slammed a fist down on his console.

"That was my copilot," Walters said quietly.

There was little time to honor the dead as Jeffrey Sutton announced: "The Veronus is pulling away." Archer breathed a sigh of relief; just in time as it had fired its plasma cannon at the station again before departing. The Spiders had worked as Archer had planned. He noticed that Sutton was bent over still staring intently into the hood of his sensor display. "Trafalgar isn't returning to cover—she is going after the Veronus."

"Ensign Chandra," Archer snapped.

"I still have Captain Valdez in the link sir." Chandra's fingers flew over her panel as the overhead speaker crackled with static.

"I know what you are going to say Jon," Valdez's voice declared out of the speaker. "But I'm not allowing this c_hucho _the chance to escape. They'll just try again and you know what that means?"

Eventually a Romulan would get a lucky shot at the mam reactor then it would be checkmate. Archer studied the viewscreen intently before replying. "Stay fifteen thousand kilometers from the minefield Xavier." He turned to Walters. "Give them some fire support." Archer knew that he was sticking it out here. The station needed those fighters. But at the same time the water was coming farther up the beach. He needed something to deflect the tide; if only for a little while.

Trafalgar launched volley after volley of Narwhals at the elusive Veronus. Most of the missiles fell prey to Romulan neutronium pellets. A few got through to the point that they were dissected by Romulan lasers. Another flight of Aeons flew close to their minefield as they emerged in the fire zone that was Deep Space One. The spherical fighters angled for the Tannhauser class cruiser.

The fighters were met by a flight of Amazons while Trafalgar's lasers hammered away at the Aeons. Trafalgar lumbered slowly; picking up speed as it pursued the Veronus. A Narwhal exploded close to the Jellyfish neatly shearing its warp nacelles away. The main body of the greenish craft sailed on for a few seconds. The aft section split open revealing a glowing hell for a split second. The Veronus exploded as Trafalgar turned away towards Deep Space One.

The Aeons followed the cruiser. Trafalgar's hull plating ignited in a display of static blue discharges. The wreckage of the Star Fleet cruiser's torn starboard nacelle was sheared off by a strafing run. The victorious Aeon rolled away only to fall to laser fire from a Minotaur. The cruiser's nacelle coasted along in space as Trafalgar outraced that piece of jettisoned material. More Aeons converged at a single point in pursuit of the cruiser.

The Aeons rolled into a formation as they followed the Trafalgar. They quickly accelerated. It would only be a matter of time before they were in striking distance of the escaping Stellar Navy cruiser. The Romulan fighter group cruised past Trafalgar's useless warp nacelle: Just as an Amazon hit the torn wreckage. The remaining plasma in the warp nacelle exploded. The flight of Aeons was consumed by the resulting explosion of the nacelle. Two spherical fighters roared out of the nuclear fire that had consumed their mates. They were picked off by the concentrated laser fire from Walters' Minotaurs. Trafalgar slowed as it came under the protective guns of Deep Space One. The last of the Minotaurs slammed into the shuttle bay; some of them throwing up sparks as they slammed into the station's deck.

The fighters' relief launched as their mates landed. The new Minotaurs were scarred from battle but they headed out nonetheless. Their launch proved timely as the Romulans, recovering from their failed attack, launched more Aeons into the fray. The Minotaurs deployed quickly launching missiles and engaging the oncoming Romulans with their lasers. Deep Space One became enshrouded in nuclear detonations but remained in one piece. Another day rolled by for the humans and aliens on the space station.

UES Daedelus, The second planet of Ross 128, Nov 2157

Captain Michael "Oliver" Cromwell felt better in his heavy navy issue cold weather jacket. The cool air of Ross 128's only habital planet wafted past his face. Meteorology had said that this part of the world was currently enjoying a heat wave. He almost wished for the warmth of a space suit again. But Doctor Trudy Schultheiss had cleared the shore party to go sans spacesuits. Still it was no colder than a fall in his native United Kingdom he mused.

"How long do we have Olly?" the doctor asked him. Cromwell had chosen Schultheiss, Lieutenant Marcel Dieulafoy, Chief Peter Custis and at her own strident insistence Mariel Picard.

"The next flare should be in two hours according to astrometrics," he answered. "We'll have to suspend shuttle flights until the activity subsides. I plan to be back to Daedelus before that."

"You don't sound very optimistic about this meeting sir," Dieulafoy said.

"Let me see," Cromwell began. "We are meeting a tripedal alien whose ocular system will see us as glowing bipeds. We will tell this scientist that his world is doomed; splendid!" Cromwell hated being sarcastic but he would have preferred to limit contact to electronic means and artifacts.

"H'Liq suspects that is so," Picard interjected. "But we should have included M'Altz've in this meeting. He has some interesting ideas about saving his people."

Cromwell shot a sidewise glance toward Schultheiss. He wondered if it was him or had the mathematician changed since her near electrocution? "One scientist at a time miss," he answered and sighed. Earth had already put men in space when they had encountered the Vulcans. This would be the Ro'ha's first contact as far as Cromwell knew after reading Picard and Dieulafoy's reports. He didn't know what would happen but if this H'Liq took off running in a panic Cromwell would not be surprised.

The humans pushed their way through the odd looking forest in the dim light of the red dwarf. Cromwell had read the reports: It was a miracle that life had formed here at all. Volcanic action and a thick protective atmosphere that allowed the planet to take advantage of the frequent solar flares without irradiating its inhabitants had worked together to make enough warmth to foster life. But that life was but a brief tick of the clock as far as Ross 128 was concerned. It would soon be extinguished.

"We are almost at the rendezvous captain," Custis said. The enlisted man was staring at the small handheld computer that he held. "Topography says that there will be a slight rise ahead then we should enter the clearing."

Cromwell appreciated Custis' help. The captain wished that the man would have accepted a commission. But he understood that, like many in the navy his personal loss had deeply influenced his life. Right now he needed Pete's ability to navigate a world where compasses were rendered useless by intense magnetic fields. Cromwell's party followed Custis beneath the canopy of the oddly shaped trees of this region. Cromwell huffed a little as the party encountered the rising terrain that Custis had advised them of.

"Marcel call back to the shuttle and check on the storm status please," Cromwell ordered. He had caused surveillance satellites to be placed in orbit. The stealthy devices had been designed to spy upon a potential Romulan homeworld; but now they were being put to the more mundane use of storm tracking.

"I missed the last daily," Schultheiss announced. "Do we know the origins of those storms?"

"Our weather wizard says that the storm formation is normal," Cromwell answered. Lieutenant Ito Nakamura had started his academic life as a meteorologist. The Stellar Navy Bureau of Personnel had decided that his talents might better be spent as a sensor maintenance officer. It pleased Cromwell that the officer had found a calling here on Ross 128. He had heard persistent rumors that the meteorologist was spending his off duty time closeted away in his quarters writing papers on the weather of Ross 128's second planet.

"Most storms that I know of don't attack starships," Schultheiss replied.

"Ito mentioned that the formation was normal," Cromwell said. "It is buildup to that formation that is in question. Somehow a core of magnetic waves form then attracts more energy. As we witnessed, the storm left the atmosphere; or at least the electrical part did. That is the mystery."

"We should be there," Custis announced.

Cromwell looked out onto a clearing that was the intersection of two roads. One of the bulky, bizarre looking Ro'ha ground cars was pulled over on the corner opposite Michael and his people. He hoped that they were far enough in the brush that they would not be seen. He motioned to Custis who shined an infrared light towards the ground car. One of the tripedal aliens exited the groundcar. Michael could only imagine what compelled the alien to a rendezvous with what his, or it he reminded himself, vision would see as a glowing group of beings.

"That is close enough Miss Picard," he warned. Dieulafoy could use Picard's machine but Cromwell had to admit that having someone who could speak the Ro'ha's language with them was useful. He started to doubt his misgivings about taking Picard along. He listened as the woman made a loud series of gibberish like sounds. The Ro'ha stopped not more than ten meters from them. The alien issued forth a series of sounds of its own.

Dieulafoy was bent over the shell of the handheld computer that housed Picard's translation device. He was about to inform them all what the Ro'ha had said when Mariel Picard spoke up:

"The Ro'ha says that he received our message. H'Liq is very interested in the information that we sent to him. H'Liq asked who we are. The individual is very curious but also frightened now."

"Take me to your leader," Cromwell heard Trudy mumble under her breath.

"Tell the doctor." Cromwell had come to understand that H'Liq held a title that equated to doctor in human terms; "that we mean no harm. Tell them who we are; that we are not of his world. Tell him that we are peaceful explorers." Cromwell listened as Picard made more strange sounds. This time he could hear a pattern to it. He thought about his statement concerning peaceful explorers. Would it be better he wondered, to declare that they were harvesting local plant matter for food?

There were more sounds from H'Liq. Picard turned to them after a long exchange with the alien. "H'Liq asked to see us. The individual sees a glow and knows that there is more than me—the doctor can hear you Captain Cromwell.

Cromwell cleared his throat. "Very well," he said as he proceeded to step out of the undergrowth. I suppose it is time to put that new worlds and new civilizations thing to practice he thought as he recalled Zephram Cochrane's words.

The Ro'ha scientist obviously seen him, Cromwell knew. The triped stood still for what must have been a full minute then scurried back toward his groundcar. Despite Trudy's report that the Ro'ha were androgynous Cromwell still mentally assigned sexes to the aliens. Cromwell yelled at the Ro'ha in English. He thought of how that must look as the alien probably interpreted his greeting as some sort of hostile roar. Cromwell heard Picard spit out a rapid series of sounds. Her noises had begun to sound less like guttural exclamations and more like some sort of organized language to Cromwell.

It appeared to be a lost cause until the alien stopped and turned back toward Cromwell. He realized that Picard had stepped out of the odd looking forest to stand beside him. She continued to speak to the triped.

"What does he say?" Cromwell asked her pointedly.

She turned irritably toward him. "The doctor has read speculative fiction. H'Liq accepts that we are from another world. Our data intrigued the doctor."

"It is probably too soon but have you mentioned that we have been studying his world?" the captain asked. "For scientific reasons only," he hastened to add.

Cromwell listened as Picard spat out more of the Ro'ha language. He had read her report on her progress in deciphering the aliens' language. It occurred to him that she was conversing quite naturally with the alien for as little progress as she had alluded to. Michael saw the alien jump, although ripple might have been a better term for what the Ro'ha scientist's reaction. The reaction was explained by the presence of Marcel Dieulafoy, he thought. Cromwell guessed that the Ro'ha was trying to come to terms with him and Picard: Dieulafoy's appearance probably shook the alien even further.

"Sir the translator indicates somewhat different from what Mariel is saying," the archeologist proclaimed. He held the device out to Michel who took it and started to examine the screen.

"I am sure that it is a software glitch captain," Picard said. Michael detected a stridency in her tone. Cromwell proceeded to read the text of Picard and H'Liq's conversation. "Sir if you would just allow me to explain."

Cromwell started keying in on certain words in the translated text; insane ideas, viable solutions and mass extinction among others. He eyed Picard warily. "Please do explain miss." Cromwell's handheld beeped. He removed it from his jacket pocket and flipped the unit open. He handed Picard's translation device back to Dieulafoy and wagged a finger at her. "This is Cromwell; go ahead," he answered.

"Sir the surveillance satellite is showing a storm buildup near your area," Ito Nakamura's nervous voice proclaimed in a crackle of static.

He was aware that Picard was speaking increasingly faster in the local language. "What is the storm's progress Ito?"

"You should be feeling the first effects now," the voice from Cromwell's handheld was barely discernible through the static. Michael felt the first stirrings of a strong breeze against his skin. "This is far stronger than any that has been observed so far captain!"

"Mariel what are you saying?" he heard Dieulafoy exclaim. The sky lit up in a blood red flash. Thunder exploded less than a second afterwards. Several things happened at once after that.

Cromwell hit the ground, his eyes blinded from another flash of lightning. His vision cleared presenting him with a view of a running Mariel Picard. He struggled to his feet only to feel an intense wave of heat as another bolt of lightning nearly electrocuted him. The air was knocked out of him as he was tackled from behind.

"Best stay down sir," he heard Chief Peter Custis yell into his ear.

Despite the enlisted man's sage advice Cromwell crawled forward. "Miss Picard you are ordered to halt!" he roared in his best command tone. He was amazed to see the woman enter the alien groundcar and start its internal combustion engine. He then noticed the alien scientist frozen in place. Cromwell felt a tingle against his skin. He stood up and sprinted forward until he collided with the sturdily built Ro'ha doctor. The two went sprawling as another bolt of lightning hit a nearby tree cleaving it into two flaming pieces. Michael felt a strong wind again. It blew the hood of his navy parka over his head.

"It's going away," he heard Trudy say. He rolled over near H'Liq. The alien was unconscious and not worse Cromwell hoped. He looked around to see the black clouds, framed against the deep red sky, roil away. The groundcar was gone as well.

A tinny voice sounded out of Cromwell's dropped handheld. He crawled over to the device to hear the voice of Chief Marilyn Crossmeyer: "Shuttle to captain, shuttle to captain."

"I'm here chief," Cromwell picked up the radio and answered.

Cromwell sighed as the chief ran through a litany of disastrous news: Lieutenant Nakamura was stunned but recovering. The port engine had taken a direct lightning strike. The shuttle would be grounded until a repair crew arrived. He wondered how a surface storm could do such a thing to an electrically insulated navy shuttle. On top of all of that Somers had called from Daedelus with news that the expected solar eruption was occurring sooner than had been forecast.

"You and Nakamura work on concealing the shuttle chief," he ordered. "Get me an uplink to Daedelus." Cromwell watched as Schultheiss raced over to kneel over the wounded alien. "What do you think Trudy?"

"His surface vitals read okay," she answered. Cromwell was glad that he was not the only one to gloss over the gender differences of the Ro'ha. "He is unconscious of course." He watched as she placed a surface scanner on the alien's chest area. "I believe that I can treat for shock; which I believe our comrade here is in. I wish that we could get him to Daedelus for an X-ray—

"Somers to captain," Commander Lisa Somers' voice broke into he and Schultheiss' conversation. He quickly explained the situation to her. "We can send another shuttle down with a team of marines and engineers sir."

"Negative commander," he replied. "I don't want a shuttle crew exposed to that risk." Daedelus could hang in orbit through a solar flare he knew. But it was sure death for a thin skinned shuttle. It was not that good on a Daedelus class cruiser Cromwell also knew. His ship could stay there in orbit, but it may well sustain damage in doing so. "Get my ship to safety Lisa. We'll manage here on the surface until your return."

"Aye captain," the reply came at last. "I was hoping to get command," she added mischievously. "We'll do an impulse cruise out beyond the safe range and return when the flare has abated."

"We'll be here," Cromwell answered. He closed the lid of his radio and sighed. He noticed that H'Liq was stirring. He looked at his surgeon who nodded reassuringly at him. Cromwell turned to Dieulafoy. "Please tell me that device works both ways lieutenant." Cromwell looked at the missing Picard's handheld translator.

"It can emit a crude mechanical voice translation captain," the archeologist informed him. Cromwell hoped so as he saw that the Ro'ha was regaining consciousness. "But you ought to see the text of," he saw the Frenchman's hesitation. "The full text of Mariel's conversation with H'Liq," he said as he handed the translator to Cromwell, a look of trepidation on his face.

"What is it Olly?" the doctor asked as she saw the look on his face.

He handed the device back to Dieulafoy. "I suppose that you did not notice any change in her?"

Cromwell saw his hesitation. He shoved his anger down; now was not the time for admonishments he thought. "Mariel has been acting differently. She," he stopped briefly. Marcel's voice was lower as he continued. "She seemed to know many things about the Ro'ha; or at least she was speaking as if she did. When I confronted her about it she tried to," Dieulafoy paused again. "She became quite—passionate."

"Passionate angry or passionate sexually?" the chief asked. The shore party peered at him. "I just wanted to know. It's been the topic of discussion in the galley." Cromwell smiled in spite of the situation. Custis' question was ill-timed but Michael was glad to see the man emerging from his shell finally.

"Passionate sex—she acted in an uncharacteristic manner," Dieulafoy replied.

"What is on there Olly?" he heard Schultheiss ask. Rather than explain he handed the translation device to the doctor.

"It seems that Miss Picard knows a lot more about this planet, its nations and its problems than she admitted," Cromwell declared while Trudy read the text. He looked at the alien sprawled out on the ground. He hoped that the doctor was alright because it looked like his shore party would need a local guide if they were to recover Picard.

Construction site of Deep Space One, Nov 2157

He smelled. Lieutenant Commander Jeff Sutton was actually glad for the acrid smell of burnt insulation: It masked the smell of his unwashed body. The last warm shower was three days ago. It was an exciting memory as he had shared the water with Talas. He looked over at her as she dozed across from him. The Romulan attacks had slowed enough to allow the couple to be off simultaneously. Sutton suspected that the break would not last much longer.

The lights for what was to be the station commander's office flickered then died completely. Emergency lights came up bathing the couple in a garish blue glow. The attacks had decreased in volume; that was true. But they had never stopped. It occurred to Jeff that this was the first time that he and Talas had been alone since the Birdie attack had begun. Despite warm feelings he actually dreaded this time as she had confronted him with an unpleasant subject.

"I can feel the Amazons launching out of their tubes," Talas said. "We are nearly out of those."

"Captain Archer is making them all count." Sutton knew that she could feel the station's vibration through her Andorian senses. "The laser crews have been hell on the Birdies and their missiles. We still have the mam." Sutton was impressed by how Archer had arrayed his defenses to protect their primary asset.

"I was concerned that this Archer—an engineer, would fail as a warrior." Talas looked intently at Sutton. He looked away nervously. "He has made the pirates pay much to kill us. I suppose that is good for us that things end this way."

"Talas; this may not be the end," he countered. "We'll be fine. I know this whole thing was going to strike some people as odd." He knew that she knew that he was referring to their relationship and not the ensuing battle. In some small way Sutton was glad about the attack: It had forestalled this unpleasantly. Talas was worried the differences between the couple. It amused Jeff in a sour sort of way that like a human woman the Andorian had the propensity to bring up hard questions in any circumstance. Difficult questions for a man anyway he groused.

"I saw how your parents looked at me," Talas retorted. "Your mother wanted me to wear some sort of marriage vestment. She seemed concerned that the headpiece would not adequately conceal my antennae."

"I never thought that this would be easy," Sutton replied softly. The warning klaxon had been deactivated two days ago. The only sound in the small sparse office was the whir of the air circulation fans.

"It's as much my fault," Talas said. "I pursued you. I have to admit a curiosity about what it would be like to be with one of you pink-skins; that it led to something more intense was a surprise to me."

"I love my family and you love yours," Jeff answered. "You have to admit that your family didn't exactly greet me like they would if I were Andorian." He held up a hand hastily as she opened her mouth the reply. "I don't want to criticize your family—or mine."

Sutton knew the truth of what she was telling him. His parents had spoken privately with him expressing their disappointment at what they called his early marriage. They had stopped short of actually saying that it had anything to do with his choice of a mate. But Jeff had seen it; or rather he had felt it. He was a human of the twenty-second century so prejudice was something almost foreign to him. At least the emotion was foreign among most humans now. Sutton recalled reading of how his own race had once divided themselves among racial groups when, with few exceptions there were no major discernible differences among humans. He remembered a favorite teacher belittling the strange beliefs of the old Progressives, suggesting that by their own criteria of skin color then left handed people would be of a different race than were right handed ones.

"If this were two years ago I'd agree with you," Sutton continued. "But the Romulans changed everything. I know what I feel for you and my parents will just have to come along later—so will yours." He took her hand. He knew that it would be oddly cool to anyone who had never touched an Andorian before.

She smiled in a most human way. "You presume much when it comes to a family unit among my people."

Sutton was about to reply when the door slid open revealing the space-suited form of Captain Archer. The helmet that the captain wore caused half of his face to be cast in shadow; that half was troubled. Jeff supposed that he and Talas were lucky: A few hours' sleep out of three days was a gift. They both stood up slowly. The fatigue was still there.

"It's beginning," Archer announced. Both Sutton and Talas had been privy to Captains Archer and Valdez's discussion that the Romulans would try a big push; committing the majority of their forces in an attempt to destroy the station. There was little doubt that Archer was now referring to anything else. "Radar shows that they are massing the largest group of fighters yet. They've also pulled back their refuelers."

"They would've been fools to do otherwise," Talas spat out. Jeff could see the warrior in her emerging. "We can expect them to try another cruiser strike with their plasma cannons."

Archer nodded. "We don't have enough Spiders to pull the armor trick again. I've ordered engineering to work on keeping the hull plating up around the central core."

"The laser crews have had some rest," Sutton interjected. "They've pulled our nuts out of the fire before…

"We'll hope for the best," Archer said agreeably. "Right now I need my best people out there."

Talas stalked out before him. A sudden idea popped into Jeff's head. "Captain Archer I believe that this station follows the same regulations as a ship?" he asked although he fully knew the answer: Coming from a family of attorneys had its advantages.

"Deep Space One is technically a ship under power; yes," the captain answered slowly. "Although I don't see what that has to—

"I request that you perform a marriage ceremony between me and Lieutenant Talas after this is over sir."

"Jeff!" the Andorian exclaimed. Archer seemed to Jeff to be both impatient and amused all at the same time.

"You don't think that we'll survive," he said cutting off her further comments. "If we live then marry me." This last, he presented as a dare. When she seemed about to protest he added: "Coward."

"We'll see who the coward is when you are formally made mine," the Andorian retorted. "I'll do as you ask."

"Now that that is decided let's defend this station," Archer interjected dryly. Sutton pushed past Talas who seemed temporarily rooted in place. He smiled as he realized that he had penetrated her rock solid demeanor.

Ensign Jason Crusher found that his rest time only gave rise to thoughts best left beneath the surface. He was going to die; just like David Wesley Crusher had. The radar returns showed the massing Romulans. This would be it. Crusher wondered how the last seconds would feel. He started shaking all over as if he were cold. He was about to cry. Crusher looked around in the darkness of the small access tube where he had been sleeping; his coffin. A light shined in his eyes causing him to cry out.

"Hey there Mister Crusher," Chief Jack Clemmons said in a strong voice that sounded as if he were calling out a cadre of cadets on a warm summer morning. Crusher looked at him and blinked owlishly. He was too frightened to reply. He realized that Clemmons was repeating something. "Did I ever tell ya why I signed on for space duty again?"

Crusher shook his head. Clemmons had his attention. "There I was all set to retire and settle down in Alabama. That's in the US of A in case ya didn't know. I even asked a girl to marry me. No problem there—she was butt ugly and would've needed to tie a pork chop around her neck to find a man there. But there I came along." Crusher found himself laughing. The fear was melting away like the last bits of wax from a dying candle.

"Anyway I went back to Mobile." Crusher heard that peculiar inflection that turned mobile into mo and bill. "There was so many people there! Kee-rist a man couldn't help swimming in someone else's soup! But the worst part was that there was so many of them that didn't have much to do except poke their noses into my business. Hell one old boy used to call the sheriff every damn time the suds and sounds got out of hand at the Clemmons house."

"Don't tell me that you left all of that behind?" Jason asked. A grin was on his lips.

"Not that I meant too," Clemmons went on to explain. "I told Annie that I was leavin' for a pack of smokes—cigarettes. That was three years ago I reckon; still haven't gotten that goddamned pack of cigarettes yet!"

"She must miss you Jack," Crusher replied.

"Plenty of pork chops in the freezer son," Clemmons said as he laid a hand in Crusher's shoulder. "It's show time ensign."

"I figured," Crusher moaned as his stiff joints complained as he pulled himself out of the crawlway and into the power room corridor. The spacesuit was weighing heavily on him. He stood up.

"Want to try that deflector screen idea of yours Mister Crusher?" the chief asked him.

Jason wished that his pet theory was more than that. The enhanced version of a navigational deflector should, according to his theory create a bubble of protective energy around a space vessel. It would in fact be a whole new invention over standard navigational deflectors. Jason preferred the term force field but the navy had called the magnetic sweep field generators, deflectors for too many decades now. Crusher shook his head. His shield was an interesting project but the spatial generators needed to make such a sustained field did not exist yet.

"I wish chief," Crusher answered. "Even with those two spare nav arrays out of stores the best I've been able to do is generate a field for three seconds. The alloys don't exist to make anything that will be usable."

"Three seconds can be a—

The men grabbed at one another as the artificial gravity let go then engaged again. They regained their footing and looked down the corridor. Crusher grabbed at his visor as he heard the dreaded explosive pop of a blowout. No strong blast of air moved him. Jason realized that another part of DS One had been holed. The automatic system had reacted to close the affected areas off he guessed.

"We've lost hull plating on section three of the central core," Commander Walters' voice sounded odd coming from both Crusher's helmet speaker and the main public address system. Jason felt another chill: That loss meant that the matter anti matter reactor was exposed. Jason and Clemmons acknowledged the advisory.

The maintenance network exploded with activity as technicians turned to the problem of reinstating their thin protective barrier there. Crusher talked over several solutions as he and Jack raced toward the core area hull plating power conduits. They went through the main engineering area. Crusher watched as his technicians poured over the reactor. The cylindrical device stretched away into the cavernous upper ceiling of engineering. This was Deep Space One's largest compartment.

"All that won't matter a hill of beans when the Birdies move in against our unprotected section," Clemmons exclaimed as he gestured toward the reactor. Jason imagined that he could feel the core pulsate as matter and anti matter collided in a controlled cataclysmic power generating explosion. He soon forgot about that as they passed through engineering into section three. The bulky hull plating relays and two of the conduits leading to them were destroyed. Pieces of metal shrapnel were imbedded in the passage's walls.

"Do we have more conduit coming from stores?" the chief bellowed out. A Tellarite, his face streaked with grime informed Clemmons that access to the station's stores was impeded by a large blowout. Material would have to be physically moved between access ways.

"We're looking at an hour for something like that." Clemmons was plainly distressed.

Crusher informed Captain Archer of the situation via his command network access. Archer's reply was not promising. "We're barely containing this wave and they are reassembling for another attack. They are maneuvering a Sabinus in for a plasma cannon shot and so far they been covering their cruiser. If they hit us in section three again…

"We'll do what we can sir," Crusher answering before ending communications with Archer.

"We've got those two navigation deflectors down here hoss," Clemmons said. "You've been monkeying with them; right now three seconds or so might make all the difference."

Crusher thought about it before answering. "It's mostly theory Jack!"

Clemmons put a gauntleted hand on his shoulder and took him aside. The chief's eyes shot towards a group of engineers and gunners milling about aimlessly. "This ain't good son. Take a look at those people: They are as scared as a dog who just stuck his head in a groundhog hole. We got to give them something to do. We got a good crew working on restoring the plating; anymore fingers in the pie and it would just turn into a mess."

"Okay," Jason looked at the nervous group. "You there!" he nervously bellowed towards a knot of engineers. "I need your help. I am going to rig the deflector generators in the engineering store rooms to the spare sensor emitter arrays." The group eyed Crusher with much skepticism. It had not escaped Jason that many times his technicians looked past him to Clemmons for a confirmation of his orders. This was another of those times when Crusher saw the chief nodding. He took out his handheld and proceeded to show his design to the engineers.

"I'll hook up the aux power lines from the standby fusion sir," one engineer proclaimed. Her comrade volunteered to help her. Still other engineers stepped forward to take up various tasks to help Crusher.

A surly Tellarite gunner and his human companion took up the challenge. "We'll drag your deflector out where it needs to go human!"

Crusher and Clemmons supervised. Jason was surprised at the amount of theoretical know how Clemmons possessed. He had tended to think little of the enlisted engineers but was finding out different. The team worked through problem after problem until the two generators were connected and ready for action. Crusher had been listening to the command net enough to know that the Minotaurs had held off the worst of the Eightball attacks. Still several detonations had been close enough to set off the radiologic alarms.

"What's the status of that plating?" Archer's voice stabbed into Crusher's helmet.

"The damage control teams are moving the material past G deck captain," Crusher responded. "We've got the relays up but no power to the plating. We are looking at another twenty minutes at least." Archer replied with a list of bad news. The Sabinus had been repulsed but was repositioning. "Sir I've got a possible temporary fix." He rushed to explain his idea to the captain.

"I thought that your force field was only theoretical Jase?" Archer replied.

"I created an actual working field in the academy physics lab once sir," Jason answered. He hoped that Archer would not ask more: He had indeed made such a field. It had lasted less than a second and had destroyed a sweep generator that had been taken from one of the old Schneider class freighters.

"If this field takes one or two hits that might make a difference," Archer replied at last. "Okay Jason; get rolling on that. Keep the pressure up on your teams to get the hull plating back online."

"Aye sir," Crusher answered.

"I think all captains say that," Clemmons interjected. He had access to the same network as did Crusher. "Like us engineers are sitting around eating hotdogs and drinking beer." Jason watched as the chief made a final connection. "Looks like that wraps it up: I don't like the configuration of the logic circuit but it'll have to do."

Crusher looked and Clemmons. "What if this fizzles out Jack?" he asked in hushed tones. He looked toward the engineers and spare gunnery crewmen who were milling about.

"You won't have long to worry about bein' a failure son," Clemmons answered candidly. "The Birdies will see to that. But hell son; it's a good idea. The way composites and molecule construction is comin' along in another ten or twenty years your shield would probably be on every starship. Right now with the materials we have it's just an interestin' experiment. But the important thing Mister Crusher is that you gave these people somethin' to do. This might be everyone's last few minutes and I guess you got a sense for how that feels bein' alone without anything to do and no way to prevent what is happenin'."

Jason had indeed had those feelings as he had crouched in the maintenance tube. He looked at the engineers; full of purpose and resolve. He was still frightened but he was resolved too. If he was to die so be it. They had put up a fight here. Crusher knew that the Romulans were bipeds: It was one of the few things that the allies knew about their enemy. He guessed that their dead from this attack must number in the tens of thousands; that was if they lived anything like humans or their alien allies he corrected himself.

"Incoming wave," Captain Archer's voice boomed over both the PA and Jason's helmet communication system. Jason thought that he knew Archer well enough to hear a note of defeat in the captain's voice. Their ammo was almost exhausted and a hit on or even near the mam would end things for the fledgling space station.

"Here we go," Crusher said. He and Clemmons went into the main section of engineering. The only indication of the matter anti matter reactor's pulsing was a repetitive master indicator light that dominated the center of the primary control console. Jason passed the technician who was monitoring the powerful generator and instead accessed the ops center interface console.

He heard Clemmons let out a long whistle as the screen projected the ghostly images of the allied forces and those of their opponents. "Not a lot of dots for the good guys," he proclaimed.

"I heard Commander Walters say that we've lost over half of the Minotaur force," Crusher said quietly. He maintained a low voice so that he and Jack's conversation would not carry.

Despite the losses the Minotaurs swept out and quickly reduced the number of incoming Aeons. Crusher watched as the badly wounded Trafalgar maneuvered against the Sabinus. The Romulan craft showed as being well within plasma cannon range. Crusher looked at Clemmons.

"Mind if I do the honors on this force field sir?" the enlisted man asked. He was almost oblivious to what the man was saying as his unique mathematical gift allowed him to project the Sabinus' movement. He estimated that the Birdies should fire right about now.

He nodded to the chief. "Raise shield," Crusher said without emotion.

"Shield up," Clemmons responded firmly.

Crusher closed his eyes as too late he was blinded by the flash of an explosion. He was thrown to the deck. When his vision returned he turned to see Clemmons pushing buttons at the matter anti matter master control panel as the technician who had been there looked on. Jason got up and strode over to the chief.

"We took a hit but your shield musta done something hoss!" Clemmons said. "We are still here; ain't in good shape but we are here."

Crusher studied the board. The chief's assessment was an understatement. Still Crusher saw that there was hope. "The anti matter injectors need to be realigned." It looked to Jason like a piece of shrapnel had penetrated to the reactor body. A single injector was still functioning or else he would not be here. Physically repairing the secondary injector was an attainable goal. "I'll open the main access chief," Crusher started.

He felt Clemmons seize his arm through his suit. "The tertiary layer of shielding is gone boy! Whoever opens that access is gonna get a delta radiation bath."

Crusher froze. He gulped despite the dryness in his throat. He absently swiped at his nose: Another nose bleed from the Hyronaline. He looked at the blood on his gauntlet without really seeing it. Delta radiation: Every spacer's fear. The insidious rays burned organic matter from the inside out. Tales of exposed men and women's agonizing last few moments were told at Star Fleet Academy like campfire horror stories. But the repair had to be done: The mam could only function on one injector for ten minutes.

"I'm going chief," he said quietly.

"Okay hoss," Clemmons said. "I can see you have your mind made up. I'm gonna need some help to the door though. I think I broke my tailbone or something after that last hit."

Crusher was angry. He needed to get to work on the reactor. He reached out and allowed Clemmons to put his weight on him. He walked the limping chief to the main engineering access. Crusher knew that he was going to die when he opened up the mam's last layer of protective shielding. He pushed the thought out of his head. Jason was stopped short as Clemmons put a hand out onto the hatchway.

"You'll do fine ensign," Clemmons said. Crusher was like a man watching something in slow motion. Somehow Jack had put his leg between Crusher's while pushing Jason away. Jason was tripped. He hit the deck outside of engineering as the heavy shielded hatch trundled close.

"Let me in Jack!" he cried. He realized that he shouting at empty air. He switched over to the maintenance net and repeated his demand.

"No go son," the chief answered. Crusher could almost believe that he was playing an impish joke given his tone of voice.

"Open the hatch chief!" Crusher repeated. "That is an order!"

"Ops engineering," Archer's voice intruded. "We took a full hit from that Sabinus! Good job on the hull plating Jase!"

Crusher noticed that the repair team was finally in place with the components that they needed. "Taleel," he called to the lead engineer.

The Andorian turned to Crusher. "We should have the plating couplers restored in five minutes sir."

"Aye sir," Jason mumbled over the command net. He walked over to the auxiliary engineering monitoring station. The video was hard to resolve into a clear picture: Jason realized that the flood of radiation into the compartment was responsible for the video's lack of clarity. The figure of Jack Clemmons emerged from the bulk of the mam reactor. The chief carefully replaced his hand tools into a pouch near the access panel. Crusher watched as Clemmons keyed in commands into a small control panel. The heavy twenty-five centimeter thick main access hatch rolled shut.

Jason keyed the main engineering audio system. "What the hell chief? You disobeyed my orders." It was a poor way to speak to a man who was rapidly dying. The auxiliary monitoring panel indicators showed that main engineering was lethal.

"Sorry old boy," Clemons answered. "It ain't a thing; guess it was my time is all." Clemmons stared directly into the video feed; directly into Crusher's eyes. "It's startin' son. You know what you have to do here. I feel it burnin' in me. I don't want to go out that way."

Jason's hand hovered over the engineering purge controls. He keyed in the sequence which would open the compartment to space. Crusher had to repeat the procedure as tears clouded his vision. "Goddamn you Jack!" he cursed in vain and sobbed.

"I don't want to start screamin' boss," Clemmons answered. "If it makes it any easier I'm tellin' you that you better name a kid after me or something!" The chief wore a broad smile but Jason could see the pain behind his eyes.

"Thank you Jack," Crusher said. He wanted to hit himself. He wanted to say so much more. "I'll do that chief." Jason's hand slapped at the release. The twenty-two metric ton space door propelled by exploding gas charges sprang open as if it were a light, flimsy piece of standard aluminum. Crusher wanted to look away but he dare not as Jack Clemmons was yanked off of his feet and shot out into space amid every loose article in the engineering compartment. The radiation level dropped. Jason inputted the commands to close the hatch.

He realized that Taleel was speaking to him; was in fact yelling at him. "Sir! The plating system is repaired; what now?"

Crusher stood mute for a few seconds. Clemmons had believed in him. "Get the plating back on line! When engineering repressurizes get a crew in there. We need to keep the power going. Break up into sections and cover our laser turrets. They are the priority!"

"Aye-aye sir!" the Andorian snapped in reply. Crusher joined a team; one of his teams he realized. He needed to work.

"The stragglers are retreating," Commander William Walters told Captain Jonathan Archer. Despite winning yet another move in this chess game as Lieutenant Talas had called it he was tired. Archer's head popped up at Walters' words.

"What are they up to out there Sutton?" he asked Lieutenant Commander Jeff Sutton. There was silence. "Well?" he snapped harshly.

"Sorry sir," Archer could hear Sutton's puzzlement in his voice. "They are," he paused. "They are sitting out there—nothing; not forming another attack wing; nothing."

"Weapons?" he asked the Andorian.

"Narwhals are exhausted, we have ten Spiders available, Merculite rockets are spent," Talas started the list. "Less than a third of the lasers are still operating sir."

"Trafalgar reporting in captain," Walters cocked his head tiredly as he listened. "Their weapon stores are exhausted as well. Their last laser took a hit. Lieutenant Commander Tucker says it'll take a few hours to repair."

"Hull plating is back up around the mam sir," Sutton chimed in. Archer suspected that he was trying to find some piece of good news amidst the unfolding disaster.

Archer shook his head. The Sabinus had hit that area squarely with its plasma cannon. Deep Space One should not even be there he thought. But they would not be for much longer. He grew angry. Archer sprang up and stalked over to the communications' console.

"Ensign Chandra, prepare to send a voice message; all available channels," he instructed the Indian. When that task was complete Archer started speaking. "Ready for more?" he started. "I know that you can monitor our communications. If you're not then you are bigger fools than we originally thought you were. We are waiting. You've had three of our days to kill us and you've failed. We're still here; a lot of your people aren't. Try it again. We are tired of waiting for your pathetic attacks." He stopped as he saw Sutton motion at him.

"They are forming up captain!" his operations' officer informed him. "The mines—they are vanishing! I think…I think they are detonating them. Moving toward us!" he added breathlessly.

"Weapons!" the captain bellowed. "Target them with whatever…

"In range!" the Andorian exclaimed.

"Cabbages in plasma cannon," Sutton's voice stopped. "What the hell?" Archer heard him say in a near whisper.

"What is it?" he asked while moving to Sutton's station.

"They are going to warp captain," Sutton answered. Archer grew impatient as he waited for further information. "They are departing."

"What kind of trick is this?" Talas asked.

"Continue tracking them with radar," Archer ordered. "In the meantime try restoring as many armaments as our people can." Jonathan came back to the stiff backed command chair. He remained standing though. The Birdies had suddenly stopped. He knew that their cruisers had been whittled down to less than a third of what they had started with. But that, he reasoned should have been enough to continue the fight.

"Sir," Ensign Chandra's quiet voice spoke up. Archer turned to her. "Taskforce 25 is reporting inbound. They estimate eighteen hours sir."

"The Birdies couldn't have known captain," Walters said in a speculative tone.

"It wouldn't have made a difference anyway," Archer said.

"They are still moving away," Sutton said. Archer could see that the man was bent over the hood of his sensor screen.

"Continue tracking them," Archer said. "If they move beyond radar range I want a five second ping by sensors. If they are still retreating then I'll order delta shift to stand down for a rest." He heard Sutton, a delta shift officer, breathe a sigh of relief. "I hate to rain on your parade Jeff but you will not be standing down. In case this is really over you will be showering and obtaining your dress uniform. I don't plan on officiating over your wedding while you are wearing a dirty uniform." The look on Sutton's face made whatever else was going to happen worth it Archer thought. He smiled; for perhaps the first time in two days.

Baltimore, Maryland, the old United States, Dec 2157

"What makes you think that your old boss is still around?" Lieutenant Frank McCoy asked the genetically augmented Kanya Nayyar. He was busy packing clothes. He wanted to leave the unpleasant reminders of Eileen Thomas and her apartment behind him. Admiral Soames had guaranteed that with her request that he go to Vulcan.

"Perex believes in the empire," Nayyar explained; "more than that he is from an imperial house. He believes that his lineage dictates his rank. The admiral ordered a recall of covert personnel to Vulcan. Perex believes that the key to breaking Thorpe's alliance is earth. He believes that Thorpe is the alliance."

"This admiral," McCoy paused while he recalled the name Nayyar had told to him: "Valdore; won't he take offense at Perex disobeying his orders?"

She seemed to Frank to be struggling to explain. Finally she spoke: "It would take too long to explain McCoy. The empire's leadership structure is far more complicated than it is presented. If Perex is successful here and can live to return to the empire he will be vindicated."

Frank nodded absently as he finished removing the things that he would need for his trip. He recalled her quick explanation of the Tal Shiar and their possible involvement in starting the war. "Does the Tal Shiar really have that much pull?"

"It was not always so," Nayyar answered. "There are whispered rumors. The average Romulan citizen is afraid to speak up. But the cause of Reunification has always been a popular one. We aug—humans were kept sequestered much of the time. Still we heard rumors and such from the outside; more on the long cruise to earth. Some in the military, Valdore was rumored to be among them, called for exercising restraint; perhaps as much as another human decade."

"That would've been about right," the historian in McCoy answered. "There was talk of reducing the Stellar Navy to a purely search and rescue roll since that is pretty much what it was anyway. If the Birdies would've hit us after we mothballed the lion's share of the fleet it would have been all over."

"Another decade would have made conditions on Vulcan more amenable for the empire's arrival also." Nayyar spoke as she took up a picture that that McCoy had dropped. The holophoto had landed face down: That had suited Frank just fine. He could not face the image of he and Eileen in a passionate grope; the photo taken by one of those annoying resort hospitability workers. He tried to take the remembrance from Nayyar but he should have known better as she deftly avoided his grasp.

"They looked at looked scenes liked this when they concluded that humans were vulnerable," she intoned calmly as she looked at the photo.

"What?" he asked. McCoy stopped his packing and confronted the woman. "The fact that we liked having good times?" he shot back angrily.

"The sense of decadence and malaise," Nayyar answered. "They studied your history. The Tal Shiar planetary study triad concluded that your people grew soft when you accumulated wealth. Your last war was almost a human century ago. It was thought that humans would surrender after the colony worlds were seized; that the timid and weak among you would dominate and discourage any reprisals against the empire."

McCoy wanted to lecture her. But the Birdies had hit the nail on the head. That was a sad fact in human history: The propensity to avoid conflict until it was inevitable. He merely nodded. "It was a good move. They might have won at that."

They still could McCoy thought. Nayyar had painted this Valdore as an excellent tactician. He had gleaned from her words that he must have been restrained by his civilian; or in this case imperial authority. Nayyar had related that Valdore had planned the Battle of Hell's Gate to make only a feint toward Wolf and attack with the main bulk of the Birdie fleet at Utopia Planitia. The small force that had made it through to the space yard had wreaked havoc enough. Frank was glad that Valdore had been usurped in his original decision.

He gathered up the rest of the clothes that he would need. "Give me that; please," Frank said; reaching out for the framed picture. She handed it to him. He glanced at the image and felt a stab in his heart. Frank wished that he had never signed onto Soames' plan now. It had all seemed so simple back then. They would do the right thing and walk away. No one was to be hurt; except for the Romulans. McCoy heard the voices of his elders telling him that right and wrong were simple choices. One either fell on one side or the other of those opposites. Eileen he thought bitterly had fallen dead somewhere in the middle.

"Well too late for regrets now," McCoy voiced his thought aloud. He looked at her bitterly. Nayyar was not the direct cause of his predicament but his mind wanted desperately to latch onto a scapegoat. Still he could not deny what the augment had done.

"What if Perex decides to come after you?" he asked bluntly. He cinched up his duffel, threw it over his shoulder and headed to what had been the couple's living room.

"I'm quite capable," she answered flatly. One of those lucky fly's that somehow had survived the change of season to make it indoors had its flight ended when the augment reached out and snatched it out of the air. She looked at it and flicked it back into the air. The insect recovered its poise. Did insects have poise McCoy wondered? Nayyar grabbed at and seized it again. "I have not lost my enhancements merely because I carry your child."

McCoy winced. "I wish that you wouldn't put it that way." Frank wanted to change the subject. He recalled his dad's frequent saying: What about those Braves? "The admiral is not sure about your offer to help us."

"I understand her reluctance," Nayyar answered at last. McCoy was glad that she had not pursued the baby issue any further. "But I believe save for you and Mister Brack that is your entire organization?"

McCoy nodded. She had helped them. He could not have stopped her that night on the Golden Gate Bridge. She need not have told him of the Birdies' plot to crash the freighter into the main government compound in San Francisco. He wondered briefly if this could be part of a larger Romulan plot. He shook his head: Most oftentimes the simplest explanation held the answer.

"I believe you could help us," he said at last. McCoy could see that she had mistaken his negative gesture as a dismissal. "Sorry; I was weighing things in my head," he said trying to explain his gesture. "I told the admiral that. I don't think she really takes a cotton to Micah." Neither did McCoy at times. He recalled Eileen's neighbor's account of the cold blooded execution of one of the bombers by what police had labeled vigilantes. McCoy had no doubts as to who performed that execution. He was still unsure about Brack's claim that he was somehow merged with a dead Vulcan. McCoy decided to keep that fact concealed from both Nayyar and the admiral.

"She is right not to trust me," Nayyar said; guessing at Frank's thought. "I would not were I in her position. But I offer my help nonetheless. I know much of Perex's mind." McCoy watched her: He thought that he detected a shudder. She reached into a jacket pocket. "These data wafers contain all of the empire's operating locations here—that I know of. I doubt that much can be found now. The admiral is increasing his effort to sway Vulcan."

McCoy wondered what he could there. Apparently Gupta, to McCoy's utter surprise had done much. He was not surprised that the Indian could have performed well in so dangerous a situation but rather surprised that Soames had withheld Gupta's location even from him. He wondered if she was keeping any other secrets. He dismissed the thought. His trip to Vulcan would serve another purpose: Too many eyes were being cast their way.

The Sons' of Terra were in complete disarray. But Erica had related to Frank the president's skepticism concerning the events leading up to that. The president was using all his resources hunting for a renegade organization in his own government. Soames had confided her belief to Frank that Thorpe knew: He just could not prove anything. This trip to Vulcan besides the primary reason would take Frank out of the picture; away from prying eyes here on earth.

"I'll tell her again how you've helped us Nayyar—

"You may call me Kanya," she interjected. "But do not get any other ideas about us McCoy. I chose to carry this child as an act of contrition; nothing else."

Frank really hadn't thought about that. He spoke in surprise: "I never expected anything else—Jesus lady! Besides; right now," his speech stumbled. "Look; thank you for everything. I'm not sure that I understand fully why you helped us, but that is not important anymore; thank you." He looked toward her midriff. "And for that," he added. "I suppose in some way," he stopped. Images of Eileen came unbidden to his mind's eye. He had betrayed and killed her. No matter what her political beliefs were she did not deserve that.

"I do not fully understand grief—except as a weakness," Nayyar said. "Perhaps we were wrong about that too."

"Aren't you people supposed to believe in your superiority?" McCoy asked sarcastically; glad for the diversion from unpleasant thoughts.

"Of course we do," she answered. The augment smiled. McCoy had thought she was incapable of the gesture. "I discovered an error and corrected it: A trait of a superior being."

It took Frank a few moments to realize that she was chiding him along. He smiled in turn. She looked less like a genetically engineered killing machine and more like a carefree young lady when she smiled. McCoy extended his hand.

"Take care of him—or her," Frank said. "Something good has to come from all of this bad."

"Return to see your child McCoy—

"Frank," he countered. She took his hand firmly. He remembered how she had crushed his wrist. Her skin was warm and dry.

"Good luck Frank," she replied.

The Plains of Danoroc, Vulcan, Dec 2157

He shielded his eyes. Lieutenant Tarang Gupta had learned in his role of saboteur never to look directly at the explosion. His chest ached as the concussive blast of his handiwork resonated through his body. The High Command still maintained stores of hybrid chemical thruster fuels at some of their military spaceports. Gupta suspected that they would reverse that policy after two of their fuel storage areas and the surrounding freighter launch facilities were destroyed. He was surprised that they had not made the changes after the first time.

"Let's go," T'Pol proclaimed as she rose out of her hiding place. The two were similarly adorned in light ruddy brown cloaks.

The two Syrranites were already slipping away into the blinding daylight. Their leader turned from the two and approached Gupta and T'Pol. Of all the things that had happened lately the conversion of Syrran to a more active role in the Vulcan civil war was the most amazing thing to the intelligence officer. Of course, in truly Vulcan fashion both T'Pol and Syrran referred to Vulcan's current internal conflict as a dispute. It reminded Gupta, for all the world of a property dispute his family had once had. His father and the neighbor had cursed one another and his mother had actually stooped over, grabbed a handful of mud and flung it at their neighbors. Gupta recalled that the entire incident had centered on a fence and a hound that liked to dig holes. Still Syrran or his followers had nothing more than help. None of them had taken up arms.

"Remember to offer no resistance." Gupta voiced his concern. Syrran's people were to head away from the automated spaceport to be apprehended by the proctors or security forces. Tarang hated doing this. But Syrran had actually made the suggestion. So far no civilians had been killed save for the unfortunate Sremen; all of that despite the work slowdowns and stoppages.

That was the nature of the dispute as Syrran and T'Pol called it. The Vulcan populace was waking up to the fact that Minister V'Las' government was acting inappropriately. Commerce had slowed to a standstill. It was actually quite logical when Syrran explained it to Gupta: V'Las' actions in the declaration of martial law and the bombing of the T'Karath Sanctuary were deemed illogical. The populace was reacting in a way that would forbid the High Command from making reprisals without reason. The whole affair effectively froze Vulcan civilization and gave one human intelligence officer a headache. Gupta wondered when Valdore would take a more active hand in pushing things along.

"I have told you human," Syrran spoke for his followers. "We are pacifists. To offer resistance would—

"Would not be logical," Gupta interrupted. "I know that. But your sources in the ministry sir admit that V'Las is not acting logically. How long before," his voice trailed off as he gestured at the departing Vulcans. How long before well meaning pacifists were summarily executed, he had wanted to ask. The couple was to act as a decoy for him and T'Pol. Apparently he and T'Pol were highly sought after by the internal security forces.

"It is because we have strayed so far," Syrran said. Gupta could see that faraway look in the leader's eyes. Tarang often wondered what sort of internal dialogue must go on in there. "The Romulans knew it was time. Too many," Gupta looked on as Syrran looked at T'Pol; "even your employer Soval started to believe in Vulcan's manifest destiny. They mistook a cognitive intellectual ability for the right and authority to lead the other races. They should have seen their illogic when the Andorians resisted our dominion."

"That tells me that there are enough Vulcans who believe that," Gupta said. He followed closely behind T'Pol as she led the trio to a new observation point. Gupta wanted to see who would come to investigate the disturbance that he had created here.

"I cannot even begin to calculate the outcome were the Romulans to land," Syrran said. "I believe in a greater than seventy percent chance that Vulcan civilization would fragment to the point of destruction; perhaps even before your people arrived to destroy us Gupta."

This was an old argument between the Gupta and Syrran. One that he knew that the Vulcan was right about: Somewhere Gupta felt sure that plans were made in case Vulcan turned against the alliance. Tarang shuddered when he thought of what those alternatives for dealing with Vulcan might be. He could only make guesses though, as he had not heard from Soames for some time.

Her last orders had told him to sabotage Vulcan's orbital communications' array but then later new orders had told him to sit tight until help came. What sort of help he wondered? How would Syrran, who he knew did not trust his motives, react to increased human interference? T'Pol held up a hand motioning them to stop.

These rocks contain the least refractory metals," she explained. "The security forces will probably make for the outcropping across the plain from us; thinking we are hiding from subspace among that formation of stones." The three saboteurs were instead wearing a small frequency generator that would mask their life signs into something else.

"Unless they capture Kana and Zon," Gupta said quietly. He rather hoped that barring a total escape by the couple that at least they would be captured without violence being done to them. But at least it might dissuade probing eyes from conducting a thorough search here. They each crawled in among spaces in the tortured rock formations. Gupta slid in past T'Pol. He felt her take his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. There had been little time for discussion of what they had declared between themselves.

Gupta detected that Syrran seemed to intervene much whenever there was a chance for the two of them to be alone. He wondered if the Vulcan pacifist had some interest in keeping the two apart. He wondered if he should confront Syrran about it. T'Pol lay under the lee of an overhanging rock wall while Syrran was hunkered down in a space formed between two massive boulders. They were several meters apart. Gupta scrambled over to where Syrran lay; disregarding the usual Vulcan zone of social comfort.

Rather than show any disdain and Gupta could see that shielded emotion even in one as disciplined as Syrran. Syrran squirmed around to look Gupta in the eye. "You are curious as to why I have been acting as a chaperone between you two."

Gupta ceased being stunned by Syrran who always seemed to be one step ahead of anything that the human did. "Yes I was. I know that our situation," meaning he and T'Pol's; "is unique but this was going to happen between the races sooner or later as we humans say."

"You have the soul of one of our people human," Syrran declared. That statement caused Gupta to do a double take. Had Syrran been replaced with a Romulan agent he wondered briefly? He was so taken aback that he almost missed what Syrran said next.

"We have those qualities human. It is our souls that drove us to great violence in the distant past and that same soul that accepted the harsh discipline of logic. If you are to mate with one of us than it fitting that you understand us. You look like us now; you even speak like one of us. But you are still human. You have a dilettante's understanding of what it is to be Vulcan. I know that one day our races will combine: That is the nature of things: Infinite diversity in infinite combinations. You are but one small part of a greater whole; ever changing and growing."

"Excuse me; but it sounds like so much mysticism," Gupta said. He knew that he sounded exasperated: He was.

"I was perhaps speaking more to myself," Syrran said. "A great human once proclaimed that they seek the counsel of the wisest, in reference to speaking out loud to himself." Gupta almost imagined that the Vulcan sighed. "You and T'Pol will play a small part in all that is to come: That much seems evident. But I wish for you to learn what it is to be Vulcan before you commit to this thing."

"We are already playing a small part in—

"I do not speak of the Romulan War or even of Reunification. It is the future of our two peoples to which I refer." He saw Gupta's nervous look. "She cannot hear us human; although she should. There will indeed be progeny between our people. But that child must have the best qualities of the races. You no more understand how to be Vulcan than T'Pol understands what it is to be one of you. You will share a closeness that no offworlder can understand. Your own people take nearly a lifetime before couples are truly bonded. That happens far sooner with Vulcans."

"I will do what is necessary to be with T'Pol," Gupta declared. He had never felt as sure of anything save for his love of family and oath to the military. "I do love her; with all that I am. I would give my life for her." This last he said more to himself than to Syrran. He had not been in a position to articulate his feelings to T'Pol since the battle in Sokur Province.

"I believe you human," Syrran answered at last. "That should lend you some comfort as I have been told humans derive that when their beliefs are validated."

"Thank you—

"Your thanks were neither asked for nor required," Syrran answered. The Vulcan seemed to Gupta to be lost in thought. Finally he said: "I shall take it upon myself to instruct you further in our ways. It is unjust of me to criticize your lack of knowledge while offering you no way to learn."

Gupta was speechless. He still didn't know where he stood with Syrran. The Vulcan leader was as aloof as ever. But his statements seemed to be positive for the Indian's cause. He was silent for some time until he thought that Syrran had fallen asleep and was snoring. But he soon realized that the low growl was intensifying. A Vulcan military carrier roared overhead minutes later.

Gupta's mind raced through the statistics on the vehicle: Its primary drive was impulse while it employed chemical motors for maneuvering. Stellar Navy intelligence reckoned it to be one of the oldest vehicles in the Vulcan registry of ships. Gupta recalled that the ship which had been carried slung beneath the primary hull of Vulcan cruisers was no longer in wide usage. In fact he remembered reading that most were training ships at best, target drones at the least. He wondered why the High Command would dispatch such a large air vessel to investigate the explosion.

Gupta focused his binoculars on the craft's landing gear. Leg's extended out and down. Heavy padded plates on the end of each gear settled onto the hot permacrete. The chemical thruster wound down as the ship's cargo bay doors rolled opened. Perhaps Gupta had learned more of what it was to be Vulcan than Syrran had given him credit for: He realized that the emerging soldiers were not Vulcan. He felt Syrran's grip around his arm.

"Your contact in the ministry was correct about V'Las clearing access to these automated bases," Gupta whispered quietly.

"And you were right to suspect that the Romulans were involved," Syrran answered. The two swapped the binoculars back and forth as they observed the hustling, jostling soldiers. That had been what had tipped Gupta off to begin with.

"That carrier is capable of reaching orbit," Gupta said thoughtfully. But he was no pilot. He had pursued intelligence after a senior classmen had gotten him interested in the discipline.

"The people still communicate via the old line-of-sight towers," Syrran said. "The only effect of V'Las control over the array is the blocking of off world transmissions."

"My president might be trying to call and resolve this situation," Gupta said. "I cannot believe that the average Vulcan sees man as a threat."

"Those who encouraged the spying against the Andorian holdings saw enemies everywhere," Syrran answered. "We had been alone since the Great Schism. It was easy to make other races competitors rather than allies. Those Vulcans were here long before our brothers asserted themselves. I suspect that V'Las was one of these: Prideful of our power."

Gupta guessed that it was so. But he gave it little more thought as he turned rather to the subject at hand. He wanted to take advantage of the carrier being there. He guessed that after losing their foothold in Sokur that the Romulans were planning on making use of some of the abandoned High Command bases on the alien world. News of Sokur had leaked out and despite the ministry's hold on information it was doubtful that the High Command could empty out an entire province for their use. Lacking a large base from which to strike out Gupta wondered if the Romulans would not seek other locations. These few bases might give them another opportunity. One thing they did give them was for sure was fuel for landing craft. Gupta was effectively denying them that.

Something Syrran had said caught his attention. "Brothers you say?" he asked. He suspected that Syrran had what could best be characterized as a fear of the Romulans; as far as a Vulcan could feel fear he guessed. So it was that he was surprised that the Vulcan referred to the Romulans as siblings.

"There will be a time when our two peoples will be ready for Reunification," Syrran said. "But for now we Vulcans have to find our way else we will slip away into violence with the Romulans."

"Finding your way," Gupta repeated that phrase over and over again quietly as he watched the Romulan troops spread out and start a search. He looked at the troops again.

"Valdore wants to land troops here," Gupta said at last. He started as T'Pol quietly slid up behind the two men.

"Some searchers are approaching for the other direction," she said.

"Our friends must have evaded capture," Tarang declared as happily as he could in the alien tongue. "Are they moving to the rocks with the kemacite in them?" When she nodded he continued. "They think that we are hiding there. Hopefully they will pick up that Kana and Zon left toward the refuge." Gupta hoped that the Romulans would try tracking the couple into the dense jungle refuge. The atmospheric ionization outside of the refuge's protected zone distorted subspace sensors and the jungle canopy made direct observation almost impossible.

"That carrier has a flight recorder," Gupta said thoughtfully.

"Of course it should," T'Pol said; "unless the Romulans have removed the device. Although I find that unlikely," she added explaining how Vulcan electronic equipment was integrated into the systems they were to monitor and control. "Why do you ask Tarang?" she asked in conclusion.

"The Romulans spoke of funneling troops into Sokur when we were there," Gupta said recalling their run in with a force of invading Romulans. "Their soldiers must be stationed off world somewhere; perhaps in transports. They have dealings with the Orions."

"Soval was once commissioned to study infiltrations into our system by Orions," T'Pol said. "Minister V'Las halted Soval's study group soon after ascending to the position of First Minister."

"That might explain why then," Gupta said. "The Romulans couldn't land their entire force at once. Perhaps they are hiding somewhere out there. It would have to be close as that class of carrier isn't warp capable."

"Many of the planets in our system are as yours Gupta," Syrran added. "There are three ice giants in the outer reaches of the system as well as a dead world between the inner planets and the outer gas giants. We stopped exploring them after the advent of warp drive."

"Which means that the Romulans could be out there," Gupta said. "It is only a matter of time before V'Las somehow clears another landing zone or figures a way past the unreliable High Command forces." That was what, as his old friend Crosby would have said, was saving their bacon now: Rumor from Syrran's contacts was that some High Command units including cruisers were not one hundred percent in the V'Las camp.

"You would see those Romulans slaughtered," Syrran declared flatly. Gupta could read the Vulcan well enough now to understand that he was upset. But was a disdain for violence or a sense of mercy for the Vulcan offshoots; Tarang did not know.

"A single strike against them would solve the Reunification problem rather succinctly," Gupta said. He did not mean to sound cruel before Syrran. He was thinking as a Stellar Navy intelligence officer.

"Your admiral indicated that help was coming," T'Pol said. "But I do not believe that your president would send a warship. In any event we have yet to obtain the information. We made our way among the Romulans once before and escaped. I do not believe that we can do so again."

"The navigational computer uplink," Gupta was surprised to hear Syrran speak up. He saw T'Pol eyeing the Vulcan as well. "I too served some time with the High Command. These types of crafts are augmented by ground based computers to allow the crews' time to turn to more important tasks. The system was seldom used however as handheld computers could do the same work."

"Can you access the system?" Gupta asked.

"We would have to get into the automated command area of the base," Syrran answered.

"That is possible," T'Pol said.

"We won't make it over open ground in the daylight," Gupta said. "Hopefully they will stay here awhile longer." Gupta checked his chronometer and then surveyed the base. It would be a difficult trek. He saw a drainage pipe pouring its life giving water into the Vulcan sand. It was a possibility he thought.

s

Incirlik, Turkey, the edge of the old Eastern Coalition, earth, Dec 2157

The smells of spicy foods fairly leapt up Frank McCoy's nostrils. He pushed his way into the small bar. A small coal stove was the establishment's only source of heat. Not that it needed heat as a press of human and alien bodies did an adequate job of making the temperature comfortable. Frank had been told that he would catch the shuttle to his ship from here. He wanted to meet some of the crew instead of showing up in the morning along with the rest of the duty passengers, if any.

He passed an Andorian whose chin was wet from hastily drunken ale. "Excuse me; I'm looking for the crew of the Jade Queen," Frank shouted over the noise.

Frank realized that the blue skinned alien was intoxicated. He reeled to a stop and turned to McCoy. The Andorian issued forth with a large belch. Frank smelt something like burnt tar from the alien's exhaled stomach gases. "You want to what?" the alien asked in confusion. McCoy repeated his request. "Those fellows," the Andorian said. McCoy followed the alien's crooked finger to see a tall slender woman, dressed casually dancing on a table. She also appeared to be drunk.

The small base was a staging area for navy personnel. Everywhere McCoy passed he heard stories of war. He also heard a few stories; variations of which he guessed had been along since Rome. Frank wished he felt better. The pain from his loss weighed heavily on him. He passed a poor young woman trying desperately to spit out one such story.

"Three men go into a bar and one of them has a fish," she started; tried again and failed.

"Come on Gloria you said you laughed your head off," a member of her small group of friends spoke up. "Don't tell me that you don't remember."

Frank leaned near the woman's ear. "Remember where the fish ends up at the end."

"That's it!" she exclaimed with a smile. McCoy saw the beginning of a small tattoo at the base of her neck: It looked like the crest of a ship. He had heard that the ancient custom was becoming popular again. Frank moved on.

Frank muscled his way through a throng of people. He came face to face with an alien. It took McCoy a few seconds to place the alien's species: Denobulan. The Denobulan glanced at McCoy and shot him a broad grin. He returned to the scene at hand: A man across the bar's floors was hanging suspended in a similar harness. Frank discerned that the two, if swung at one another would collide somewhere over the floor.

"Nothing like two champions confronting each other eh?" the Denobulan asked him.

"What are they doing?" he bellowed over the din.

"Warping into orbit," the alien answered. McCoy watched as both hanging participants were blindfolded. "Whichever one is still in his or her ship wins." Frank followed the Denobulan's gaze. "That woman over there is taking bets."

He looked to where the Denobulan had indicated. An older CPO wearing the black undershirt and slacks, her navy tunic missing, was holding credit chips in a crumpled towel. She stood between two men: One a dour looking heavyset middle aged man, the other a tall black man of approximately the same age. Frank recognized Captain Donald Townsend from an intelligence video he had reviewed a few weeks ago. The mock combatants were given large poles, the ends of which were covered with some padded cloth. Their mates started swinging the two.

"Engage!" the crowd roared. The two were swung at one another. Frank heard the thick clotted sound of bone hitting bone. Rough hands seized the gladiators at the top of their arc and tossed them both back into the fray. McCoy worked his way over to Townsend.

"Sir I'm Lieutenant Frank—

"Can't you see I'm conducting a battle, man!" Townsend yelled at him. The captain turned to the suspended woman. "He's approaching on the port quarter Marge!" The two combatants slammed together. The crowd rushed forward to untangle them and fling them back into the battle. "Starboard, starboard!" the captain exclaimed.

The two made a close pass in midair. Frank winced as he heard a whoosh that could only be made by someone who had gotten hit squarely in the breadbox as his father used to say. The man went tumbling out of his sling and slammed onto the wooden floor. A mustachioed man put a glass of clear liquid into McCoy hand. Frank drank quickly. The sweet licorice-like liquid felt like fire in McCoy's belly. The alcohol seemed to race into his bloodstream like it was going to warp. There was a loud cheer from the crowd. Some of them stumbled forward to help the woman down.

"Your guys are weak Jelly!" Townsend told the older man. "Life on a raider toughens you up; not like the easy life of a cruiser jack."

"How could that goddamn stick of a woman—

"Now, Jelly," Townsend started; "don't be a sore loser: I don't want to have to beat your ass like I did at the academy."

"I'm a stick that you'll never have Jellicoe!" the woman in question slurred out. She took her blouse sleeve and mopped at a trickle of blood near the corner of her mouth. Townsend handed her a shot glass of the clear liquid which she drank in one great draught.

"Now who are you again?" Townsend asked as he turned to McCoy. Frank watched as the Jade Queen's commander took to towel full of credits.

"This isn't the pain in the ass VIP skipper?" the woman asked pointedly.

"Are you a pain in the ass lieutenant?" Townsend asked Frank. "Because I won't have that on my ship," he continued as he swayed somewhat.

"No sir," Frank snapped. He was regretting the decision to come here. The waiter or bartender had put another drink in his hands. McCoy's head was beginning to spin and he had trouble focusing.

"He's a liar!" a voice exclaimed. "I know this man captain. He is the biggest pain in the ass in the universe. He is the stellar phenomena of ass pain."

McCoy turned to see who was besmirching his name. "Paul Aarons?" he asked incredulously. "You are actually on a ship; as what? Ballast?" he asked. McCoy embraced his old friend and clapped him on the back.

"We'll see who is ballast Sparky," Aarons answered using a nickname McCoy had once earned after misaligning a missile guidance circuit. "This guy is okay sir." Aarons had turned to Townsend. McCoy was about to say more when his old friend broke down in a drunken sob. Townsend escorted the chief to a chair.

What the hell?" Frank asked breathlessly.

"Chief Aarons received what you humans have been calling; the letter," the Denobulan said as he stood beside McCoy.

Divorce: The war was taking its toll at home. It did so doubly so for Frank who had been a groomsman in Aaron's wedding party. At least his ex-wife to be was still alive he thought bitterly and immediately regretted it. He needn't feel sorry for himself in light of the problems of others. He became aware that the Denobulan was speaking.

"My name is Phlox," he said; holding out his hand in the human manner.

"Lieutenant Frank McCoy," he replied extending his hand. "I didn't know your people were serving with ours."

"My world is not formally a member of the alliance but we have been sending medical aid to the allies. I am the Jade Queen's surgeon."

"Glad to meet you," Frank said. He looked past the doctor to his old friend. He stumbled a little; no doubt from whatever he had been drinking. The mustachioed man handed him yet another drink. Frank stopped short though when he saw someone across the bar. He tossed back the sweet cold drink and waited.

"Hullo Frank," Micah Brack said. Frank gaped at him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked sharply. He looked around for probing eyes; decided he was too drunk to care.

"Doing the same thing as you," Brack informed him. He was listless as Brack placed a hand on his shoulder. "I couldn't do anything Frank. I would've traded places with her if possible. I am sorry Frank."

"Forget it Micah!" he said as he shrugged the hand off. "There ain't nothing that is going to bring her back now. Goddamnit! I thought that I could forget everything that happened."

"Don't throw everything away Frank," Micah said. "I heard that your child survived. You must stay alive for that."

"How did you get here Micah?" McCoy asked. He wanted to deflect the conversation. Brack had come uncomfortably close to the truth. Deep down, he knew that he did not plan on coming back from Vulcan.

"I have presidential connections Frank," Micah answered. "Our association is from a chance meeting after an intelligence briefing you delivered on industrial security—remember?"

McCoy did indeed remember one of the cover stories the two had concocted. But McCoy imagined that Brack asking Thorpe for passage to Vulcan had raised flags with the earth president. This thing is just sinking deeper and deeper McCoy lamented. He wondered if they happened to win the war would he spend the rest of his life in prison for treason.

"Uh, sure I remember Micah." Frank sighed. "Don't take it wrong but I'm not crazy about being paired up with you again; not right now anyway."

Brack laughed in that peculiar high keening type of laugh. McCoy realized that the not-Brack personality was speaking. "We should be together McCoy: Like Butch and Sundance, Huntley and Brinkley, Bush and Clinton."

Frank snatched another drink from the passing waiter. He downed it quickly. He would pay for all of this in the morning he thought wryly.


	26. Chapter 26

Second planet of Ross 128, earth year, Dec 2157

"Does he have any word on Miss Picard?" the captain asked Lieutenant Marcel Dieulafoy. H'Liq looked at Captain Michael Cromwell and issued a spate of sounds. Cromwell didn't consider that he was good with languages: English had been a challenge for him. But even he had become acquainted enough with the Ro'ha scientist to hear frustration.

"He says that no one has seen the alien woman," Dieulafoy chuckled. "I believe that he is still coming to grips with the idea of two sexes." Cromwell noticed that the archeologist had taken to referring to H'Liq as he; considering that the doctor was neither a he nor a she. "He has managed to introduce some of our design specifications for rockets among some engineers." Cromwell noted how the Frenchman's interest turned deeper as he read off the translation. "That was overshadowed by the introduction of a new device by Doctor M'Altz've."

"What is it?" he asked the archeologist. Cromwell's voice carried a note of impatience. They had been hiding in the doctor's residence for almost three earth days now. Cromwell felt that he needed to do something; anything.

There was an exchange as Dieulafoy keyed words into the translator machine. More time as the doctor listened to the slowly emitted words in his own language and even more time for a reply. Dieulafoy seemed about to answer then stopped and keyed in more words. Cromwell watched as the alien laid down a hand drawing that he had made on a large piece of paper.

"What the devil is that?" he asked.

"An old central processing unit," Chief Peter Custis spoke up. The chief rose out of the cot that passed for a Ro'ha chair and studied the doctor's drawing. "This looks like something Bill Gates or Henry Starling might have come up with." Cromwell let the man have his head: Custis was a genius when it came to electronics. "But I've never seen a design quite like this. It's like the early work in neural networks."

"Isn't that rather advanced when our hosts are in an early twentieth century stage of development?" Cromwell asked.

"Our own leap into computation and microcircuits took off in the last part of the twentieth century sir," Custis answered. "If you compare our development to other worlds we came pretty far in a short period; almost as far as the Pointies have in the last two thousand years captain."

"The same is true of Andorian medicine Olly," Schultheiss added. She had been standing watch near the entrance of H'Liq's residence. "Cellular regeneration, bone fusion and neural fiber repair were all discovered on Andoria less than two hundred years ago." She looked at Dieulafoy. "Nothing to report Marcel; we'll change places I suppose." Cromwell watched as she reluctantly took the translator from the archeologist.

"If it makes you feel any better doctor I believe that H'Liq likes you better than he does me." The lieutenant threw on his heavy shore coat and wrinkled his nose. "I believe that he associates me with a type of mollusk that is in their waters."

"Picard can't be supplying this M'Altz've with advanced information could she?" he asked the open room. "Make sure that you relay that to our host Trudy. I want no secrets here."

"Can you ask him if this thing has been designed or is it just a picture ma'am?" Custis asked Schultheiss. He looked sheepishly at Cromwell. "Sorry sir."

"You are on to something chief, please continue."

"I was just thinking of some of Marc's translations I was reading," the chief began. "I guess the competing ideas here have to do with how to save the population. Mister H'Liq here is searching in the physical sciences: Trying to reverse the environmental damage. This fellow M'Altz've: I'm beginning to wonder. It sounded at first like he was setting up one of those death cults like from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries on earth. But…"

"Speak up man," Cromwell said. "We won't laugh at you; not to your face anyway." Michael grinned at the chief.

"Well what if this other scientist is smarter than we think," Custis looked around obviously unsure of how to proceed. "I mean it sounded all mystical but what if the soul surviving forever means storing it in a neural network?"

"We can't even do that in the twenty-second century Pete," Schultheiss said.

"I know it sounds crazy—

They were stopped from further discussion by the hoots and whistles coming from the Ro'ha scientist. Cromwell looked on as Schultheiss monitored the translator's screen. She keyed in several inputs telling Cromwell that she needed the Ro'ha to either repeat what he said or to clarify it.

"The doctor says that M'Altz've proposes the death of the race," she read stiffly. "What he wants the race to submit to, is blasphemous. It is against the will of the gods. H'Liq goes on to explain that M'Altz've is parlaying a sudden knowledge of electricity and electronics into a popular position; seeking to build a cult of personality in spite of the impending disaster."

Sudden knowledge?" the captain asked. "Ask him to clarify—

"I already have Olly," Schultheiss answered. "I am getting to where I can read your mind." She winked at him making Cromwell blush a little. She grew serious again. "M'Altz've was a minor professor at a federal college until what translates into three of our years ago. The doctor was assigned as a technician working on a dig studying the origins of Ro'ha life."

"And he comes back with advanced knowledge," Cromwell mused.

"He could have been conducting research for a long time captain," Custis said.

"Perhaps," Cromwell answered. He remembered Archer's story about time traveling aliens coming to old earth. He asked Schultheiss to ask the Ro'ha where this dig was. After much button pushing on her part the scientist produced a map of his world.

"Looks rugged," Custis said after examining the chart. He was holding an infrared light over it to adjust for the color differences that would otherwise be invisible to human eyes.

"Nothing a shuttle can't overcome," he said. Daedelus had returned now that the solar activity had subsided. "What about this M'Altz've? I wish to meet with this doctor."

"You think Picard is with the alien," Schultheiss said. It was a statement and not a question.

"I do," Cromwell said. "Just a guess but I do not believe that a glowing two-legged alien could stay hidden among the locals unless someone was helping her. The question is what the alien is receiving in return."

There were some hoots and squeals from H'Liq. "The doctor says that going to M'Altz've's residence is risky at best. He suggests that we attempt it tonight." Schultheiss seemed thoughtful. "H'Liq is resistant to us going there. I believe that he is concerned about M'Altz've having access to the technology that we represent."

"He may have that somewhat through Miss Picard," Cromwell retorted. "The question is why." He called Daedelus and ordered Somers to land a team near the mountain dig.

"I'll send them off within the hour captain," she answered through the static. "Are you ready to trade places down there sir?" Somers asked.

"I'm having too much fun right now for that number one," he replied with a grin. "But I also want every bit of data we have on the electrical disturbance reexamined. This time I want all departments to look at it."

The Plains of Danoroc, Vulcan, earth year Dec 2157

The freighter was staying put. Lieutenant Tarang Gupta guessed that this automated base had been of interest to the Romulans. They seemed to be attempting to repair the fueling lines. Gupta took another long look through his field glasses, put them down and yawned. He was laid out flat against the warm rock. The group had separated to reduce their combined coherent heat signature. He started as he heard some pebbles roll down the side of a boulder.

"It is I," T'Pol declared quietly as she slipped soundlessly next to him. He slipped an arm around her.

"We should make our move soon," he said. "Where is Syrran?" She explained that Syrran was in a meditative state. "I think that we should consider leaving him behind." He did not feel her stir and could not see her face. Yet he wondered how she would react to his notion.

"Because he is the leader of this movement," she said rather than asked.

"Yes," he answered. "What happens if he were to be killed?"

"T'Pau would carry on in his place," T'Pol answered. "I wonder though at the credence they put into the Kir'Shara. We have followed Surak's teachings now for a long time. I just do not see how new information can change the face of our culture."

"You've all resisted my idea of logic as a faith," Gupta said. "But I can see some interesting outcomes in my culture were certain documents of religious figures to be exposed. Even today there are billions of faithful Christians and Muslims on my world, as well as the Hindi."

"We are not as humans Tarang," she asserted.

"You share some of our qualities," he retorted. "Right now your people aren't shooting at one another. But work has come to a standstill here and communications are completely closed off; all because of one Vulcan's ideas."

He felt her squeeze his hand. "I fear the changes that will come to my world; nothing will be the same again." He was amazed to hear her express an actual emotion. She apparently sensed his surprise. "Vulcan couples share deep feelings Tarang. This is not the world of my youth. Logic seems like a protective salve for my people; now we may face the end of that. Perhaps there is much to what Syrran says."

"My grandfather used to laugh and tell me that every generation thinks that it faces the pivotal challenge of its time. He said if that were true, then roaches would rule the earth because some generations of men were too weak to get out of bed. Somehow we muddle through the bad times T'Pol. Vulcan will survive."

"Maybe your human faith in the future is what we need," she answered.

"We're here," he said. He did feel light despite the dangers they were facing and had faced. "We should head for the base while Syrran is meditating."

"Agreed," she shifted in his arms. Their lips brushed and they kissed. "I heard what you told Syrran today. In some ways I fear that. Vulcan relationships became things of convenience and position in my society. I never expected to feel loved or to give it. I grew comfortable in the knowledge that I would mate for position; so our offspring would have a better life. But I realized that there was more: I saw it sometimes with my parents. I saw it on earth."

"I don't know what the future will hold for us T'Pol," he answered. "I do love you. It will not always be easy for us."

They kissed again. "It is too late to change things now. I sense in some part your thoughts now." He felt that was the Vulcan equivalent of a sweet nothing until he heard her speak; yet she was not speaking aloud.

_Vulcan couples can sense one another's thoughts. Your mental abilities are weak but they are there._

He shuddered somewhat. He felt exposed in a way that he had never before felt. Gupta felt the warm blanket of her thoughts comforting him. The feeling of nakedness went away. Tarang saw her as she must see him. He felt her nervousness and fears as well as her love for him. Gupta descended further feeling as if he were outside himself; a new person seemed to exist: The product of the two of them. He was rudely snapped out of his feelings of bliss.

"I knew that I could expect you two to indulge yourselves," Syrran declared. Gupta hastily scrambled away from the woman. She did likewise. He sat up; feeling like he did as a teen being caught by his parents.

"We must leave quickly," Syrran declared. Gupta could hear shouting in what he knew was the Romulan language. They were agitated.

"What have—

"I told you that I served with the High Command long ago," the Vulcan explained as the trio scrambled out of the rocks and started running toward the next protective cover. "I served at bases like these. I entered the automated command center and obtained the data you sought Gupta."

Tarang stumbled but kept his footing. The night lit up with laser fire. He dived into a depression of the desert terrain. He waited knowing that there was no place to go. He pulled the Colt 2000 out of his electronically camouflaged cloak. He felt Syrran's restraining hand upon his own.

"They will cease Tarang," the Vulcan assured him. Gupta heard more shouts from closer to the base. The pursuit did indeed seem to drop off. "Let us increase the distance between that base and where we are." Syrran got on his feet and started a quick trot toward the refuge.

"Why; what is going to happen?" T'Pol called to the Vulcan male.

"I turned off the primary cooling unit for the base's fusion reactor and then removed the power leads to both the secondary and emergency units." Syrran spoke as if he were explaining how he got to his residence.

"You mean it is going to explode?" Gupta yelled, not really caring if Romulans heard him.

"That is the usual outcome of such a change in the reactors—

His voice was drowned out by the howling jets of the carrier. It roared overhead as it clawed its way skyward. Tarang was impressed at how quickly the Birdies had evacuated their people. Then he wondered if the suicidal Romulans had not abandoned their people their. He guessed that they were now four kilometers from the base's main generator. The saboteurs ran at a breakneck pace. Gupta's lungs felt as if they were on fire. He knew that he could not have run like this without collapsing before. The months spent on the high desert world had toughened him. They plunged through the night.

Gupta could smell the dampness from the edge of the refuge. He knew that less than six kilometers separated the base from the refuge. He had run that far and not collapsed. But would it be enough he wondered. He stopped short as he realized that a ditch from a drainage system lay before him. Only Syrran's eyes and sharp reflexes had prevented him from falling the five meters to the bottom.

Tarang bent over grasping at his knees. His lungs tried taking in great draughts of air. He was aware that Syrran was speaking. "Jump Tarang!" the Vulcan ordered. The air was knocked out of Tarang as he hit the bottom of the muddy ground. Someone covered his eyes as the night sky lit up in a temporary terrible dawn. Gupta passed out.

Romulan Imperial Cruiser Riitraxa, hidden on the third moon of Vulcan's gas giant Antinox, earth year Dec 2157

He turned the seal over and over in his hands. Valdore weighed tradition against the needs of the present. He saw the concerned look of his comrade Vrax. He counted himself as fortunate to have the senator as an ally. Valdore knew that so many would turn away rather than face the invisible hand of the Tal Shiar. Valdore looked again at the seal. He looked at the letter on the desk.

"Denaton was friends with my son," Valdore explained. "In happier times the two would come to our estate on their leaves from Norcela. Dalen looked at Denaton as another son."

Vrax looked at the letter from his seat across the desk. "Will you accept that?"

Valdore chose not to answer; rather, he pressed a touch pad summoning the waiting centurion from the outer passage. Denaton, adorned, in his formal golden battle helmet entered and saluted gravely. Valdore stood and returned the salute. He remained standing silently.

"My admiral; I failed in my duty," Denaton proclaimed solemnly.

"Yes," Valdore answered quietly. "But I cannot demand your life. I read your report on what happened out there. But I need to understand what happened." Valdore emphasized the last two words. Donator stood impassively for a while until Valdore snapped: "Well."

"My admiral; we used the sensor overload protocol on the relief group. They managed to send a brief warning message to the space station. When we were at the optimum range Star Fleet turned off their sensors. We were unable to take them by surprise."

"You had overwhelming force against a stationary target, centurion," Valdore snapped.

"We," Denaton stopped until he looked at Valdore's reproachful glare. "We broke upon them but it was like wind blowing upon a mountain. I sent an entire legion of fighters against them only to see my warriors annihilated." Denaton looked around in confusion. "Admiral we were told that these creatures were soft. How could the Tal Shiar have gotten it so wrong?" He looked around as if the walls had eyes; as indeed they often did these days.

"Be at peace Denaton," Valdore answered. The centurion's face assumed a look of shock as Valdore handed him back his family seal and the letter. "I need warriors now. It is pointless to kill yourself in some final act of contrition when the empire needs all of the live warriors that it can get. You discovered a basic fact about our enemy: They are more than any of us were told. And remember that it was my strategy that was defeated Denaton. They are not invincible. The empire shall prevail."

"It was almost like fighting—

Valdore merely looked at the young officer. He knew what Denaton had been about to say. "Like fighting what centurion?" the senator asked.

Denaton was so long in answering that Valdore finally bid him to speak. "It was like engaging our own people in the war games senator."

"That would explain your last act Denaton," Valdore said flatly. He waited until his son's old friend spoke.

"I ordered that we pass them in salute admiral," Denaton replied at last. "The aliens were worthy adversaries."

"Very well," Valdore said after a long pause. "I am dispatching you and your gekha force to Gozai. Use what you learned from the attack on their space station. They will attempt to destroy our new stationary plasma weapons; that must not be permitted."

"I have heard that the taerh Stiles is back in space, admiral," the centurion said.

"That is true," Valdore answered. "But rather it is she or Strategos Antor the challenge will be the same. Their Admiral Forrest is maneuvering his pieces wisely." He looked across the desk at Denaton. He reached across and seized the centurion's wrist strongly. "Sa'Urri nouhha Denaton, jolan tru." Valdore released the centurion's wrist.

"Jolan tru admiral," the warrior bowed and departed.

"It may be that his new task will be a death sentence, Vrax," Valdore said at last. He went over to a cabinet and removed a bottle of kali-fal. He looked at Vrax who opened and closed his eyes slowly. Valdore poured his friend some of the pungent drink as well as pouring one for himself.

"You don't believe that they will bypass Gozai, Valdore?"

"Their psychology demands retribution as well as assuaging Thorpe and Shran's political fortunes. Also I believe that Forrest will not allow us a base in what would be the rear of a new envelopment against Romulus." He handed Vrax the drink.

"This new federation," Vrax answered as he sipped the kali-fal. "It defies everything that we know. How can these aliens act as one?"

"It is the humans my friend. The Andorians and Tellarites, even the Vulcans have become homogenous. The humans were never so: Up until this war their warriors still wore the uniforms of their national homelands. Somehow despite outward appearances they turn as one against an enemy. Their Sons' of Terra; they are nothing more than screeching kilhe. They represent the stupid among the humans and yet enlightened humans tolerate their behavior. It says something about our opponents Vrax."

"Perhaps Perex was correct?"

"Killing Thorpe would anger the humans and solidify even the most craven of them against us; of that I am convinced. It could even cause this federation to become reality. I still hope that time will erode the Triple Alliance's desire for a stronger alliance. I hope that Perex does as I bid him; an act of sabotage against their industrial base could help the empire immensely."

"You spoke to Perex," Valdore could hear the warning in the senator's voice. "That was an ill conceived move, my friend. His family is well placed in the imperial court."

"He is a true believer," Valdore answered. Valdore had been a contemporary of Perex's father; a powerful general in the Imperial Legion structure. Rtalonè had fallen ill with a disease that ate away at his bones. His son Perex had seemed to be a mere slip compared to his father. But Valdore had always suspected that Perex possessed his father's guile. "He will resist my order at first, but he will come to see the wisdom in it."

"Then he did stay behind?"

"Several of the human augments rebelled. He was reported as dead. But I believe otherwise."

"I never felt comfortable using the humans." Valdore looked sidewise at his companion. "Oh I have no regard for them. They are to be conquered by us as all inferiors are. It is just that I believed that we would create a weapon that would turn on us."

"So it came to pass. But that danger is alleviated: A few whose loyalty proved to be beyond reproach were spared. The rest of their colony was turned over to the biology division for experimentation and dissection."

"That is well then. What of these attacks on Vulcan? We are no closer to Reunification."

"Gupta," Valdore pronounced the name like it was a curse. "The Syrranites are pacifists. These attacks are led by this agent; another error on the Tal Shiar's part: They completely underestimated their terran counterpart's abilities. But the time for recriminations is past. I must force V'Las to somehow involve Syrran in the government. Our logical brethren will cease questioning what is happening after such an offer."

Valdore watched as Vrax looked around the cabin as Denaton had done earlier. "You know that you may speak freely here senator."

"What of your other…plan?"

"I am considering several options. The successor to Karzan must be someone who will release the Grand Fleet to my control otherwise this assassination will be pointless."

Vrax winced at the open mention of the planned murder. "I reviewed the ship roster. It seems that some numbers were amiss. Perhaps you will not need control of the entire fleet."

"You saw the real roster Vrax. I long suspected more malfeasance from the Tal Shiar. I requisitioned ships based on losses that never occurred. I cannot mount an effective offense with what I concealed, but I can fight an effective holding action here."

Valdore was satisfied with his accomplishment. Humans called it embezzlement. He would face execution were his actions ever uncovered. But he doubted that would happen: The Tal Shiar had long ago marginalized the military. Valdore had taken that time to build his own network among his chosen warriors. He would win this war for the empire even while dragging the Tal Shiar along the road to victory with him.

Taskforce 25, UES Fearless, inbound to the Topaz system, Dec 2157

Commodore Pierre "Grizzly" Oulette stretched out his arms. The he was told, made him look like his nickname. The evening watch would end soon. Oulette was thinking of his warm bed. He was also thinking of the impending crew shuffle that was the result of some bed sharing.

Talas and Jeffrey Sutton had been married shortly after the battle of Deep Space One. Neither the Stellar Navy nor the Imperial Guard supported a policy of married couples serving together. That would soon leave Grizzly minus a first officer or perhaps an operations' officer; or perhaps both. Both services allowed the married couple the choice of a shore assignment. It was a reversal of a long standing policy but Grizz knew that some of those people were just as likely and just as quickly to become widows or widowers. Grizzly hated the thought of breaking in another stranger.

"Mister Guerrero," he called across the Pioneer class cruiser's small bridge. Lieutenant David Guerrero was serving in the operations' officer position. Oulette recalled when the American had been nothing more than a senior enlisted person. He had thought that Guerrero showed command potential then. But that had been a different navy where it was hard enough for an academy schooled officer to make it; much less an enlisted person.

"Yes sir?" the lieutenant asked.

"Did you submit your application to squadron officer's school?"

"Well sir," the reply came slowly; not in Guerrero's usual crisp delivery. "I meant to transmit that application when we put in for repairs at UP. But things happened and I hadn't seen my family in awhile—

"Yes, yes," Oulette replied tiredly. "And your foot hurt and you forgot how to enter your name on a Stellar Navy form and your parents' hound ate the wafer and you had to leave before it could be passed." Oulette grew serious. "Look David; you are a good officer. In all likelihood you will be brevetted to lieutenant commander and from there to commander. I understand that the Bastard has done that for his CAG. I received a communiqué from Admiral Buchanan on just how he bent the regulations to accomplish that feat. My point David is that you will end this war as an officer. If you go to SOS you may be able to retain your rank after it is over."

Guerrero looked around the bridge. Oulette could see that he was uncomfortable talking about his career before the bridge personnel. But Pierre had never been one for secrets on his ship. Personal tragedy or a request for privacy was one thing. Oulette believed though that in most matters whispers were not conducive to good morale.

"I hadn't really thought about the end sir," Guerrero answered. He looked at his feet. "I mean; I might not even stay in the navy," this last he added quietly.

"Being a civilian is not a sin," Oulette answered. "But if you do choose to stay then you should do so as an officer." Pierre hunkered down in his seat and added in a conspiratorial tone: "Holding the reins is really the best: Instead of constantly complaining about how things need to be done you can find out just how hard it is to accomplish anything." He laughed heartily. It really seemed that the navy bureaucracy could be as much an enemy as could the Birds. "Seriously though David; even as an operations' officer you can affect the lives of those you command in a positive way. Someone will step in to command. You have to ask yourself if you want that person to be a pretender or someone who can lead."

"Very inspirational," Chief Traz proclaimed sarcastically. "Why; it makes me want to go out and join the Stellar Navy. It is enough that we have to mix with you baldies in this Star Fleet."

"You may feel free to tender your application chief!" Oulette answered.

"Sir; I'm receiving a distress call," Ensign Peter Wilson announced. Oulette could barely make out his outline in the darkened communications' alcove. Grizzly waited for more information.

"It's convoy Thirty-five ten," he said slowly as he listened into his earpiece.

"That's a scheduled convoy in this sector captain," Guerrero reported. "They are hauling medical supplies out of Denobula. They were to be escorted by the Ironsides, Cherokee and San Jacinto."

"I have them at the edge of scanner range along the convoy route," the Tellarite said. "I'm seeing unidentified power signatures suggestive of pirate vessels."

"Strangle the subspace sensors and go to subspace radar chief," Oulette ordered sourly. The Birds had effectively found a way to not only jam but also to short out the new scanners. Star Fleet commanders were using subspace sensors now for only short intermittent durations. Oulette hoped that a fix came soon.

"Helm; coordinate with sensors and plot an interception course." Oulette turned to Guerrero. "Have the carriers maintain a standoff distance and launch fighters. Use taskforce formation omicron." Oulette would spread the carriers out beyond radar range. At least sciences had concluded that the sensor blindness was two sided. The Birds were keeping their scanners off as well. He listened as the helmsman returned with a new course. Ensign Yuri Katz was still wet behind the ears but, like most recent academy graduates he executed his duties flawlessly.

"Very good ensign," he answered "Relay to the taskforce; prepare to engage at warp 2.9 and execute on my mark." He turned back to Guerrero. "Sound general quarters David."

"The other ships are reporting back," Guerrero answered. The only indication of his ship's battle condition was a blinking light on Oulette's armchair. He didn't need the noise of a klaxon to remind him of the order he had just given. "They are ready sir."

"Engage," Oulette said calmly. He heard the bridge hatch trundle open. He needn't have turned around to know that the new arrival was Lieutenant Talas. "I believe that your time is getting better lieutenant," he said as he pivoted his chair around. "It looks like the Birds are harassing a convoy."

"Thirty-five ten is operating in this area captain," she answered as slipped into the first officer's position. He wasn't surprised that she had a mental roster of convoy assignments.

"We should be on them in twenty minutes," Oulette answered. "The carriers are spreading out according to formation omicron." Oulette pictured the triangular formation from which the carriers would launch their fighters.

"What is the point of attacking a medical convoy?" his Andorian first officer asked.

Oulette had been dwelling upon that very question. The Birds had been ruthless adversaries but they had not been capricious when it came to their supposed objectives. This attack would damage some morale but it would otherwise not hamper the allies' efforts. They surely had enough intelligence on the allies to recognize a medical relief vessel.

"Relay to carriers; one fighter squadron is to assume positions as radar pickets when we intercept the Birds." Oulette hated to lose the Minotaurs' firepower but without subspace sensors he had little choice. The rotating squadron of fighters would form a protective sphere around his taskforce should the Romulans try bringing in other forces in a pincer.

Talas acknowledged the order. The bridge hatch rolled open momentarily flooding the bridge with light from the outside corridor. Jeffrey Sutton entered and assumed his position relieving Guerrero as ops officer. Oulette ordered Guerrero to the auxiliary control room. He wondered if he should send Sutton there as well. But no; if anything were to happen on the bridge it would be dire straits indeed.

"Good day Mister Talas," he declared in a cheery tone. He smiled as he saw Sutton wince at the name: Andorian custom called for the spouse of the smaller household to assume the family name. Talas' immediate family was huge compared to Sutton's.

"Commodore," Sutton answered quietly. Oulette apprised him of the situation. "The group is under attack by five bogies. There are also returns suggesting Eightball activity." Oulette could see the man's tenseness in his shoulders as Sutton hugged the hood of his sensor screen. "What I'd give for a two second peep with subspace sensors!"

"We dare not try it," Oulette advised. He turned to Peter Wilson. "Are you scanning subspace activity in the higher ranges?" The ensign nodded in reply. "Star Fleet has at least been able to determine that the Bird jamming device bleeds over into the high subspace bands. We know it is there and we cannot yet counter it."

"Ten minutes till intercept," Traz said.

"All sections report in ready commodore," Talas reported. "All ships report ready. The Oriskany and Exeter are launching Minotaurs. The Oriskany group will run radar surveillance."

"I'm losing the radar picture commodore," Sutton reported. "I believe that they are using their version of mumbo-jumbo."

"Merde," Oulette declared. Mumbo-jumbo was the name given to micro fragments of refractive metals spread out over an area to obscure radar returns. "The Birds are on to us." Hackles ran down Oulette's back. This was looking like an ambush. He would have set up such a trap himself in the days before subspace sensors.

"Five minutes until contact," Sutton reported. "I'm getting weak returns. Their ships are laid out in strange formation."

"Correct our approach angle to a two degree higher azimuth Ensign Katz," Oulette ordered quickly. He was guessing that the Birds were laying in such a way as to hide their true numbers.

"Cherokee has been destroyed sir!" Talas exclaimed. "Ironsides is reporting that the San Jacinto is heavily damaged but still combat worthy."

"I have returns from three more unknowns commodore," Sutton reported.

There it was Grizzly thought. He looked over Katz's shoulder and saw that the time was now at five minutes. He had to squint to see the navigation chronometer. Oulette supposed that he should take one of those retinox treatments that he had read about. He ordered the radar display to be shown on the main viewer. Pierre looked at a series of mystery images. Sutton had assigned data to each which was scrolling beneath each contact.

"Two freighters have been destroyed," Sutton said. Grizzly's ops officer was quiet but he could hear the undercurrent of contempt in Sutton's voice.

"Commodore, I've coordinated the drop out point with Chief Traz," Lieutenant Sylvia Moran stated. "I can bring Narwhals to bear almost immediately."

"Very good; I want a series of random zigzags performed," Oulette said. "Jeffrey; inform the rest of the group. Chief Traz; prepare to implement evasive pattern beta."

"We will wallow like a tava whale," the Tellarite proclaimed. Oulette did not know to what creature his helmsman was referring; but the sentiment was true nonetheless. Oulette had prepared a series of attack patterns for his taskforce should sensors become inoperable. He supposed that this was as good a time as any to try some of them.

"Two minutes until contact," Sutton announced.

Oulette strapped himself into his chair. He knew that things were liable to be rough when the nukes started going off. He watched as his bridge crew did likewise. The enemy on the viewscreen became more resolved blurbs of information. They could not ascertain the Romulan cruiser's power levels but radar still told the story on course and speed.

"It is not last year you bastards," Oulette said under his breath. "Lay a spread out immediately Sylvia." Oulette wanted to sow as much confusion into the mind of the Bird commander as he could. He wondered briefly if the Romulans might possess some sort of dreadful group consciousness. Was what happened in a battle light years and months ago instantly transmitted to the rest of them? No he thought; he needed to stop reading ancient science fiction and horror novels.

"Dropping into normal space commodore," Traz reported.

"The rest of the taskforce reports in place," Talas added.

"Firing and away!" Sylvia Moran exclaimed.

Oulette's stomach knotted as Fearless' artificial gravity burbled. He didn't need Sutton to inform him that they had been struck. Oulette guessed that it was a well placed plasma cannon volley. Reports poured in but the gist was that Fearless was still in one piece and ready for battle.

"Incoming missiles!" his ops officer exclaimed. "Speed and evasive pattern suggests that they are Moolahs—detonation!"

Oulette wondered why the Bird missiles had exploded so far away. They had just entered Spider range when they went up. He soon had his answer as the environmental warning lights flickered on his armrest. The voice of the engineer intruded seconds later with the news of multiple hull breaches.

"Whatever was in that last missile was like getting hit with grapeshot," Lieutenant Commander Shato announced. It took Grizzly a moment to recall what that was: An ancient cannon shell packed with loose materials. He knew that the Andorian was an aficionado of old Andorian and terran weaponry. "It went right through most of the hull plating."

"Another Moolah sir!" Sutton yelled.

"Adjust Spider range to compensate—

Oulette didn't get to finish his last statement as the bridge emergency lights flickered. There was a flash as an explosion blew out several of the lights. Grizzly grabbed his emergency mask as he felt a telltale wind on his face. "Adjust missile defense system for these new tactics! Report!" he snapped.

"Spiders away!" the gunnery officer called out.

"We have decompression on several decks," Shato's voice called out of the bridge speakers. "We've had circuits cut but I've managed to reroute sir."

"Sound the decompression alarm," Oulette ordered in a firm voice. "Have the crew don suits." Oulette heard the warbling keen that was every spacer's nightmare. He was spun violently in his seat.

"Plasma cannon hit!" he heard the desperation in Talas' voice. Smoke started rolling out of several of the bridge consoles. Peter Wilson spun in his seat narrowly missing having his head blown off when the communications' alcove erupted into sparks and fire.

"Engineering, engineering!" he called. "What is going on down there?"

"Starboard nacelle," there was a blast of static. "Decomp--," more noise; then there was nothing.

"Bridge communications are out sir," Wilson said as he unstrapped and started spraying his panel with a nearby fire extinguisher.

"I've lost automated override over weapons sir!" Lieutenant Moran bellowed.

"Auxiliary control," Oulette said after he thumbed his direct feed into Fearless' alternate command center.

"Guerrero here sir," the lieutenant answered. "The status board looks like a Christmas tree commodore."

"Can the ship be commanded from there?" Oulette asked. When Guerrero replied after a moment that it could Grizzly gave the order that he had always feared: "Abandon the bridge. Traz transfer helm to aux control."

"Incoming missiles!" his ops officer warned. "It looks like the second cabbage is lining us up for a plasma cannon shot; fighters moving to intercept. They've completely blanketed the area with mumbo jumbo!"

An ugly thought occurred to Oulette. He had little time to entertain it as he cast aside his restraints and got up. He wondered about the status of his carriers. He returned to his chair only to see his armchair control panel erupt in an explosion. Grizzly stepped back as he heard the telltale pop indicating a blowout. He started to put on his breath mask when he noticed Traz still at the helm.

"Get moving chief!" he ordered harshly.

"We are bracketed you fool of a commodore!" the Tellarite answered. "Someone has to get us out before we are destroyed!"

Oulette threw the mask over his face. The deck pitched up as the artificial gravity fought to keep up with the sudden changes. Fire shot out of the navigation console. Grizzly realized with horror that the Tellarite was on fire. Oulette felt rough hands seize him and drag him away. His last vision of his bridge was of the burning Tellarite still maneuvering the great cruiser. The bridge hatch closed quickly. Oulette realized that the chief's suffering was over as the telltale showed pure vacuum on the other side of the hatch. Oulette started his way toward auxiliary control. He had little time for grief.

Grizzly moved like he was twenty years older. Everywhere he passed damage control teams were busy at work. The corridors were still pressurized. Oulette ripped the mask off of his face. "Talas; go and inquire of the engineer on our status. We need to get ready to go to warp." Oulette's last view of the battle had showed that the Star Fleet ships were winning. The Sabinus and Veronus cruisers were backing off after losing two of their number. But Oulette suspected that their target had been something else all along.

"Aye sir," Talas answered. The Andorian turned down another corridor and slid down a service ladder. Oulette watched as Sutton looked with concern at his wife. Grizzly was glad that his intended was safe at home and not on a warship. His thoughts turned to his future wife and his adopted child: The girl's parents had handed Katy over to Oulette when the former governor of Deneva had absconded leaving surviving families to the Romulan forces.

Oulette slid down a service stairway to the lower deck. He was in the most armored section of the Pioneer class cruiser. Sickbay was to starboard and the auxiliary command center was to port. Oulette led the bridge crew to the left. He stood before the bulky hatch and keyed in the correct code. The door slid silently aside. Grizzly saw David Guerrero fairly leap out of the smaller version of his bridge command chair.

A nervous enlisted file who looked to Oulette to be all of fifteen years old was manning the helm. The young man seemed to have more fear of Oulette than he did of his present situation. The weapons officer was an equally green ensign. The sensor operator was the oldest. A navy chief who Grizzly knew had put off retirement after the start of the war.

"Helm control just came on line a few minutes ago sir," Guerrero said. "Whoever was up there got our ass out of a royal sling." Yes Chief Traz had saved them. There would be time for tears later Oulette thought. "Warp drive is unresponsive and I've lost contact with engineering."

"Talas is rectifying that situation," Oulette responded in an optimistic tone. He turned to the young navy enlisted man. "Spaceman second?" he asked as he recalled the boy from his last new personnel briefing. He hated to think boy; but he could not see the helmsman as a man. The boy nodded. Oulette wondered if someone had not falsified some enlistment credentials. "You scored highly on ship handling. Your senior officers have reported that your performance has been exemplary. This is the real thing Spaceman McGivers. I need you to steer my ship where I command her to be."

"Aye-aye cap—commodore!" Grizzly put out a restraining hand to keep the boy from springing to attention.

He spun on his heel and stood over Ensign Peter Wilson as the communications' officer settled into his seat. "Raise our carriers ensign. I have a bad feeling in my belly and it is not from the cook's last meal."

"Nothing sir," Wilson responded after making a few hails.

"Talas to control," his first officer's voice called out of the control center's speakers. Oulette acknowledged her call. "The starboard aft section, mostly decks twelve through nineteen in gamma section have taken heavy damage. We can't go to warp with those sections hanging there."

"A call coming in from Oriskany sir," Wilson announced. Oulette looked on as the ensign listened to the information coming over his earpiece. "Captain Gardner is abandoning ship. He is reporting that Exeter is gone. They were ambushed by Birdies after they fell back from the radar interference."

"Those ambushing ships will be heading our way commodore," Guerrero said.

"Tactical plot on viewer," Oulette ordered. Oguma and Stingray were gone along with San Jacinto. Oulette bowed his head as Wilson reported that Badr had lost her warp drive. He studied the graphical representation of the Tannhauser. An unmarked radar graphic, a Romulan cruiser made a close pass on Badr. The track of the Star Fleet cruiser vanished off of the viewer.

"Muster our survivors for a withdrawal Jeffrey," he said sadly. Pierre could see the ghostly returns of six more Romulan cruisers bearing down on them. The reports from the other ships of his taskforce were equally bad.

Oulette assumed his seat. He selected the engineering call button. "Shato; we need warp speed in two minutes."

"Sir," the engineer answered. "I can blow those sections; that will restore our structural integrity. But I have people in those sections; at least one hundred are down there."

Oulette could hear jostling over the speaker. "Commodore; we need to assess our structural integrity after we blast away the damaged sections. We don't have two minutes to evacuate everyone and do that."

"Give those people a few seconds sir!" Shato's embittered voice exploded over the speaker. Grizzly took a deep breath. "Sir they are filtering out now; just thirty seconds please!"

Oulette looked at the graphic showing the approaching cruisers. "Smart bastards," he mumbled quietly. "Talas; do what it takes to save my ship."

"Aye sir," the Andorian answered.

Seconds later Pierre felt a sharp vibration through his boots. He knew that pieces of his ship were blown away. He knew that living people had been in those pieces. He vaguely heard McGivers reporting that warp speed showed available. As in a dream where he was an observer he saw himself giving the order for warp speed. This was one for the Birds he thought bitterly.

Star Fleet vessel Serendipity, approaching the Klingon border, Dec 2157

"Seems like a good reason to put one of these fancy conference rooms to use." Augustus Kirk examined his cards and then turned his attention to the other players. He casually dropped a jack of spades onto the table and smiled.

"I feel certain that you are attempting to obtain all of the point cards Kirk," the Vulcan Soval said.

"Who me?" he asked in a mock innocent tone. "Why; I'm just playing my cards as I've been dealt them, Smiley." Kirk had learned to read the Vulcan well enough to see that the moniker that he had assigned Soval still bothered the Vulcan. He had always been under the impression that Vulcans were emotionless machines. Kirk had learned differently under the sometimes impatient tutoring in Klingon that he was receiving from the elder Vulcan.

"Mister Kirk bears watching," Captain Marisa Morgan declared from across the conference table.

"Feel free to watch me as much as you'd like captain," Kirk answered. "I don't get much attention from lovely young ladies at my age." He watched as Serendipity's commander put down a ten of spades. Kirk was amazed that the queen had not surfaced.

"You humans;" Soval began. "You speak in ways that seem duplicitous. You captain, seem to indicate that Kirk is not to be trusted and yet he is granted standing as a defacto ambassador."

"And you Vulcans are an obtuse a lot as ever came along," Major Lasuda declared. The Tellarite had been a last minute addition to the former carrier's crew. He had chosen to retain his Tellarite Army rank rather than use a Star Fleet rank. The alien deposited a two of spades onto the tabletop. "Tell me Vulcan; why did your people never propose an alliance such as this federation?"

Kirk merely smiled. He suspected that the Tellarite was interested in acquiring Vulcan technology for his people should that race enter into the new alliance. Kirk had also seen a certain amount of contempt directed toward the Vulcan from both the Andorians and Tellarites who were aboard. He guessed that was the price of Vulcan standoffishness. Soval laid down a three of spades.

"We were satisfied to remain trading partners with the other races," Soval said. "I do not recall the Tellarites proposing to give up their sovereignty."

"Do you really think it is that Soval?" Morgan piped up and asked. "If there is anybody who should be afraid of losing our sovereignty it should be we humans. We have a long history of fighting over meaningless differences."

"And yet here we are Red," Kirk said as he tossed out the ace of diamonds. "But I think Smiley is concerned that his way of life will change. That is a legitimate concern for anyone."

"It will be different," Lasuda said. "But I do not fear that we will become human. That is ridicules. Do you fear that you will become Tellarite, Vulcan; though that would be an improvement?"

"Of course not," Soval answered. The Vulcan threw down a five of clubs after Morgan produced a nine of diamonds. "But it is not logical to think that nothing will change. You all have your cultures and traditions. Is it not logical to want those things to continue? We Vulcans merely want to preserve what we are. Our past was most violent; it is something we do not wish to repeat."

"Oh, we won't corrupt you," Morgan said in a serious voice. "Much," she added with a sly grin.

Major Lasuda issued a hearty laugh, "Well said captain. We shall soak up each others vices." The Tellarite looked at Soval. "Some vices will do your people good." He laid down a nine of hearts. "Right now cheating would come in handy. I believe Kirk is trying to get all of the point cards as you said Vulcan. I do not like this game. I wish that you would try to learn cravelza."

"I don't feel like having my fingers broken," Morgan said quickly.

"Ah!" the Tellarite exclaimed. "You've played before captain."

"Hearts are broken," Kirk said.

"I bet you did a lot of that when you were younger?" Morgan asked him.

Kirk decided to make his play. He led out with the ace of hearts. He winked at the redhead. If only he were twenty years younger—and single he reminded himself. "I still do."

"This banter," Soval said. "I have never understood the point of it. You all would be far more relaxed and alert if you sat in quiet contemplation."

Kirk raked in the cards. He started on down the hearts. He had a good hand and planned to take advantage of it. After a few times around the table he began to wonder where the last heart was. He tossed out a jack of diamonds with the sure knowledge that diamonds were run. The game went around and he was shocked when Soval tossed the queen of diamonds into the open.

"You cheated!" Kirk roared. "Diamonds were played out."

"You are mistaken," Soval answered in that characteristically unemotional tone. "I merely changed the conditions of the game." Soval pulled in the cards. He followed with the last heart.

Lasuda stood up abruptly. "Asfla'ga cheating Pointies!" he exclaimed.

"No one indicated to me that the so-called rules were fixed," Soval said.

"He has us there Kirk," Morgan said.

"You are siding with him?" Augustus asked. "And here I thought that me and you were an item."

The conference room communications' alert sounded. Morgan reached over to press the touch pad. Kirk was happy that he beat her to it. The bland New England accent of Lieutenant Commander Russell Hargreaves intruded on the group's card play with the news that Klingon vessels were on sensors. Morgan acknowledged the call and switched off.

"We crossed the border?" Kirk asked.

Moran looked at her chronometer. "Almost half an hour ago; but it was nothing to celebrate Mister Kirk. It is not like there are defined borders in space."

"Unless it comes to the Pointies," Lasuda said quietly.

"That'll be enough major," Morgan said as she stood up. She looked at all of them. "Let's see the face of the devil."

Odd choice of words," Kirk said as he rose and followed her out of the room. But he knew that she was right. The Klingons carried a sort of fear before them. Kirk could not put his finger on it yet he felt that Soval shared in some measure of that fear.

"Remember Kirk, this is a warrior race. They respect strength." Soval advised Kirk as the group made their way to Serendipity's bridge.

"I'm a little old for butting heads," Kirk answered. Soval had lectured him for hours on Klingon customs and courtesies. Augustus had concluded that Klingons had many customs; but few courtesies.

"Captain on deck!" the captain's executive officer bellowed. Hargreaves was a tall, thin officer who was closer to fifty than forty. Kirk knew that Morgan found her operations' officer a little on the stiff side.

"Yes, thank you Russ," Morgan said as she assumed the center seat; "for anyone who doesn't realize that I'm the captain after a whole month in this can." She motioned toward Kirk. "If you'll join me sir; I think that you are on."

"Radar range in two minutes," Ensign Karen Lockley declared. Kirk heard the young woman emit a low whistle. "They must be pushing their mams for all they are worth with power readings like these." Kirk looked at the presentations on the viewer. The data displayed beneath each meant little to him.

'As I indicated captain," Soval spoke up. "Klingons have been using matter anti matter for some time. However their safety protocols are questionable at best. A Klingon battle cruiser is just as likely to explode of its own volition in battle as it is to be a casualty of war."

"Drop out of warp and hail them using the frequencies that Minister Soval provided for us." Kirk felt no different as the ship stopped affecting the fabric of space before it.

"Video in twenty seconds captain," Lockley said. Kirk watched as Morgan caused the display to be changed to the blackness of space.

"A Vulcan ship can resolve sensor readings into a video image," Soval said. Kirk thought there was a certain amount of smugness in his statement. "Our ships can see an object from hundreds of thousands of your kilometers away."

"We're not on a Vulcan ship minister," Morgan answered tersely. "And your people have been reluctant to share that technology with anyone else."

"Except perhaps the pirates," Lasuda mumbled. Kirk could barely hear the Tellarite's words but he knew that Soval was more than able to hear them. Kirk was surprised to see the Vulcan outwardly wince slightly. He wondered what was happening on Soval's world.

"Text message," Chief Roger Calloway announced. "It is their version of linguacode. They demand to meet us. They want us to halt and stand ready to be boarded."

"Chief; answer the text with one of our own," Morgan instructed. "Tell them that we are here for our people; that a member of their High Council sent us information that we may enter their space to inquire after our people. Tell them that I'd be pleased to permit a small diplomatic party to board."

"Ten thousand kilometers captain," Lockley said.

"All stop," Morgan answered. "Let's see what the long range cams have for us."

"S'itola," Lasuda murmured. There were several other pronouncements of amazement from some of the others on the bridge.

Kirk saw what looked like a bloated, twenty-first century, jet aircraft. The only difference was that the nose as he guessed it was ended in a rather blunt protuberance; shaped like the head of an earth snake. Slung atop the wings as he called them was what he assumed were weapon attachment points: Each of the points had something mounted on them. Kirk watched as a bat-winged shuttle bolted from the craft. It gave him an idea of the size of the Klingon vessel. The shuttle rolled over in space as it got larger on the screen. The Klingon vessel executed a similar roll placing the plated wing section on top when viewed from Serendipity.

"Well that is one for the books I suppose," he said. "I always wondered how you people figured which side was up."

"That shuttle can't be carrying a large party," Lasuda declared.

"I would have some of those Star Fleet Marines of yours along Captain Morgan," Soval said.

"I doubt that shuttle could carry more than ten Klingons," Morgan answered. "You said they respect strength. I intend to show them that." She looked at Kirk. "You're with me." She said as she turned the bridge over to Lasuda.

"Same goes for you Smiley," Kirk said. "Next time we'll try poker again." Kirk grumbled; "change the condition of the game."

"I found that game most interesting," Soval answered. "But you changed the rules there yourself so I don't understand your distress over my approach to hearts."

When Kirk asked him what he meant the Vulcan explained: "Several times you lacked adequate cards to win the credits in the pot. Yet you continued playing leading the rest of us to believe that your hand was stronger than it really was."

"It's called bluffing," Kirk answered. He winced as his right knee started to throb. Shouldn't these cruisers have some more lifts he thought as the group descended the final ladder to the main shuttle bay?

Kirk rushed forward to press his face against the transparent aluminum of the bay hatch. He had to admit that he had a fascination with space travel; one that he did not know he had previously. He watched as the venomous looking shuttle entered the bay. It looked as lethal as the craft that had spawned it. Kirk watched as the outer pressure door closed and cavernous bay started pressurizing. Minutes later a tone announced that the pressure outside of the bay equaled that within.

Morgan led the group to the shuttle. A door slid open and out stepped a heavily armored Klingon. Kirk thought that the crinkled-headed alien wore a permanent scowl. Her long black hair was tied back in a severe ponytail. A Klingon male followed her. Kirk was not surprised to see the Klingons carrying sidearms. He was surprised, despite Soval's lectures, to see that the soldiers carried long knives. Kirk thought that whoever had said not to bring a knife to a gunfight probably had never seen a Klingon. A third Klingon was pushed out of the shuttle before another of the aliens.

Kirk heard a rough voice speaking and realized that he understood most of the words being spoken. The stresses were far more aggressive than those that had been employed under Soval's gentle tutelage. Kirk was picking through the strings of gutturals while he wondered if the Klingon that was being herded by the two others was one of their captured human marines. He looked at the man's heavy Asiatic features.

"Talk, Kirk!" the captain hissed.

"I'm Augustus Kirk—

"What have you humans done?" the male demanded rather than asked. The person who Kirk had taken for a human was flung onto the shuttle bay deck. Augustus determined that the being was not human. It was a male Kirk assumed; dressed in a cloth uniform that was somewhat similar in cut to the heavy armor that the two crinkle-headed aliens wore.

"What do you mean?" his reply was in the same voice that he would have used to respond to a bully; were he in the sixth grade.

"This abomination that your genetic castoffs have inflicted upon us!" the woman, a full head taller than Augustus bellowed. The Klingon was towering over him. Kirk could feel her hot breath upon his face; smell the last thing that she had eaten. Whatever it was didn't smell so bad.

"What do they mean? What is the meaning of this?" the captain asked sharply. Kirk could hear the frustration of her being excluded from the conversation by the language barrier.

"We have come for our warriors," Kirk retorted. "We know nothing of your troubles!"

"This pujwI' is the result of meddling human," the Klingon male asserted. The Klingon had pointed to the male who was slowly getting back on his feet. Kirk was still unsure what species the alien was. He fumbled over the Klingon's terminology.

"Weakling?" he asked.

The alien struck out at the male Klingon knocking him against the shuttle hull. The woman turned and swept the human looking male's legs out from under him. "I am Klingon!" the felled alien shouted defiantly.

"Enough!" Kirk roared back to them in their tongue. "I do not listen to the words of confused children; explain yourselves."

His abrasive exclamation and demands seemed to appeal to the Klingons who told Kirk the tale of the human looking Klingon. Kirk turned to Morgan after the Klingons had stopped talking.

"It never rains; but it pours," Kirk said to Morgan as she stood with her hands on her hips. "We've got a problem here."

The second planet of Ross 128, Dec 2157

"I've got Lieutenant Macpherson sir," Chief Peter Custis said. He handed Captain Michael Cromwell his handheld.

Cromwell listened to a transmission that he knew was being relayed from high atop a mountain to Daedelus then to the surface. "There was nothing out of the ordinary at first sir," the distorted voice of the head of that shore party blasted out of the handheld's tiny speaker. "But then we discovered a residual radiation signature—theta radiation." Cromwell immediately asked about the level; "Nothing dangerous; unless someone was to mill around here for thirty of forty years."

Cromwell nodded. That type of radiation was emitted by few naturally occurring phenomena. It was commonly emitted by warp engine throttle assemblies. Still; he had to consider other options. Custis had become more convinced that M'Altz've's neural network had to have come from outside knowledge. It certainly seemed a leap for a civilization to go from primitive crystal circuits to printed microcircuits.

"Theta radiation could be from other sources—sources we haven't considered." Cromwell knew that a captain's place was sometimes to exert restraint.

"Aye sir," Macpherson's voice returned. "We have been running up a mix of ideas and shooting them down. Then Chief Dawson discovered a piece of something that had come down here. It looks like the locals found the main impact site. But their methods didn't allow them to look further. We found a piece of a craft or device of some sort."

"I take it that it is not from here?" he asked.

"Definitely not captain," Macpherson answered. "The piece is heavily damaged; that is about all we can tell. The technology is something even superior to ours. It seems to have a power source; but what is generating it we don't know."

"Is it safe to take to Daedelus?" he asked. Cromwell had read enough speculative papers on what to do with superior technology. Much of it, written before the war, had emphasized a thorough examination of artifacts in preparation for exploitation. A more sober paper however had suggested caution: Who knew how a sophisticated alien device might react with their equipment.

"We've plugged it into the shuttle's test computer sir," Macpherson answered. Cromwell could hear the man's exasperation. "Sir; me and Ensign Lawson can barely recognize this thing as a device…probably electronic. I guess it is like a nineteenth century person examining one of our handheld computers. I think we could plug a rock into this thing with the same results if you get my meaning captain."

That disturbed Michael although it was something that every explorer had to face: One day they might encounter a race far in advance to those of the alliance. This seemed to pretty much confirm that M'Altz've's team had discovered something at the dig site. The trouble, Michael thought, was that just seeing a piece of technology did not mean that a primitive culture could start using it. His own Daedelus would be a mystery to nineteenth century engineers; just seeing it would not mean that a Horace Hunley could start producing fusion reactors.

"I understand," he answered at last. "If it is safe then take the object back to Daedelus. Do you have a decay rate for the theta radiation?"

"Just a guess sir," Macpherson replied. "The leakage could have started a thousand years after this thing was buried. But it looks like it was underground; leaking radiation out for at least two thousand years. It appears to be a two meter long object, maybe cylindrical."

"We'll look further Macpherson," Cromwell said. "Good job there. Continue poking around to see if you can find anything else—break Daedelus; did you do a radar search over this M'Altz've's estate?" he asked. H'Liq had once attended a function there and recalled that its rival's home did not hold any secret chambers; that H'Liq knew about.

Cromwell was examining the exterior of the Ro'ha scientist's place now. Much of it had been done in the typical ovoid type shell that the Ro'ha seemed to favor. The entire scene had a surreal gothic look to it: The small sun was sinking below the horizon of the blood red sky plunging the already dark landscape into almost total darkness. Cromwell adjusted the intensity of his night vision glasses.

"There is a large chamber beneath the main house sir," Lisa Somers voice replaced that of Macpherson's. "It is much larger than a basement." Dieulafoy had mentioned that the Ro'ha, like humans built basements in some of their residences. He inquired about radiation but knew that the shuttle's monitoring equipment was not precise enough to monitor low level theta radiation emissions.

"Very good," he answered. "We'll keep the link open commander. We are about to make a house call."

Cromwell along with H'Liq, Custis, Dieulafoy and Trudy Schultheiss were adorned in the long winter traveling cloaks favored by the Ro'ha. Michael was glad that the streets were relatively empty. Their appearance was masked under their cloaks and hoods but they did not move like Ro'ha. Schultheiss had suggested that they use a shuffling glide but after several clumsy attempts Cromwell had abandoned that idea. Schultheiss had chided him and told him that she would teach him to dance. They had only a few steps to go to the doctor's residence. They faded quickly into the darkness beneath the squat, yet thin umbrella like trees of the planet.

H'Liq made noises of exclamation. "I don't need the device to tell me that was a warning," Cromwell said.

"He said to look out for a m'louv'n," Dieulafoy answered at last.

"What the devil is that?" he asked.

A loud rustle was followed by what Cromwell mind's interpreted as a squat round land going shark. The snarling meter and a half long beast made a rush at the shore party until it was pulled up short by a chain. Cromwell and his people had run back and now turned to see the beast struggling against its chain to get at them.

"Don't bother with the translation Mister Dieulafoy," Cromwell said. "I believe dog will suffice." Cromwell looked around. Their hand stunners would generate a plasma charge that should quiet the animal: It would also create a light show. He watched as Schultheiss took a dark mass from her travel pouch. She carefully removed its wrapping. An odor of rotten meat nearly caused Cromwell to gag.

"This should put the hound to sleep," she said as she tossed the mass at the animal. It stopped barking, although Michael thought that braying might be a better term, at them. The beast looked rather than smelled the proffered food. Cromwell remembered Trudy telling him that many of Ross' animal inhabitants relied upon their vision over their olfactory glands. They waited until the animal ate. It keeled over a few minutes later.

"Splendid doctor," Cromwell declared. He took out the hand stunner as he led his party forward. He knew that, should he have to use it, the flash would attract attention. But an animal bite would not do. The beast had looked like it could do serious damage to a limb.

Cromwell was relived to see that his actions weren't warranted as the team approached a back entrance to M'Altz've's estate. No more guard animals threatened them. Cromwell peered into the dwelling's windows. A door slid open causing him to level the fist sized stunner toward the new threat.

"I have been expecting you Captain Cromwell," Mariel Picard declared quietly.

Dieulafoy stepped away from the group and angled toward the woman. "Giselle, I am happy to see you!"

She backed away from the Frenchman. Cromwell was struck by her gliding step. He put it down to being immersed in an alien culture. He had begun to pick up on H'Liq's grunts and twitters in the time he had spent with the alien. Cromwell stepped forward more hesitantly.

"You have some explaining to do Miss Picard," he said simply.

"Of course captain," she replied; "and do come in. We show as luminous beings to the Ro'ha. It is my hope that you meet M'Altz've and think about a different way of ensuring that the Ro'ha survive." She beckoned them to follow her into the residence. "Come this way."

"I'm not sure that we can ensure their survival miss," Cromwell said.

"Not with rockets and warp drives," she stopped and turned to Schultheiss. "I know that you have done the calculations doctor."

"We can also teach them hydroponics as well as advanced biochemical methodologies," Schultheiss answered. "That would perhaps give them the time they needed to build starships." They wound their way down a stony spiral staircase.

"Do you think that we can build starships in fifty years Doctor Schultheiss?" an odd melodious voice piped.

Cromwell stepped out onto the landing to allow the rest of his group into the large underground chamber. They were confronted by a Ro'ha slightly shorter than H'Liq. Two weeks ago Cromwell would have been unable to tell the two apart. Now the aliens looked as distinct to him as Schultheiss did to Dieulafoy or Custis. Cromwell realized that the reedy voice had come from the Ro'ha. He was astounded by the alien's obvious grasp of a terran language. How had that happened so quickly he wondered?

"What does fifty years matter?" Dieulafoy had overcome his shock at he alien's language ability.

Both Picard and the alien looked at Schultheiss. "My estimates are that major crop failures will start in twenty years." She bowed her head. "Food rationing will start shortly thereafter. The general pattern, if earth and at least Tellarite history are any indicators is that the various governments will exasperate the situation by withholding food from their people. The frequent famines in Africa stopped after democratic republics replaced the dictatorships. But earth and Tellar had the ability to grow food to support their populations. Ross will not have that. In fifty years there will be general planetwide famine. The crop failures will increase killing the surface animal life."

"My race has already fought a war over imperial ambitions," the Ro'ha declared.

"This is Doctor M'Altz've," Picard said in introduction.

"Miss Picard has told me of your brave crew captain," the alien said. It extended its tentacle-like limb in a most human gesture. Cromwell took the appendage after some hesitation. "Our speculative fiction writers have written of visitors from other worlds. Most mirror our own follies. You really have two sexes; amazing. It would be interesting watching you reproduce."

"Your command of one of our languages is most astounding," Dieulafoy said mirroring Cromwell's feeling on that matter.

"Personally I like reproducing in private," Schultheiss declared with a grin. "But the lieutenant is correct. Your skill in English is excellent given that you've had a little over a week to learn it."

"I share Miss Picard's gift for languages," M'Altz've answered. "But even were I to speak in Ant'lel it would not change the facts: My people are heading for extinction. We could possibly build ships to escape but do you Captain Cromwell think that we could build the vessels necessary to save more than the few?"

"Your system contains a series of asteroids," Cromwell answered. "You could make a space vehicle out of those. You could push out at relativistic speeds at first and use warp drives as you create them." Cromwell felt argumentative but he doubted that advanced science could save these people. He knew that he was anthropomorphizing but he suspected that the nation states' various politicians would not fall behind the effort that would be needed. "I take it that you have a different idea?" he asked.

The Ro'ha turned and glided over to a far wall. M'Altz've slid open a section of the wall which was much lighter than it looked apparently. Cromwell and his team were presented with the presence of a perfectly smooth cylinder; at least three meters tall and one wide. The device's metal skin was perfectly smooth. It was obvious to Michael that this was not a product of Ro'ha science.

"The alien device," Cromwell said quietly.

"Mariel told me that you had flying machines capable of settling atop Mount H'Mqlt'ze." The alien touched the side of the cylinder. The spot where its tentacle touched changed into what Cromwell suspected was an instrument panel. "But that would not make you the first visitors here; though I have come to suspect that this device has never held a living being in it."

"You learned to operate it?" Cromwell asked. He was beginning to rethink his idea concerning the aliens' abilities.

"You people from other worlds have a term; luck," M'Altz've explained. "The progression of random chance; I experienced some luck. The team discovered the object almost at the end of our expedition. Of course we could not activate. Truthfully I've only just established the device's purpose since Mariel joined me."

"It's a probe captain," Picard added. "Reminiscent of our Friendship One, only it is on a far more sophisticated level."

"Sophisticated enough to teach me some of its workings," M'Altz've said.

"You just told me you've only begun to understand how it works," Cromwell retorted. He wondered how M'Altz've could understand the English language as well as it apparently did. He knew that some Vulcan language masters had set about learning all of the earth languages in less than a terran year. Was this the case here he wondered?

The alien seemed to glean some of Cromwell's thoughts. "I learned less than you might imagine captain. I assumed that it was a sort of knowledge stone. I mean obviously we did not make it. I thought that the race that had may have intended the finders to learn from the machine."

"So you just walked up to the device and started learning," Cromwell said. He wondered if the alien could hear the irony in his voice. He tried to recall the name of the holovid remake of a twentieth century tale of space explorers and a scientist who had tapped into a database of alien knowledge.

"The device seemed to compel me to do so captain," M'Altz've answered. "Luck again; I fumbled about when I discovered this control mechanism. Miss Picard tells me it is an access port." Cromwell heard grunts and squawks from the other Ro'ha scientist in the chamber. Dieulafoy translated some minutes later. "H'Liq says that this must be the source of M'Altz've's speculations. I suspect that he is saying wild speculations. The doctor says that science must provide real solutions for the future of the Ro'ha and not vest their hopes in fantasy."

"But we can survive as a group consciousness." M'Altz've's tentacles were moving rapidly as it spoke. "Our nations will not use your advanced science in an attempt to build starships captain. It may well start the war again."

"Group consciousness?" he asked pointedly.

"The brain is a collection of electrical impulses," the scientist explained. "I believe that I can harness that electrical energy; the essence of the individual. Miss Picard tell me you call it soul."

"The soul," Schultheiss corrected. "But you mentioned a group mind; cannot the individual be preserved?"

"I see that I've sparked your curiosity doctor," M'Altz've answered.

Cromwell thought that the alien showed a positively human twitter. "You don't really believe that is possible, do you Trudy?" he asked her.

"You've read the Frawling report Herr Kapitan," Schultheiss answered. "We do not as yet possess the computers to do as M'Altz've suggests. But our computers are hundreds of times more capable than they were just a century ago."

"The doctor is correct captain," Picard said. "But M'Altz've's technique does not allow for the storage of an individual mind."

"Storage?" he asked. He was greatly disturbed by that term. "Is being stored, if that is possible, is that any kind of life?"

"I have done it captain!" the Ro'ha declared. Cromwell thought about that until H'Liq's exclamations arose. He realized that Dieulafoy had translated what M'Altz've had just said. "The essence of what we are will survive." The Ro'ha seemed to caress the alien machine. "This machine taught me how to build the circuits of an advanced neural network. We do not have the devices necessary to build storage vessels. But I came upon the idea of harnessing a self-sustaining reaction.

"The storms as we thought them captain," Picard interjected; "they are Ro'ha whose essences were converted. I believe that the matrix necessary to facilitate a group of single minds is beyond even the machine's knowledge. They are stored as co-mingled energies."

"And how is that you know they are even alive?" he asked.

He could not read M'Altz've's body language: He was still unfamiliar with Ro'ha intonations physical and non-physical. Picard's body language said much however. He gave her a hard look.

"Doctor M'Altz've has tapped into the group mind," she answered simply.

"So you ran off in support of the doctor's ideas?" Cromwell asked the woman.

She was awhile in answering. Finally she replied: "I studied M'Altz've's theories. I felt that you were not giving them a fair hearing. What I did was spurious; I admit that. But this is not an academic debate. In all likelihood the Ro'ha will be extinct in two perhaps three human generations. We have the power to save them."

"They are obviously afraid of being," Cromwell paused searching for the right word. "Absorbed," he said. His voice was dripping with disgust. "I do not know what the doctor here has done. But I do know that the Ro'ha deserve a choice." What would he choose he asked himself? Would he choose slow death and the death of his progeny over becoming a part of some group mind; never to have individuality again?

"I'm sorry that I ran away captain," Picard said, intruding on Cromwell's dark thoughts. "I will return now. I just want you to listen to what M'Altz've has to say."

"Yes captain," M'Altz've said. "I would ask that you listen to both me and my contemporary. Then ask yourself Cromwell; what gives my race the best chance to have a future."

Cromwell wasn't even sure that he should interfere. The camel's nose was under the tent for that, he thought: He had already given H'Liq paper charts and books detailing the process of fission. With those he had sent along data on rocketry and gyro control systems. He knew that those things had been designed by twentieth century earthmen: Those discoveries should be in reach of the Ro'ha of today.

"Very well," Cromwell answered agreeably. He turned to H'Liq. "Ask the doctor if he wishes to go off planet," he instructed Dieulafoy. The translation device started its task when M'Altz've intruded with a rapid stream of his native language. H'Liq soon replied.

"The doctor says that it would be his extreme pleasure to see his world from space," Dieulafoy read the reply carefully.

"Excellent," Cromwell answered. He eyed the alien device warily. "May we examine it before we depart Doctor?" he asked M'Altz've. When the Ro'ha answered in the affirmative he beckoned Schultheiss to his side. "If you would doctor; perhaps a medical approach to this strange machine will yield some answers for us." He instructed the rest of his party to prepare for departure. He and his surgeon walked behind the device. They were alone in the chamber as the rest of the group had made their way upstairs.

"You wish an examination of Miss Picard?" Schultheiss asked without ceremony.

"You've read my mind Trudy," he answered softly. He intended this conversation only for the doctor's ears. "Make it a most thorough one."

"Yah," she answered. She stopped looking at the device and looked directly in his eyes. "Is this wise Olly? I mean taking aliens aboard like this. I suppose you will allow them some freedom of movement?"

"Of course," he answered. Man had been introduced to the Andorians and Tellarites by the Vulcans. The Denobulans were encountered at a trade conference hosted on Tellar. With few exceptions Stellar Navy vessels were not set up for diplomatic first contact missions. "Consult with Taln: Make whatever environmental modifications you deem necessary. I'll vacate my quarters and have Lisa do the same with hers."

He chuckled. She asked him what was so funny. "We have the largest quarters on Daedelus and yet they are about the fifth of the size of a luxury hotel room; some VIP quarters!" Cromwell had been pleased with spaciousness of his cabin when he had first toured his command. He actually had three steps from his fold down bed to his desk.

"You can stay with me if you are uncomfortable, Herr Kapitan," Schultheiss said with a sly grin on her lips. Michael could feel his face heating up.

"Don't joke—I may take you up on that doctor!" he said. Cromwell had grown less restrained during this long voyage. He had begun to think of his crew as family. Of course he knew the dangers inherit in that: He may one day have to send one of his "relatives" to die.

"Seriously though," he started as he looked around to ensure that they were still alone; "Picard seems to have a thorough grasp of their language and this M'Altz've has a grasp of ours. Of course she does have a gift for language but…did you happen to catch how she moved when we first came to the house?"

Schultheiss nodded. "Of course she has been among the Ro'ha for over week now. But still I am suspicious as well. Her relationship with Crosby; she seems to be a person who might fall under the control of another quite easily."

"We should make our way up now," he answered. Crosby was an unpleasant reminder that humans still had a long way to go in some matters. He turned to her as they headed towards the curving walkway. "Would you prefer to survive at all costs Trudy?"

She sighed; "even if meant my soul? All I could think about was my Lutheran parents. They only attended church during the holidays but the values were there. The notion of surviving as some sort of floating electrical signal…" He watched as she shuddered. "What if there is an afterlife Olly? Will these Ro'ha move on to that or live in some sort of hellish perpetuity?"

"You were supposed to clear all of this up fro me!" he exclaimed. A slight grin showed on his face. Still; he was disturbed by what he had heard here today. He thought over Vulcan rules concerning first contacts and interference with primitive cultures. His primary mission here was nearly over: The harvesting crews had gathered more than enough plant matter for resequencing. He needed to get on his way to earth with his findings concerning the Birdies.

Instead Michael was facing a moral crux: Should he help a race that might well be extinct by the end of his twenty-second century? What would happen were he to have left the Ro'ha to their devices, he wondered? He sighed.

"That is why you are the captain," Schultheiss declared. She leaned over and stopped him; landing a kiss on his lips. He was impressed with how tall and lovely she was. They continued on to the top of the ramp.

Andorian Imperial Guard Cruiser Kumari, in the Beta Hydri system, Earth year Dec 2157

"Are they still within range?" Captain Gordon Albright asked. He ran a hand through his close cut black hair. He saw that it was becoming peppered with some gray these days.

"Radar still has them trailing us captain," Saln reported. Albright's Andorian first stood a full head taller than did the human. Added to that height was an impressive set of antennae.

Four earth days since Albright's Andorian Guard cruiser had tracked a large formation of Romulan warships. They could only be from Topaz. The large fleet movement was vital information for Star Fleet. Topaz, Albright knew, would be a tough enough nut to crack as it was. Star Fleet had still been unable to find a solution for the Romulans' ability to destroy the new subspace sensors. Albright knew that it was a matter of an infinite propagation of jamming signals. Subspace mechanics had given a younger Gordon his biggest headaches at his Ottawa military academy.

Gordon absently scratched at the growth of beard on his normally clean-shaven chin. "Time till Arethan?" he asked. He used the Andorian name for the star. Saln supplied Gordon with the data along with a question about their future.

"These five ships are herding us I suspect," Albright answered. "I want to turn and fight."

"Admirable," Saln said. "You will end up in the halls of Gurthwin captain. I hadn't planned on going there for sometime myself."

Albright chuckled at Saln's dry humor. "I don't intend on exploring space beyond either." He walked over to the bridge astrogation station. Albright liked the Andorian approach of a three dimensional viewer on a tabletop surface. It made planning far easier. He activated the station's controls causing an image of Beta Hydri to appear above the table. He caused the fourth planet to grow in size.

"Once past the fifth planet I want us to release drive plasma and slow," he explained his scheme to his first officer. The weapons' officer Zenna strolled over to listen as well. She was a short, squat Andorian: Unusual for an Andorian female. She had also made overtures towards Albright; also not unusual for an Andorian female.

"What speed sir?" Zenna asked.

"Confer with Monimos Graz," he replied. "I want the Birds to be in firing range of us when we arrive over the fourth planet. Prepare missiles tubes for rapid fire." Zenna went about her duties after an appraising glance at Albright. She left the bridge.

"She is very forward," Albright said.

"Not your typical pink-skin woman?" his first officer answered. "You should indulge sir. Such a thing is normal among Andorians."

Albright's eyes followed her path off of the bridge. It had been a long time for him in that department. He was stuck on human conventions however. It would be unseemly were a Stellar Navy officer to boff one of his subordinates. He chuckled as he recalled his grandfather's use of that ancient slang. It sounded like a similar word in Andorian that referred to an iceberg's hardness. He looked again toward the bridge exit hatch.

"We have a little time before I put my plan to the test," he said. He tugged at his Stellar Navy jacket and headed off of the bridge.

"Remember Doctor Cochrane's words sir," Chief Crowder. Albright knew that the sometimes boisterous enlisted man had a clever innuendo in wait. He sometimes thought about brevetting the man as a punishment. "To boldly go where no man has gone before."

"I would allow you to have a sexual fantasy chief," Albright answered. "But I plan on having a meal in the dining chamber—by myself." He looked at Saln. "The bridge is yours, first. Please advise me if there are any changes."

Albright planned on dining and relaxing for next two earth hours. He still found it hard to adjust to the slightly shorter Andorian time units. He had slipped into using that alien language though. The few humans on Kumari seldom used any of the terran languages; even among themselves. Albright stalked over to the small dining area. A few seats were strewn about as a courtesy to the humans as Andorians stood while eating meals. Albright, however found himself standing. He accepted a meal of Andorian needlefish and warm vegetables. He discovered that he was ravenous. The last four days of pursuit had taken its toll upon him.

He wondered how the war was going. Gordon had been relieved that Strategos Antor had assigned Kumari back to patrol duty for the new Star Fleet. Vulcan was probably feeling the heat from the new alliance. How long could Vulcan straddle this fence that they had chosen? He knew that President Thorpe was committed to the defense of Andor. The Vulcans should realize that as well he hoped. He finished the last of his fish and walked his dish to the recycler. He found this chamber with its bright blue lights to be one of his favorite places aboard his ship.

Crewmembers destined for the next watch poured in; a few at first, then in greater numbers. They crowded around Albright but remained respectfully silent. He found himself explaining his plan to engage the Romulans. Andorian captains were the rallying point for the crew. They were badly outgunned but they could soon find themselves both outgunned and squeezed between two engulfing forces.

"We have shown that we can out maneuver the pirates," Albright started in conclusion. He realized that the time was near at hand. "Our ships are better. But more than that, this is the finest crew of the Imperial Guard, of Star Fleet. We have survived to fight another time and we shall continue to do so. Let us send the pirates to the netherworld!"

Albright departed among much fanfare as the battle alert klaxon sounded. Gordon missed the bellowing sound of a Stellar Navy alert. Andorian ears were far more sensitive such that the alarm sounded to Gordon like a low note blown on a tuba. Albright dodged among the narrow passageways until he stood before the bridge hatch. It opened ponderously to allow him inside.

Albright seated himself in the center seat. "Calculate a low orbit entry over the planet Graz," he ordered. "Chief Crowder; please display the planet on video." The image of the barren soon dominated the bridge viewer. The system's yellow, orange sun reflected off of a surface of highly polished nickel iron.

"It is confounding the radar sir," Crowder reported. Albright knew that he meant the planet beneath. He had been counting on it. He asked about their pursuers. "They are slowing sir." He waited while Crowder studied the subspace radar returns. "Looks like the pirates are breaking up; maybe trying to flank us against the planet."

"They suspect something," Saln said.

"As would I," Albright said. He turned to Zenna after checking his ship's course and speed. "Missiles away!" he roared.

Seconds later she replied: "Missiles on the fly along programmed trajectory captain."

The elegant Andorian heavy cruiser vanished behind the rim of the metallic world. The bright sun revealed the small dots of three Sabinus and two Veronus class cruisers. The Romulan ships separated into a diamond-like formation. A Veronus and Sabinus split from the main group in an attempt to meet the Star Fleet ship as it rounded the planet.

Eight pinpoints emerged into the path of the oncoming Romulans that had broken from the group. The ships launched neutronium pellets into the flight path of the missiles but too late. The Romulan cruisers ended their existence in a blinding conflagration. More missiles came over the horizon of the small desolate world. The surviving Romulans avoided those with a combination of maneuvers and counter measures. Most of Kumari's missiles were shredded in flurries of solid neutronium while a few spiraled past their intended targets.

Kumari emerged over the world's northern pole; firing missiles as she approached one of the Romulan vessels. The Sabinus had become isolated from its mate in its commander's frantic efforts to avoid the Andorian missiles. Kumari blazed away with its rail guns. The green cruiser was severely holed. It rolled over gently before perishing in a blast of atomic fire.

"The last chowder has been hit." Crowder yelped in victory.

"They computed their time and distance triangles based on free space." Albright grinned.

"I never would have suspected the pirates to succumb to a kuma maneuver," Saln said. Albright searched his Andorian vocabulary; kuma was an ancient mariner term that referred a harpoon thrown with much accuracy. "This slingshot of yours has some appeal."

"Our old unmanned explorer craft used it a great deal," Albright answered. "Modern vessels seldom use it since engines have become so powerful."

"I suspect that they had just time enough to wonder how our weapons moved at a greater speed than they had thought possible," Saln said with some satisfaction in his voice.

"We needn't stay around to guess, first," he answered. "Proceed along a line tangent to our course for Deep Space One. Cruise out for one light year then we'll return slowly to our destination. My guess is that some more of the pirates are waiting for us if we follow our old heading."

"That'll take some time captain," his first officer answered.

Albright sighed. He had vital information for Star Fleet. He needed to deliver that; but more than that he had not been to earth in some time. His last voyage there he had stayed aboard his ship to help in the overhaul efforts. Albright knew the value that a port call for a fighting ship had. The Imperial Guard had left a store of Kez'rac missiles at Utopia Planitia. Albright had wanted to replenish his supply. But that had let little time for him to visit earth.

"There is nothing for it, first," he said at last. He knew that his Andorian crew had been away from their home as well. "Make the necessary course changes."


	27. Chapter 27

St Louis, Missouri, the old United States, earth, Dec 2157

"Look at that gut on you Willy," Fred Watson told his old friend. "I told you when we were in the Marines together that you needed to lay off the brats and beer."

"You aren't looking any prettier either Fred," Karl Ebenstark told his friend. Willy was a name he had not heard in decades. The two men seated themselves at a table. Ebenstark knew that the combination bar and barbecue shack's seedy appearance was part of the establishment's charm. He had eaten there years ago after one of Christophur's campaign swings through the area.

"Presidential aide now huh?" his friend asked. Ebenstark nodded. "Are you here in that capacity Willy?"

Ebenstark leaned back. The lunch crowd was gone for the most part. A teen couple clutched hands a few tables away. Karl guessed that one or both of them had enlisted in the military: He had seen that desperation himself when he had joined the marines: The feeling that four years was a lifetime; Karl now knew how quickly four years came and went. Some Tellarites were busily eating something that Karl was sure had never enjoyed a terrestrial origin. Ebenstark turned back to his old friend. Age had treated Watson well except for the man's hairline.

"Officially, no," he answered. His friend sighed. "Unofficially don't you think that the president deserves a better investigation into the recent happenings than your agency has done?"

"The president reorganized us Willy," Watson answered. "We can't really investigate what to have for lunch without approvals. President Thorpe is afraid that a law-abiding citizen may fall under our eye."

"He knows that you people are frustrated Fred," Ebenstark answered. "But remember; we've not had a good record on respecting rights; humanity I mean. We seem to get rid of one tyrant just to replace him with another. President Thorpe has always turned his face to that. But the UI is still an investigative agency Fred. Your people have some power and authority. So please don't hide behind that old excuse. There are too many years between us."

"It's not just having our hands tied Willy," Fred answered. "Things are happening. We don't have good answers and the truth is there are a hell of a lot of agents who are turning a blind eye to things. The Sons' of Terra really are sons' of bitches Willy. They deserve what is happening to them."

"Even if some secret goon squad is doing it?" he asked. "You should expect better Fred. The young lady who was blown up for instance: Sure; she had some misplaced ideals but that wasn't a reason for her to die."

"Her own people killed her Willy," Watson answered.

"And a corpse in Italy that had a dose of babble juice in its veins," Ebenstark retorted. "Another man in Oklahoma who claims that government agents blew up his business—

"Tate also had a dose of recreational drugs in his system and a gambling debt," Watson interjected. "You probably haven't heard the best though," his friend added. Ebenstark looked expectantly at him as Watson looked around the establishment carefully before continuing. "The freighter crash: We recovered augmented DNA from what little piece of a body that the aviation people could find."

"What?" he asked, astounded by the news of augments among them.

"I don't want anything," Ebenstark told a bored looking server. The woman hovered over the men waiting for their lunch order.

"My friend will have the ribs and chicken dinner," Watson said. "Start it off with a double shot of Wild Turkey please. I'll have the same thing minus the bourbon." The woman scribbled in her pad, turned and departed. "You can take the dinner home with you if you don't want to eat Willy. But you should have the whiskey." His old friend looked sheepishly at him. "We aren't keeping secrets from the executive branch Willy: Our forensics experts have only confirmed their findings this morning."

Ebenstark appreciated the whiskey as their waitress returned with the proffered drinks. He tossed back half of the whiskey right away. "The president knows that a few are still among us." Thorpe had told Karl that unpleasant fact early on in the Thorpe administration. It had come as a blow to Ebenstark whose ancestors had been persecuted by an augment thug.

"A few survived the early twenty-first century. Some of their descendants have lived into this century," Ebenstark explained. "The World Government made a gentleman's agreement to cover up the fact. Most of them were castoffs who had been trying to assimilate into normal society."

"Then you are a hell of a person to talk about keeping secrets Willy," his friend admonished him. Ebenstark agreed with his friend, in theory. His parents had ground into him a hatred of augments. They had been a young Karl's boogeyman.

"Do you know what would've happened—what would happen if you revealed that there were a few augments still around?" Ebenstark answered. "I didn't like it any more than you did, I suspect. But nor did I, or the president want to see yet another excuse to snoop into the private lives of citizens because of who they might be. Besides; even if an augment were on the flight they could have been serving as a legitimate crewmember. Their ancestors paid for their crimes. But the aviation people weren't even a bit curious that a sub-orbital freighter succumbed to clear air turbulence in this day and age?" he asked; his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Accidents still happen, Willy," Watson answered. "Look at what happened to you in the service. But your Naval Investigative Service has had their beak in things. They haven't found anything. So what sends you out chasing spooks, Willy?"

"Major Malcolm Reed?" he shot back. "Have you ever read the dossier on him?"

"He has a clean record—nothing was proven," Watson answered.

"That is a unique qualifier Fred: Nothing was ever proven," he said. He felt freer in his conversation as the Tellarites had burst into song. He fell silent briefly as the waitress returned with a sweet spicy smelling dish of meats. His mouth watered despite his intention of meeting his friend here only for business. "I'm here because President Thorpe is concerned that someone is operating in the shadows. NIS—Reed cleared Admiral Soames. But I have my doubts concerning her. One of her subordinate's father was killed in a bombing. Blame was attributed to SOT. But it turns out that same lieutenant had his girlfriend murdered in Las Vegas."

"The bombing victim!" his friend snapped his fingers. "We never put those two events together." Fred looked at him. "We assumed it was more of a love spat within SOT."

"That is understandable," Ebenstark answered. Desperate people frequently resorted to desperate measures to get results. The Sons' of Terra had been losing the battle of ideas. They were indeed turning upon one another. "But there is linkage there, Fred. Also the witness to the bombing fell silent; right after purchasing a larger home."

"You can't give me a lecture on freedom Willy then say I need to coerce a witness," Watson said. "We figured there was a pay off. This man and his wife slept through a gun battle and a bombing—didn't see a goddamned thing. But those kinds of credits usually imply the drug trade."

"Or, an organization with lots of money," Ebenstark answered. He had lost his appetite for the barbecued meat.

"Stay in politics Willy," Fred implored him. "You aren't a devil dog anymore. You're right: There have been incidents cropping up. The nuke that went off over earth the night of the last Birdie attack, the navy never bothered handing us any information about it." Watson paused. "We never asked either. Like I said Willy; there are people in the UI who are glad to see paid put to these antiwar crazies."

"Including you Fred?" he asked. Ebenstark was growing disappointed with his friend's attitude.

Watson was quiet for a long time. He looked out the window at the passing crowds. It was a cold and cloudy day. Heavy winter snows had caused the Mississippi to swell. Ebenstark followed his gaze past the sidewalks and down a bank to see the normally lazy brown river running fast and hard. The waitress returned and gave Karl a hard look after seeing how little he had eaten. Ebenstark bid her to take the food away. She left in a huff plates in hand.

"Willy; sometimes things have to be done—bad things." Watson looked down at his shoes as he spoke. He looked up at Ebenstark. "Yeah you're right; if someone is operating in the black that is bad; in a perfect world. Hell; I guess I should say a perfect galaxy these days. But the galaxy is not a perfect place. You know those political parties that come along every so often; the purists who want some far off intangible thing? If we lived in their world, and so did the Romulans then we wouldn't be having this discussion: We'd all act from the highest motivations I 'spose."

"You are about to tell me the world isn't that?" Ebenstark answered. "I know that. I'm not an infant. But where does the line get drawn Fred? Do we look the other way while undesirables are removed? In my country we once hunted a whole group of people to near extinction because of their choice of religion. You Americans are not without blood on your hands either. If we don't move against this organization we may be planting the seeds of man's next tragedy."

"Very noble Willy!" his friend exclaimed. "Maybe you should be running in the president's place. But no; I was going to warn you to stay out of this. I know you Willy: If there is anything to what you are saying, and I'm not denying that there isn't, then an old bastard like you needs to keep your beak out of it. These people, if they exist are loose cannons. They are just as likely to turn on you as they are the birdies and their friends here."

"I'll consider it," Ebenstark said. He could tell from Watson's look that he was not a convincing liar. Indeed; his friend called him on it.

"Maybe you can lie to Margritte about lipstick on your collar but you can't lie to an old marine buddy. Don't fool around with these people Karl. They would kill an old fart like you without a second though; probably pin it on that tool Mark Hawkins too." Watson suddenly had a look of recognition on his face. "You are here without the president's knowledge."

Karl was stung by the man's shrewd assessment. "He doesn't need to know Fred! We are still in a grapple with the birds and the antiwar movement is at his throat. Sure; I'd love to see them taken down a notch! But we—the president needs to win the battle of ideas. He doesn't need thuggery for that."

Watson sighed. "I must be getting as old as you lieutenant," he said falling back on Ebenstark's old marine rank; "or at least as stupid as you. Okay-dokay; you inspired me to new heights. I'll do some extra snooping for you, shake the bushes and see what comes up."

"Thank you Fred," Watson said formally. "I'm keeping a record of this. I don't want to fight some cloak and dagger organization by setting up one of my own. Whatever you do; keep it honest and in the open; please."

"Sure thing Willy," his friend said as he stood up. "It's good to see you again." Watson extended his hand. Ebenstark grasp it firmly then passed a data wafer to his friend. The wafer contained contact information.

Utopia Planitia, Mars, Dec 2157

The corridors had been bare plasteel just a few months ago. It surprised Major Malcolm Reed how fast the bare metal had been filled in with garish looking hangings and potted plants. Drunken Star Fleet crewmen, human and alien stumbled through the wide corridors. Reed suspected that more than a few were out to make a quick tryst. They seemed to be heading for the small warren that passed for a motel here. Reed felt out of place in a business suit and tie as the sea of uniforms drifted past him.

He eyed a few of the spacers who were alone: Reed's hunting instincts came alive. He sighed inwardly. No time for fun he thought; at least not at this moment. He smiled as thought of what he could do when his primary task was accomplished. A young human enlisted girl seen his smile and looked away in fear. Reed grinned even more. His eyes tracked her and he committed her face to memory. She had been alone.

The noise subsided as he entered the officer's area. The Stellar Navy had dropped many of its customs regarding officer and enlisted relationships. But more often than not the two groups chose segregation. Mostly because higher ranking officers were older than their enlisted peers. Reed was becoming frustrated until he seen her. She was alone too. But whereas Malcolm had become an expert on spotting fear and loneliness in others he also knew strength: The young lady had it in spades he thought. He walked up to her.

"Commodore Stiles," he said formally. He reached in his pocket and retrieved his NIS identification card. Reed suspected that Stiles would not suffer his presence without an official reason.

"Can I help you?" she paused. "Major," she said as she finished examining his credentials. Malcolm saw a bit of fear in her now. He found her clear, dusky skin and chiseled delicate cheekbones very enticing. But this one would not fall for a few well placed words he realized. Yet he knew that she was afraid: She had reason to be.

"May I join you?" he asked. He normally would have assumed a seat next to her. He knew that to do that would invite a possible problem with Stiles. She was the only one sitting at the table. The bar was full and loud with the boisterous tales of the war being flung back and forth.

"Knock yourself out major," she said; gesturing for him to sit.

"Do you know why I'm here commodore?" he asked in his best professional investigator's voice.

"For the bad company and horrible tasting liquor?" she asked in return.

He laughed. Reed saw her as a cornered lion; trapped yet still lethal. He reached into his pocket, retrieved the data wafer and slid it across the table to her. "It's all in the access codes and subroutines commodore."

"What is this?" she asked. Stiles looked him directly in the eye.

"The NIS computer division was asked to look into what is being called the Deneva Incident commodore." He sat back and grabbed at a tall waiter. The young man looked first annoyed then slightly mollified as Reed made eye contact with him. "Some drinks here please. I'll have a Guiness while the commodore will have another of whatever that is" Reed waved toward Stiles' drink. The waiter took the order. Reed winked playfully at him as he backed away. "It's so hard to get good help these days." He sighed and turned back to Stiles.

"It seems that Commander Charles Tucker's codes were incorporated into the computer virus that disabled the taskforce's command network." Reed studied her: No reaction. Stiles sipped at drink and looked back at him coolly. "Of course I only found it because unlike my mates in the software section I looked for specific code groups. It actually took me many weeks of intensive work if you can believe that commodore. Tucker's codes were embedded in the linkage codes such that only someone specifically looking for his codes would find anything." Reed smiled; still no movement.

"So someone had access to the commander's codes?" Stiles asked. Reed looked intently at her. A small facial tick crossed her visage.

"Or else the commander himself is a saboteur," he answered. "You share an intimate relationship with Tucker—don't you?"

"That is the word around the navy I guess," she answered. Reed noted how she sipped at her drink; used the glass to hide her face behind.

"That is really too bad," Reed commented dryly. "I'll have to detain him until I get some answers, of course. I'm sure no one wants to hear that a fellow officer will be put under investigation; especially one with such a distinguished career as Tucker." She put the drink down so hard that some of it splashed up over the rim of the glass and onto the table top. "Of course I'm sure of his innocence. But in the meantime he'll have to be transferred to shore duty and his clearance revoked."

She was a long time answering. The waiter returned with the drinks. Reed tipped him generously. The young man smiled back uncertainly at Reed. Malcolm considered the possibilities when he heard Stiles speaking. The waiter had departed.

"What would happen if someone had other information about the incident; something that would clear Trip?"

"That would make my job easier," Reed answered. "But I have a dual purpose here commodore. I am also aware that a small group is operating to," he paused and smiled at her; "to fix things that are happening. I understand that your mother was threatened recently. That is too bad; threatening a widow and all."

"They think it is from fringe elements of the Sons' of Terra," Stiles answered. "It stopped. The constable thinks that a worker from Mark Hawkins' campaign had something to do with it. It hasn't happened since—

"Since Delroy Crutchfield's house burned down with him and his family in it." Reed chuckled slightly. He observed Stiles raised eyebrows at his apparently cavalier attitude. "You know the old saw about smoking in bed. Really; some people should just not be permitted to reproduce."

"Who are you?" Stiles asked him.

"I showed you my credentials commodore," he answered. "I am Major Malcolm Reed and I happen to be a friend who can permit things in yours and Commander Tucker's lives to go on happily. You make such a lovely couple you know."

"This is crazy Reed!" she retorted. "You just about admitted to murder. What happens if I summon the security patrol right now?"

"I'll flash my ID again," he answered sternly. "I'll say that I have information about a saboteur and amid all of this festive drunkenness and debauchery I'll have your very cute, shapely bum hauled off in irons; next question." Malcolm looked hard at her. "Compose yourself commodore." For just a few seconds Reed saw a pretty young girl beneath the veneer of the 'Iron Maiden'. But even that young innocent had a strength that could resist his charms. Her face resumed what he guessed was its familiar set: Imperious and hard.

"I don't want to do that commodore," Reed explained. "You and I have a common interest: Setting the world to rights. I do what I can on earth and in our solar system while you affect things among the stars. We have much to offer one another commodore—Jocelyn, may I call you that?"

"She nodded absently. "What do you want Major Reed?"

"Nothing now Jocelyn," Reed answered with a grin. He lowered his voice. "Some associates of mine think that there is something happening between the Pointies and the Romulans. I don't have any information on that." But McCoy did, he suspected. Soames had dispatched him to Vulcan before Malcolm had been able to find anything out.

"You're NIS: You must have access to--,"

"We've access to supply officers' accounts when someone thinks that someone has misappropriated a self-sealing stem bolt. The signal intelligence from the naval surveillance drones would be of interest; especially traffic intercepted out of Pointie space."

She nodded at him slowly. "Maybe that data could make its way into your possession major. The question is: What do I get?"

"Here is the record of my findings concerning your computer activities commodore," he answered. "That is the only record." He gestured at the wafer that sat atop the table between the two of them. "I doubt that you believe that, but believe what you will. I'll also look after your mother while you are gone. It is good to see that Admiral Forrest put you back on the active list Jocelyn."

"Things aren't good out there," she answered. He was surprised at her candor; but knew that he should not be: They were both in possession of damning evidence against one another. "The cleanup of Deneva is ahead of schedule: Star Fleet should be able to land terraformers there next year. But the Birdies are using these small ship tactics. So far we've lost five carriers." She looked at him. He sensed that she seen him for what he was. "If anything happens to my mother I'll kill you Reed."

Reed smiled. "Then I must ensure that your mother remains safe." Here was a person who in some ways was an equal to him. Malcolm had no doubt that she would follow through on her threat. Reed looked up as Commander Charles Tucker entered the club. He remained seated until Tucker walked up to their table. He stood up. "It was good to see you again commodore," he said agreeably. "I'll leave you and your companion to your business." Stiles bid him an uncomfortable good day. He nodded at Tucker and then turned and left. Reed knew that he had an ally.

Malcolm needed to know what McCoy had discovered. He knew that there was something there. The Romulans were on earth and in humanoid form. That much Reed had figured from his discussions with Erica and the litany of current events. He wished that he could find one of their agents. Malcolm wondered if the mysterious aliens felt pain and fear in the same sense that humans did. He wished that he could examine that question in detail.

Taskforce 9, UES Valley Forge on a heading for the Cheron system, Dec 2157

"You've got a lot of faith in this admiral," Admiral Frank Buchanan told his commander.

"The Romulans have been breaking our backs with these small attacks," Admiral Maxwell Forrest answered. "We've got to do something to staunch this."

"We need to get our goddamned subspace sensors back," Buchanan said. "I'll hand the Birdies one thing: They are experts with radar."

Commander Bill Walters listened to the interplay between the two officers. He felt like a young adolescent who had stumbled into an adult conversation between his parents. He turned back to his station. He wanted to be launching out in a Minotaur but the Forge's surgeon had nixed that for now. It hadn't helped that Walters had refused leave after Deep Space One. Walters heard footsteps behind him.

"The admiral is speaking truth there Walters," Captain Srinivasa Aiyangar Ramanujan said quietly. The crew, Walters knew collectively referred to the Indian as Captain Rama. Ramanujan had seemed uncomfortable with that at first; now he was more relaxed. Walters suspected that it had something to do with a need for friends. Admiral Buchanan was a hands-on commander. Walters had seen enough of those as a marine private. That had caused Ramanujan to be shoved off to the side as Buchanan tended to lord over the Forge rather than use it solely as his flagship.

Walters figured that it also had something to do with Ramanujan's overtures of friendship toward him. "Yes sir." The captain was right there as were the admirals. The Romulans were taking advantage of Star Fleet's weakness. He swiveled in his seat. Walters had to admit that he liked being back on the carrier's spacious bridge. "I guess sciences haven't come up with anything yet?"

"Nothing," Ramanujan replied. "They were just too new," the Indian said. Walters knew that he was referring to the new sensors.

"The Pointies probably have a good answer," Walters said. "They say that a Vulcan cruiser's sensor operator can read your heartbeat and body temperature."

"We will make do Bill," Ramanujan said. Walters thought that the captain had something else on his mind. He was therefore not surprised when Ramanujan headed the conversation in a different direction. "The admiral pushed hard for your promotion Bill." The captain had lowered his voice.

"I know that sir," Walters answered. Bill still did feel comfortable with the extra stripe. Buchanan had extolled him on his chances of retaining his rank after the war. Walters just felt differently. He knew that he could command a Minotaur squadron. He also knew that what he considered 'real officer', like Ramanujan would always look at him as an outsider. He looked squarely at the Indian. "When this is over how are guys like you going to treat pretenders like me?" he asked; voicing his concerns.

"I had my doubts about you Walters," Ramanujan answered. "The Stellar Navy needed new blood. Last year this time, a captain had a life expectancy of a man from earth's nineteenth century; less than that more often. So we pushed our talent up. That was not a mistake Bill: I read the tactical assessment of the Deep Space One battle. The brainy ones buried under San Francisco attribute the win to leadership—your leadership among others."

"Captain Archer did a good job," Walters answered. "That whiz kid Crusher did as well. I heard that he made some kinda shield thing that saved our butts at the end. Me; I just did my job."

"Too bad that shield is impractical for another ten, or twenty years." Ramanujan laid his hand on Walters' shoulder. "Don't denigrate yourself Bill. You are a good officer. The navy needs good officers. When this war is over Star Fleet will need good officers."

Walters had little time to think about the future or to continue the conversation as Buchanan's roar intruded upon their conversation: "When you gentlemen are through talking and having your tea then you can fill us admirals in on the tactical situation."

"Aye sir," they both said as one.

Walters watched as Ramanujan ran through the departments. The sensor operator reported that she was still in contact with the Romulan group they were shadowing. Lieutenant Commander McCalister reported that the Forge's engineering section was running at one hundred percent with no problems. Bill knew that Chief O'Brien was working overtime as the taskforce trolled what Star Fleet suspected was a Romulan space route.

"This is their primary route between Topaz and Cheron," Forrest said.

"I'd like nothing more than to get a peak at Cheron," Buchanan said. Walters knew that would be the target after Star Fleet prevailed at Topaz; if that occurred. Victory, he guessed, was a long way off.

"They are slowing!" the sensor operator announced. Ensign Candice McNye was a new addition to the Forge's crew. Walters had spoken to her a few times. She had been quite friendly; too friendly in fact. Walters realized that he needed to project the professional officer image to her. He had mentioned the behavior to Sharon Patelli only to arouse her ire toward him. Walters wondered how men could master the very fabric of space but not the mind of women.

"Slow and prepare to make a course change Rama," Buchanan said. They had been playing this game for four days now; ever since they had picked up the Romulan taskforce. Ramanujan echoed Buchanan's orders.

Walters pulled down his sensor viewer. He pressed his face against the hood and studied the radar returns. They had been waiting to ambush the Romulan force. Their enemies had shown a habit of making random course changes. The tactic had been useless when Star Fleet had use of subspace sensors. It was highly effective however against ship's using only radar. Forrest had come up with a strategy of tracking their enemies at extreme radar range and counting on their previous movements as an indicator of their next course.

"They are making a turn to port sir," Walters said.

"Exactly as we predicted Frank," Forrest told Buchanan. "I'd like to get a look at Cheron too." Forrest sighed. "But our mission is to harass the Romulans and give them a bloody nose." Forrest swiveled slowly in his seat. He seemed to look into each member of the bridge crew's eyes. "Time to set the trap," he concluded.

"Relay orders to Excelsior and Vandalia," Buchanan said. "Prepare to move against the Romulan taskforce."

The plan was to allow the Romulans to see part of the taskforce. Valley Forge and Ticonderoga's fighters would make an attack run against the superior number of Romulans. Walters knew that carriers were in the sights of the Romulans. He felt pride in knowing that they must be hurting the Birdies for them to have devoted a whole new tactic to hunt them. Yamato and Hornet would in turn ambush the attackers if all went well.

"Engage," Forrest commanded.

Walters turned to the business of prepping his fighters for launch. Many of the faces were new to him. Bill had tried to not become too friendly with any of them: Their life expectancies were sometimes tragically short. But it was hard not to like most of them: Young and eager to fly as he had once been. Images of Vince Mason and Ben Porter came unbidden to his mind's eye. They had not been much older than Bill but he felt that he was hundreds of years older.

"On course for point bravo," the Andorian navigator L'tan announced. Walters missed Commander Shorn. That Andorian had returned to his homeworld to receive a command of his own. Shorn had been one of the first aliens that Bill had really gotten to know. "ETA; fourteen minutes admiral," the navigator concluded.

"Sit back and have a cigar, ladies," Buchanan said as he lit up one of his foul smelling weeds. Bill chuckled when he saw Admiral Forrest's nose wrinkle in disgust.

"Fighters are ready to drop sir," Walters said.

"The Birdies will send out their Aeons in a screen," Forrest said.

Hands down Walters knew that the Romulan fighter was no match for the Minotaur. The stubby fighter might bare a closer resemblance to the Cuban cigar dangling out of Buchanan's mouth but in space aerodynamic shaping was not a factor. The Minotaur simply packed more power and more of a punch in the form of the four pulse laser cannons mounted in its nose. The fighters' missiles the Corsair had their guidance and acquisition systems drastically upgraded such that Minotaurs' Romulan counterparts were becoming more like target drones for the fighters. But Bill knew that life in a fighter was still more likely to be short.

Romulan cruiser defenses were also improving. Their Aeons individually were no match for a Minotaur. Collectively, they were starting to organize into hunting packs. Minotaur crews had to be careful not to isolate themselves. When that happened the Romulan Eightballs would descend on the lone Star Fleet fighter making an inescapable whirring death trap for the Minotaur.

"Your woman will not be going out in a fighter," Captain Ramanujan commented.

Lieutenant Commander Sharon Patelli was serving as first officer of Ticonderoga since Commander Warren Stokes' return to earth after his wife was found murdered. "Hell of a way to get out of the cockpit," Walters answered.

"Four women on the research team," Ramanujan said. "Alpha Eridani is in the other direction from Romulus: It could not have been the work of the Birds."

Walters folded his arms over his chest. "I don't know sir. I seen them bomb the population on Deneva. But I guess you are right: They have never butchered anyone like that—that we know of."

"Poor Warren," Ramanujan said. "I served with him on the Pioneer. We were both ensigns. I met his wife once. War is one thing, but to lose a loved one in such a manner…"

Bill nodded. Reports had said that the women had been opened up with what had been called surgical precision. A few humans had come and gone on the colony to be, but none of them had been identified as the killer. Walters shook his head. "Who needs Romulans when we have people like that among us?"

"Yes, it seems that the killer was one of us," Ramanujan agreed. "Is," Ramanujan paused. Bill could see that he was trying to remember Sharon's name.

"Sharon," Bill supplied.

"Is Sharon settled into her new position?" the captain asked. Bill could see that he was trying to move the conversation away from the grim news concerning the slasher style murders on the distant outpost.

"She would rather be strapped in the seat again," Walters answered. So would he as a matter of fact. "But she is an academy graduate. Chances are that she will be a captain before the end of the war; probably keep that rank too." Walters knew that as much as Sharon missed the action the boys and girls on Ticonderoga needed her. Maybe he had the makings of a real officer he thought: He spent his time lately thinking about those under his command rather than himself.

"Like I said Walters: This Star Fleet will need good officers," the captain said.

"One minute until drop," Walters knew that Forrest's voice was being transmitted throughout the Forge as well as into the helmets of the waiting pilots.

"Lead them in like a regular hit and run Fuzzy," Walters told Ensign Shraz on their private channel. The Tellarite had survived enough to become one of his most experienced pilots. "Nothing spectacular; when things get thick start back to the barn."

Walters heard the alien's staccato chuckle over his earpiece. "We'll have the pirates over for a barbecue commander."

"Sixteen contacts on radar admiral," Ensign McNye reported.

"Dropping out of warp sir," Lieutenant L'tan reported.

"Sixteen," Buchanan said around his cigar. "You can bet your ass that they have another half dozen ready to come at us from a z-axis approach."

"Launch fighters," Forrest ordered. Walters echoed the admiral's command to his fighters. He heard Ramanujan relaying the command to the other Star Fleet ships of the taskforce.

"Fighters away!" he called out. Walters watched his radar screen as it filled with glowing data trails showing the oncoming Romulan Aeons. Larger more solid returns showed the motherships of the enemy fighters. He listened as his fighters started engaging the Aeons.

The desperate, tension filled voices of the fighter crews echoed in Walters' earpiece. His squadron was making a clean sweep of the Birdie fighters but not without cost. Jennifer Crenshaw's Minotaur was twice pressed out of the protective guns of the group: Shrapnel had caused the fighter to trail a small stream of glowing plasma. Walters knew that the Romulan pilot or pilots were smelling blood. At least he hoped that the Aeons were flown by flesh and bloods. The navy still had no clue concerning the physiology of their adversaries. Walters had seen bipeds that day on Deneva. Armor had concealed their features from Bill. But it occurred to him that the Birdies ships could be crewed by some type of evolved machine for all he knew. No; intelligence had analyzed Birdie tactics and strategy: No machine known to the races of the alliance could maneuver ships and coordinate attacks as the Romulans had demonstrated. There were also the observations from exploding Romulan ships: They showed that there was an oxygen nitrogen mix in those hulls. Walters doubted that a computer would need that sort of an atmosphere.

"Three; escort Bubble back to the barn," Walters ordered. Crenshaw had earned her nickname because her backside tended to be anything but bubble shaped. It was quite straight: An issue that Crenshaw had brought up repeatedly. That rear was now protected by fighter three.

"Ticonderoga's fighters are on station and engaging the enemy," Captain Ramanujan reported; which was why Walters had been able to recall Crenshaw's fighter. Hornet's squadron five was providing effective countering fire against the Romulan attack. Without that help in all likelihood Walters knew that Bubble and her copilot would have had to remain out there; probably until they were killed.

"More Aeons being released," Ensign McNye reported. Walters confirmed her report. He watched as the subspace radar returns for the cabbages and jellyfish grew and then returned to normal: The telltale indication of a fighter launch.

"Sure as hell looks like we are going to be swamped," Buchanan asserted. Walters watched as the admiral chomped on his cigar.

"It does look that way," Forrest answered. "Let's begin a fallback to position X-ray." Forrest addressed Bill directly. "Have our fighters start a retreat." The admiral turned to the helm. "Lieutenant L'tan; prepare to initiate a warp jump: Course zero-eight-four mark six; one one-quarter AU jump."

Walters ordered his fighters back: Just in time too as they were about to be engulfed by Aeons. The Andorian navigator responded. Captain Ramanujan relayed the commands to the rest of the taskforce. Forrest gave the order to engage. Valley Forge jumped away. Bill waited for the radar return to clear. The older system could not keep up to the leap to warp speed. It took a few seconds until the picture returned. Walters watched as the ships of his squadron followed suit along with the Minotaurs from Ticonderoga.

Walters sat back. This was better than sending people to die. But he still hated the wait. He busied himself with analyzing the tracks of their pursuing enemy. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The Romulans would have to take time to recover their sublight only Aeons. Walters' eyes scanned the three-dimensional radar graphic. He was not surprised when unknown contacts showed up slightly above the plane of the ecliptic. The Birdies wanted carriers: It appeared that they were pulling out all of the stops to do that now.

"Well, well, well," Buchanan said as the admiral heard the news of the impending ambush.

"Ten seconds to sublight," L'tan added.

"Drop out of warp as planned helm," Forrest said. Walters thought of just how insane the situation was: They might well be facing their deaths and yet no one was panicked or even outwardly nervous.

"Another day at the office," Walters mumbled.

Ramanujan chuckled. "This is our chosen profession Bill. This is just like an executive dealing with a report to the stockholders."

Except that Walters doubted that many executives woke up screaming because they had a nightmare that the report was going to kill them. He shuddered as he recalled the one last night. April Martinez had asked him why he had left her behind on Deneva. The nightmare Martinez's face had been blown off; just as he had seen her last. She had implored him through the mask of goo that had once been her pleasant almond shaped face. Now even Martinez's remains were gone he suspected; nothing but radioactive dust.

"Are you alright Bill?" the captain asked sharply.

"Fine captain," he answered; "just feeling a chill." Walters made a show of adjusting his console's environmental controls. He forced a chuckle. "I just hope that we can force the other guys out of business!"

"Romulans are thirty seconds from estimated warp exit sir," McNye reported.

"Send out the signal," Forrest commanded. The Star Fleet battle group had exited into normal space. Its Minotaurs had followed closely. "Have our fighters turn and engage those bastards; about time to give them a dose of their own medicine."

"They are dropping from warp; including the first attack group," Bill announced in tandem with McNye. "Hornet and Yamato's fighters are inbound." Walters knew that Forrest's plan hedged on the Romulans having the same radar blindness that plagued allied ships upon warp entry and exit: It was time to see if it would indeed work.

The newly arrived Romulan Sabinus and Veronus cruisers expelled Aeons through launch bay doors that were already open to space. The swarms of agile, spherical fighters formed up and rushed toward the badly outnumbered stubby Star Fleet fighters. The leading edge of the Romulan attack force was blanketed by Corsair missiles. The survivors flew on through the funereal pyre of their mates. The situation looked grim for the Star Fleet group until some of the fighters peeled around in turns that could only have been done in the vacuum of space.

The reasons for the regrouping became evident as two more squadrons of Star Fleet Minotaurs stretched forth into normal space. The new arrivals made directly for the Aeons motherships. They were backed up by Forrest's Excelsior and the Torsks Catskill and Rickover. More Corsairs tore into the reduced number of Aeons. The lasers of the Minotaurs cut the spheres into scrap. A few of the Minotaurs were destroyed but most of them evaded the Romulan counter fire.

The Romulan capital ships turned to face their enemies. The bows of the triple nacelle ships glowed as their plasma cannons charged. The Romulans faced a hail of Narwhals by laying down a pattern of neutronium pellets. But enough of the human built missiles made it through where they incinerated two Veronus class ships. The Tellarite light cruiser Hazmq added to the havoc by unleashing a rack of Merculite rockets against a Sabinus. The Romulan cruiser was shredded to pieces before vanishing in a nuclear inferno. The Minotaurs from Hornet and Yamato sped through the group of green Romulan ships. Laser fire from the snout of a Minotaur scored a molten gash across the Romulan raptor that was emblazoned on hull of a Veronus. A Corsair missile corkscrewed into the molten metal becoming embedded there for a second before it detonated.

The Veronus blew up; lighting the tail of its attacker in the white hot illumination of an atomic blast. The Romulan capital ships were growing fewer in number as the Minotaurs turned back to engage them again. The Star Fleet fighters twisted wildly in the group of Romulan ships. The Aeons had joined the attack. Romulan cruisers blazed away heedless of who they hit as several of their own fighters fell to Romulan weapons.

Ticonderoga and Valley Forge's fighters soon made short work of their Romulan attackers. A few made it through the melee of allied fighters to engage the carriers. The Torsk Vandalia engaged and destroyed a few of those. The pulse lasers of the carriers dealt with most of the rest. Two of the spheroids twisted through the Star Fleet laser fire and collided squarely with the Valley Forge. The carrier's hull plating crackled with electrostatic discharges. A small glowing hole between the starboard nacelles marked one of the Aeon's impacts on the carrier.

The survivors of the Romulan taskforce lumbered through space trying to escape the Star Fleet vessels. A Sabinus expanded away into warp just as a Narwhal exploded beside it. The doomed Romulan ship's remains emerged back into normal space where a piece of the glowing flotsam struck a retreating Veronus. A nacelle was removed from the stricken craft with surgical precision. The Veronus reeled for a few seconds before being finished off by Hazmq's second rack of Merculite rockets.

"Report!" the admiral roared. Buchanan tossed his cigar down and stomped on it.

They were struck but the only indications were numerous red lights at several bridge stations. Walters knew those lights should normally not be lit. He rapidly analyzed readings from his own station: The Minotaur cradles and launch and recovery system were whole. Walters pressed a stud alerting crewman in fighter recovery of an impending sealing of the carrier's bulkheads. He then followed up by sealing those sections. He breathed a sigh of relief knowing that what he had just done was precautionary only. The Forge had taken the suicide run and survived. None of the carrier's crew would have to be sacrificed to save the ship.

"Deck five above delta section is decompressed," Captain Ramanujan reported. "Evacuation complete; Doctor Morris reports injuries—mainly from decompression. Power is off on decks eight and eleven, sections bravo, sierra and zed. Mac reports that the lights will be back on in a few minutes."

Walters wanted to bet that Chief O'Brien was the one restoring the lights; not Lieutenant Commander McCalister. He ran through the statistics for his squadron: The attack had yielded a clean sweep. Two of his Minotaurs would have to undergo the not so tender ministrations of the chief for a few hours but no lives were lost. Ensign Shraz was wounded when a piece of his ship had speared his upper arm. In characteristically Tellarite fashion the ensign had told no one until he had emerged from his fighter and carelessly pulled the shard from his arm as he made his way to the pilots' ready room.

"Recovery is complete Admiral Buchanan," Walters reported.

"I think I'll try one of those weeds Frank," Forrest declared. A broad grin was plastered on his face.

"I didn't think you indulged Max," Buchanan answered as he produced two metal tubes from the pocket of his black uniform slacks.

"Times like these demand a little indulgence," Forrest answered. His satisfaction was evident to Walters. Bill grinned as Forrest took the proffered cigar and lit it.

Bill heard a tone in his earpiece meaning that another department was calling him on his private circuit. He switched over to the call. "It's O'Brien," the hushed, heavily accented voice declared. Walters could tell that the chief wanted to speak to him in private.

Walters looked around the bridge and then scanned his panel before replying. "Yes chief," he answered quietly. Ramanujan had stalked off to speak with the admirals.

"Sir, do you know how I…" O'Brien began. "You know how everyone is interested in this Birdie jamming?"

"I'd call it more than an interest chief," Bill answered.

"I was playing with a small subspace sensor unit when the Birds transitioned to normal space," O'Brien explained.

"You know that there is a standing order to keep those sensors off until the science people come up with a solution," Walters countered. He was concerned about what would happen if word of the chief's insubordination got out. But he knew O'Brien had a good explanation behind what he had done. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure sir," O'Brien answered. "But I think I'm on to something to get our sensors back."

Walters took in a sharp breath. Things were under control on the bridge. Bill asked to be excused and when Forrest granted that he told O'Brien: "I'll be right down Ed."

A'tanatir Refuge, Vulcan, earth year Dec 2157

"The security around Mount Selaya is nearly impenetrable," T'Pau said. Lieutenant Tarang Gupta could hear frustration even through the woman's emotional control.

"I could access the Kir'Shara right here," Syrran said. "But our people must see the wisdom of Surak's words. I have become a rallying point for insurrection."

"Our people are unsure of what must be done Syrran," T'Pau said. "Most accept the established wisdom but many are beguiled by Minister V'Las' words of deceit."

Gupta was a little taken aback. Such strong words from a Vulcan were most unusual. "Really Madame, do you think that most Vulcans," he almost said feel. "Have come to the same conclusion?" Gupta now used Vulcan to the point that he thought in that language.

The small group consisting of Gupta, T'Pol, Syrran and T'Pau sat huddled under the broad leaves of a Moracoz tree. The heavily forested refuge offered the group some protection from aerial surveillance. Its soil contained enough refractive minerals that it also screened them from advanced subspace sensors. Gupta picked up a slizr and only after a second's thought recalled its human name as a rock or stone.

"The Syrranite movement is being called a hasmauv movement by many," she answered throwing in a term unfamiliar to him. Gupta thought of the old word English word 'reactionary' after she explained its meaning. "V'Las accuses us of being opposed to progress and enlightenment when he has demonstrated that his government wants to censor others as well as to oppose further studies into the nature of logic and our history." Gupta wanted to laugh. That had been an old trick on ancient earth: Accuse your opponents of that which you were doing. "Without any apparent criticism of the minister and his government many Vulcans question rather our movement is not indeed impeding our progress."

"The lack of communication seems to be the problem here," Gupta agreed.

"All communications are controlled from orbit," T'Pol said.

Gupta sat and absently chased some plomeek soup around with a spoon. The smell of his mother's beef curry flashed through his mind. He had not eaten meat since his departure from earth. Gupta remembered his childhood; running home after playing with his friends. Tarang recalled how the sun of his homeland looked as it set. His parent's kitchen was in the shadow of the Pan-Indo Alliance's communication tower.

"Everything is run through the orbital communication network?" Gupta asked.

"Of course offworlder," Syrran responded. "Line of sight communications were dispensed with long ago."

"But you must have uplink stations?" he asked.

"They too are under the control of the High Command Gupta," T'Pau answered.

"For pacifists, your military has control over many of your culture's functions," Gupta said.

"Our military has only recently become enamored of command and control," T'Pau answered. "It was thought by the government that a unified agency was more logical. Our military would command the starships to transport the explorers and run the communications' centers because it was logical that the agency that would react to an emergency should also have access to planetary communications."

"Except that we've not explored much lately," Syrran added. Gupta thought that he detected a note of regret in the elder Vulcan's tone.

"When did this decline begin?" he asked.

"About the time that the ministry reorganized the bureaucracy," Syrran answered this time. His piercing eyes stared into Gupta. "The steering committee that oversaw those changes was led by Consul V'Las." Gupta watched as the others looked at Syrran as realization came over their impassive faces.

"That was over seventy earth years ago Tarang," T'Pol said.

"This whole thing has been going on a long time," Gupta said at last; breaking the silence that had descended over the group.

"Actually it is quite swift for Vulcan affairs Tarang," Syrran said. Gupta could tell, from Syrran's use of his first name that the Vulcan was deep in thought. "How could we not have seen?" he continued. Gupta knew that the question was rhetorical.

"We believed that our government would act logically," T'Pau said. "It has always done so; it should always be so. To act against the greater good is not logical. Some of us saw the changes but we considered the source to be ourselves."

"None of us protested when the High Command fended off the Andorian incursion of the border," T'Pol said.

"Your employer was among those who supported that action," Syrran said. Gupta thought the Vulcan positively snapped at T'Pol.

"And my people resolved that dispute," Gupta interjected. "This is not a time for recriminations or debate: We must intervene to prevent V'Las from getting any further."

"You seem distinctly interested in our affairs human," T'Pau said. Gupta could feel her suspicion despite the mask of logic.

"Gupta has been honorable in his dealings with me T'Pau," Syrran said. "He has learned much of our ways and been respectful of our customs. He may even mate with T'Pol."

"Well I, well I," he stammered in English.

"So that is the reason for T'Les silence regarding her daughter," T'Pau declared. "You were promised to another T'Pol: That has been our way for good reason. Unions are proposed to advance families." She turned to Gupta. "You should know this human: Your people speak of building better lives for their children. Though I believe; upon examining your history that your elders frequently leave their unsolved problems for their children."

"The humans have went far T'Pau," Syrran said. Gupta was surprised by the unexpected defense on his behalf. "Surak would embrace them as agents of change. We have yielded our reason to ceremonies forgetting what those ceremonies mean. Vulcans need change; if for nothing else than to remind us of what we were and who we could become."

"But it has occurred to me that there is an uplink facility in T'Naren Province," Syrran continued; changing the subject. Gupta was pleased that he had changed the topic until he met T'Pol's gaze. She seemed unsettled beneath her veneer of mental control. He listened as Syrran explained further: "The facility was abandoned. The equipment was left in place however, should an unforeseen event arise that crippled our communications. It may be functional."

"That is a long journey," Gupta said. He was recalling Vulcan geography. "The suborbital transports are being monitored are they not?"

"The surface freighters are not," T'Pau answered. "It would be quite uncomfortable but we could board a grain freighter. Some of the crew may be sympathetic to our cause."

"I resist the notion of both you and T'Pau traveling together with the Kir'Shara," Gupta said.

"I will take another route human," T'Pau said. "I must go and meditate before tomorrow's journey." She rose and in characteristically Vulcan fashion bid no one a good evening.

"I must speak to T'Pau," T'Pol declared. Gupta put his bowl down and made ready to follow her. "Alone," she added quickly as she departed for the base of the low hill where they had made their camp.

Gupta watched as she departed. He felt alone, and adrift when dealing with her; Gupta had declared his love for her and she for him. Yet neither had acted on their feelings since. He did not understand all of the Vulcan rituals. Tarang looked over to see Syrran staring intently at him.

"Do not squander that which you want Tarang," Syrran said. Gupta shuddered as he realized that the Vulcan had guessed his thoughts. Syrran looked at him without expression. "I have experienced Pon Farr before you were born Tarang. I know what it is you seek. The situation has not permitted you two much time."

"Did you mean what you said before," Gupta asked. "I mean about we humans being agents of change?"

"Why would I say something that I did not mean?" Syrran asked in reply. "A blending of races is inevitable. Your race as well as the Tellarites and Andorians are emerging from your childhoods. We Vulcans seem to have entered a premature old age. As to you and," Gupta watched as Syrran turned his head slightly toward the direction in which T'Pol had gone. "Rather you and T'Pol represent that future remains to be seen. But you should act upon your feelings."

"I never expected that from you," Gupta replied in amazement.

"Vulcan passions run deep Tarang," Syrran said. "Those passions were nearly our undoing. We have an obligation to embrace pacifism: It is logical. War is never logical. You humans would deny that but look at your own history honestly Tarang. How many of your conflicts could have been prevented by dealing with them before they started? We did the same. Ancient Vulcans festered in a malaise while those who followed the raptor's wings spoke openly of their goals. They failed to see what was right before their eyes and billions died. "

"Speaking of ancient Vulcan what of the Ka'Al' Zin, Syrran?" he asked pointedly.

"I believed that you would be more concerned about the Kir'Shara," Syrran said. Gupta watched as the Vulcan stood up and faced away from him. Syrran peered out into the gathering darkness as he spoke. "If the Romulans seize that then the circumstances would become dire indeed."

"The Vulcan gift of understatement," Gupta countered. "But we are here, as we humans say: For what that is worth. Perhaps your words alone; or those of T'Pau will be enough to foment dissent."

"I do not desire to foment dissent," Syrran answered. "I want to reveal the mind of Surak; to clarify how he desired us to live so that our culture might survive. It will be up to each Vulcan to reflect on the possible futures. I said we are a passionate people. Consider this Tarang: Did humans completely bury their emotions after your global conflict? Did they change their lifestyles in a radical way in a search for peace?"

Gupta chuckled; something he had not done much of while living among Vulcans. "Honestly I sometimes wondered that we didn't start another war despite all of the progress after First Contact. My father was convinced that Pakistanis were devils incarnate even though he regularly did business with Pakistani merchants. But no; we never really changed."

"Our passions drove us to change Tarang," Syrran answered; "to change that much from what we were."

"I see," Gupta answered. "But you avoid the question: What of the Ka'Al' Zin?" Syrran remained impassive. Gupta could see nothing of the Vulcan's face while his back was to him. "T'Pol once told me to learn to be an archeologist. I have been trying Syrran. I have spent what little spare time I have studying images of the relic; trying to decipher the words. You once told me that you would make all of this clear to me Syrran. I am not being arrogant when I say that I may have those answers soon, rather you help me or not."

"Surak was no messiah Tarang," Syrran answered at last.

"No; I have determined that from what I've translated," he answered. "But he was someone of importance. He held sway over both factions from what I have read."

"That is more than most Vulcans know Tarang," Syrran said. "I would ask that you stay silent regarding what you think you have read. I will accommodate you when—

"May I join you?" T'Pol interrupted as she stepped under the cover of the tree.

"Yes you may," Syrran answered with a sharpness that surprised Gupta. "I should meditate as well. If you will excuse me," Syrran said with a quick glance toward Gupta. The couple watched as the Vulcan departed. Alvin Crosby's old saying, 'saved by the bell' ran through Tarang's mind.

"You two seemed intent upon your discussion," T'Pol said.

"Yes, we were," Gupta replied thoughtfully. Tarang felt that Syrran had been on the cusp of telling him something despite Syrran's insistence to the contrary. "What of you T'Pol?"

"I was merely inquiring about the health of my mother," T'Pol answered. "She is living as a fugitive. I was…concerned."

"Did you and Syrran discuss how we might proceed?"

"No," he answered somberly. He turned and looked at her. "I was seeking advice on other topics."

"Did you receive adequate answers?"

"I believe he told me to follow my heart."

Her eyebrows arched. "That was a fascinating discussion then. I am sorry that I missed it."

He moved toward her and embraced her. "I don't know your traditions or how you…" Gupta felt foolish. She returned the embrace. "I don't know how to proceed."

"Perhaps we need to start our own traditions Tarang," she answered.

He leaned in and kissed her. She returned the kiss. Gupta thought that she was right about tradition. Then he thought about little as the couple collapsed onto the ground. He fleetingly wondered if either Syrran or T'Pau would hear them.

Armstrong Station, earth's moon, Dec 2157

"Are they gonna put missiles out there?" a boy asked. Admiral Erica Soames guessed that the youth was all of nine or ten.

The harried tour guide, an older man whose slack body said to Erica that he enjoyed the natural gravity of the moon a little too much, answered the boy's question. "That is one of over three hundred terraforming plants that are being built on the surface. One day they will create an atmosphere out there. By the twenty-fourth century it is hoped that the Sea of Tranquility will be a real sea; or at least a large lake."

"There ain't no air out there mister," a little girl spoke up quickly. "The water will get sucked up into space."

"But we will put air out there miss," the guide answered. He swiped at his forehead where he had worked up a sweat.

"But we need missiles out there in case the birdies come to get us again," the boy was insistent. "It ain't no use having a ocean on the moon when we will be all burned up."

Erica could see that the guide was floundering as if he were a fish out of the lake to be. "Our space forces are fighting the birds out there so they won't ever come here again." Erica spoke up drawing the children's attention. It was a school tour and the teacher had left the kids in the care of the unsuspecting guide. Erica had seen the woman relaxing in a lounge vociferously puffing away on a cigarette.

"How do you know that?" the boy retorted. "Are you in the Star Fleet lady? How comes you aren't wearin' a uniform?"

"I'm on leave," Soames answered. Erica guessed that a real secret agent would not reveal so much information. She would be happy when this affair was over.

"My daddy just got home on leave," a tow headed boy declared. "He is a pilot."

"I'm gonna be a pilot and fight the birdies when I grow up," a freckle faced girl with protruding teeth announced.

Erica sincerely hoped that the child was wrong. Would this war last that long she speculated. She had a mental image of generation after generation of fighting. Children schooled for war and sent into combat as soon as they reached a proper age for that. Could, the Romulans last that long? How long would man and their allies last?

"Well, you will make a good pilot I'm sure," Erica said. She knelt beside the girl. "But don't forget: Most aliens aren't like the Romulans. When we win the war we can go back to exploring; that is the real job of the navy."

"Star Fleet," the first boy corrected Erica loudly. He turned to the girl. "I'm gonna be a pilot before you Kelly!"

Erica watched as the girl put her hands on her hips and faced the boy. "No you ain't Dillon Troy." She looked down at the boys shoes. "You can't even tie your shoes yet." Erica followed Kelly's gaze down where little Dillon's shoes were indeed tied in ugly, clumsily done knots.

"It is time for the best part of the tour," the errant teacher said as she walked up to the group. "Who wants to go flying in Heinlein Caverns?"

The children stopped arguing and clamored to be first to the caverns after the teacher proffered her bait. She recalled taking the flight herself when she was about the age that these children were. Soames watched as the teacher expertly corralled the youngsters. Despite a command pilot rating and being the chief of naval intelligence Soames doubted that she could have controlled the children. It saddened her that she had not gone that route. But she was leading a rewarding life and she had a higher calling now. Someone had to ensure that these children had a future. The throng of children moved away leaving Erica behind. She gazed out of the transparent aluminum dome onto the stark, barren surface of man's nearest celestial neighbor.

"It is amazing that they survive to grow into adults," Kanya Nayyar said. Erica had seen the augmented human's reflection approaching in the transparency. Soames turned and looked at the woman as Nayyar looked down at her tummy. "It is no wonder they need protection and constant supervision. Do you have any admiral?"

"No," Erica answered. "No, I never really had time."

"I was never a child," Nayyar said. "The first augments were born in the labs of Chrysalis to surrogate mothers. But my generation of genetically enhanced humans was grown entirely outside a womb. We were taken out of the growth tanks and transferred immediately to the ship."

"You're more," Soames looked around in a way that did not betray that she was looking around. "You are more Romulan than human then?"

"Our handlers instructed us while we lived in a colony near Gorgothon. They had been surgically altered to appear as humans. They trained us in human customs and cultures and told us how humans had betrayed us. They revealed their true nature later."

"People were frightened then," Soames said. "I am sorry for your discomfiture but ten of millions had died and more had spent time in concentration camps. Frankly, when I read of those times it amazes me that the western forces just didn't round you all up and shoot the lot of you."

"I would have done as you suggested admiral," Nayyar answered without emotion; "were our places reversed. But that is one of the reasons my allegiance changed. Those who sent us into exile also saw fit to it that we were educated; subconsciously of course. When I arrived here and read your history, the real history; not the one the Romulans allowed us to see, I started to wonder." Soames thought that the augment was finished with that topic and was about to bring up their mutual business when Nayyar added: "And then McCoy spared my life on the space station."

"Frank is a very moral man," Soames said. Who she had enticed into immoral acts Erica thought bitterly. "Mercy is one of those higher qualities. Not every human has it."

"I'm not sure I understand it," Nayyar said. "On Romulus one would spare the life of another only with the precondition that the one being spared is in the debt of the one who has power over them. McCoy seemed to expect nothing back from me."

"Except for you to learn," Soames said. "Frank is one of those people who believe in the best of others."

"He will make a good," she looked again at her stomach; "a good parent."

"Yes," Erica agreed. If he lived she thought. She had sent him to Vulcan with the hope that the light of Thorpe's investigation would not fall upon him. It was time to move this discussion along she thought. Soames beckoned for the augment to follow her. "Best move along and look like tourists. Heinlein Cavern is a sight if you have never seen it."

"Perrin may have seen it," Nayyar said as she walked beside Erica.

"He went off world?" she asked pointedly.

Nayyar nodded. The two hopped a tube to the caverns. Two students on vacation tried picking them up. Soames recognized the accents as belonging to some of America's old ruling class. The men; or boys as Soames thought of them seemed to enjoy their sport until Nayyar, who had her own way of showing her disdain for their advances seized one of the boys between his legs and squeezed. The other tried coming to his comrade's aid but Erica's sharp jab to his throat sent him reeling back against the tube's padded wall. The tube slowed. Erica and Kanya departed, leaving the American boys on their knees vomiting.

"I don't understand your mating rituals either," Nayyar told her. They were walking down a wide lane towards the cavernous aerie. Tourists mixed with lunar inhabitants going about their day. "But I do understand Perex's," the augment hesitated; "needs," she said at last. "I spoke to a woman who sells her body. She lives near Von Braun Spaceport. She was visited by Perex two days ago. She was observant enough to see a ticket for the daily moon shuttle."

"It seems like it was pretty easy for you to find him," Erica remarked caustically.

"I know that he is clever. I broke into the terminal security office and recovered some data wafers of the terminal's video. He did indeed board the shuttle after his tryst. I know Perrin." For once Erica seen what she thought was a flash of fear or something worse cross the augment's face. "I knew what he would seek. I knew some of his favorite places to go. I sent out messages on the network soliciting for a prostitute that would do those things. That led me to the woman and then to the port."

"So he is here," Soames said wistfully. "What is his purpose?"

"I do not know," Nayyar answered. "I thought that we might use your resources and track him together."

Soames shook her head. Despite everything that had happened she still had misgivings about Nayyar's loyalties. But she had to work with what she had. "I can give you some support but I'm afraid we have to proceed as me and Frank operated: He did much of the leg work while I ran cover and supported him."

"Your government is scrutinizing you," Nayyar remarked. Soames nodded.

The two ascended to a large open door that could facilitate a huge press of people. A stiff breeze blew through Erica's thin chestnut brown hair. The two women stepped out onto a platform. Lamps generated artificial sunlight created a surreal effect in the subterranean scene. People wheeled through the air with the aid of large flamboyantly colored wings that they wore on their arms.

"All of this was foreseen by a man who lived over two hundred years ago," Erica said in a loud voice. The cavern's internal atmosphere, the nexus of Armstrong Station's environmental systems had its own wind bands. The combination of spiraling air streams and the moon's natural gravity allowed people to fly here.

"It does look enjoyable," Nayyar said. Erica followed her gaze to where a more athletic group of flyers were engaged in twisting, corkscrewing turns of a dogfight of sorts.

"Do you have any information on Perex?" she asked the augment. The railing overlooking the cavern was lined with a throng of people. Soames didn't bother concealing what she was saying. Whispers would more than likely draw attention; if they were being followed. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight, Erica thought.

"Most of the shuttle's occupants were workmen," Nayyar answered. "A few were on tour though. I believe that Perex has gotten a room in the Harriman Hilton."

"He can go to the port and get a liner out of the system," Soames said. She absently ran a hand through her hair as she considered the possibilities. "But he could have done that from earth—and it would have been a lot easier. He must be planning something off world but in the system."

"My conclusion as well admiral," Nayyar answered.

That was an endless stream of possibilities, Erica lamented. He couldn't bomb earth: The old Western Alliance moon base, a relic of the distant past was now empty shells. The nukes had been removed decades ago. He could strike out at any number of targets that would hurt the war effort. The solar power satellites could destroy the source of earth's power. The Jupiter mining stations yielded a wealth of gases for the fusion power plants. Vital minerals were extracted from the soils of Mars and Mercury. Utopia Planitia seemed too big a target she thought.

"Are you sure he is in the Hilton?" she asked at last.

"He cannot remove his plasma implants," the augment explained. "Each agent carries a micro triggering device encapsulated in a material that their science calls veridian. It emits waves in the meta EM subspace bands. I calibrated a scientific scanner to search for it. The range of my scanner is less than one hundred meters though."

"Too bad," Soames lamented. "That rules out using a wide area scan." She cursed inwardly: Allied scientists were pouring over the Vulcan data wafers that President Thorpe had obtained. The researchers estimated that practical, finely tuned subspace sensors could not be fielded for at least another five years. "It sounds like that stuff can be detected over fairly long distances. I'm surprised that he left it in."

"The implants attach themselves to the nerve stems," Nayyar explained. "Once implanted; they can never be removed."

"So after all of this is over if one of them were injured," Soames started. Dreadful, she thought: An agent thus implanted need only injure himself and he would be consumed in a release of plasma.

"Major injuries of course," Nayyar said, following her thought.

"It must be hard for them to recruit agents," she commented.

"On the contrary," Nayyar looked around cautiously to ensure that they would not be overheard. "Applicants are regularly turned away from the Tal Shiar because they meet their quota of inductees. Serving in the Tal Shiar is considered to be a good way to achieve power over others." Erica watched as she started suddenly. Nayyar removed what looked like a small mobile communicator. "He is near." Soames looked around carefully. Nayyar tapped her on the shoulder and gestured toward the cavern ceiling.

Soames recognized the Romulan agents from holophotos that McCoy had passed to her. Apparently the Romulan was unconcerned about being injured. He was streaking through the air of the cavern with wild abandonment. Nayyar motioned for Erica to step back into the crowd. Too late though the Romulan banked over and swooped near to them. He smiled and waved at Nayyar before diving for the cavern floor.

Converted Star Fleet carrier Serendipity, enroute to Qo'noS, Dec 2157

Doctor David Rand had seen the better side of forty almost half a decade ago. The stocky Alaska native had a broad ruddy face topped with a head of sandy blond hair. That hair was mostly gray though. Augustus Kirk sympathized with the doctor: He had passed that point two decades ago. Kirk had found himself gravitating toward the ship's surgeon because besides Smiley, Kirk was the oldest person aboard the diplomatic ship. Rand was the next oldest.

"Where is your shadow Augy?" Rand asked with a grin on his lips.

"Smiley is meditating," Kirk answered. "All of that meditation and you think the Vulcans would have found the meaning of life or something else profound. Instead all he does is to figure out how to cheat at cards. How are you doing?"

"Still trying to analyze this virus," Rand answered.

"The Klingons think that the House of Kor got their DNA from Adrik Soong." Kirk watched as the surgeon's eyes opened wide in surprise. "You established that augmented human DNA has somehow spliced into these fellows. Is the military hiding any of that stuff?"

"You're watching the wrong holovids Augy," Rand replied. "I'd expect something like that out of the government; hiding illegal DNA. But no, we don't have any super soldiers or test tubes laying around to make any."

"Then how did Soong get a hold of that stuff?" Kirk asked pointedly.

His friend sighed. "Look Augy, all of that stuff was mandated by law to be destroyed. But really; you're not a scientist. I'm not trying to patronize you Augy. The reality is that some geneticists kept samples of that. Do you understand what a market there is in gene therapy? Your kid gonna be born mildly retarded—hey you can get that fixed! Blindness, no need for that; you sneak down to the right doctor and your kid not only will see: He'll be able to count the feathers on a hawk from a hundred meters away."

"I've heard there was a black market but…"

"But you didn't believe it," Rand finished his statement. "You've been around Augy. You know we haven't fixed all of the problems of man; never will. Some people will never accept responsibility for their own lives. There is still a whole rotten underbelly to mankind. We've cured most of it so what was a cancerous mass is now just a blemish. But it is a big blemish.

"So Soong peddles it to the Klingons," Kirk said. "This Kurn is sketchy about what Soong got in return. Beats me how he came up with the idea of selling anything to these people. Then again Soong would try to sell the Pinnacle of Reflection to the Andorians."

"Probably get away with it too." Rand laughed. "Soong was probably looking for more robotics data. One of my ex wives used to stick to the gossip on the net. Soong was supposed to be hunting for immortality; placing a human brain into a machine or some such."

The doctor's office chime sounded. Rand reached under his desk causing the office door to open admitting Captain Marisa Morgan. Rand seemed about to stand up when Morgan gestured for him to remain seated.

"Let's skip that stuff for now," Morgan said. "You up for a shuttle ride Kirk?"

"Are we there yet?" Kirk asked in a mocking tone.

"They are holding us off in orbit of one of their moons—Praxis, Kurn called it." Morgan folded her arms over her chest; "so far no sign of these Kaluch's."

"The House of Kaluch," Kirk corrected her. "Kurn's aide told me that the House of Kaluch resides on a planet three light years from here. The virus swept over all of the Klingons there. There seems more to this though. I couldn't put my finger on it but there seems to be some friction there."

"Smiley—Soval," Kirk smiled at Morgan's slip; "tells me that the Klingons choose a Chancellor for life. Kurn's uncle occupies the position but that Kaluch's family opposed it. He was apparently in the running up for that."

"Smiley never told me that!" he exclaimed. "He must have a thing for you captain."

Morgan gave him a serious look. "I have to admit; if I wasn't married…it's those ears." Moran purred until Kirk gave her a look of consternation. Her face split into a grin: "Got you."

Rand stood up. "I'll get my kit ready."

"You could send another of your—

"Younger doctors, captain?" the surgeon asked. "You might step on a thorn down there ma'am. I wouldn't trust anyone but myself to minister to your wounds. Besides I've been studying this metavirus. Kirk tells me that they have Klingon geneticists down there that I might talk to about it. And in twenty-five years with the Stellar Navy the only alien life forms I encountered had wings or scales. This is my chance to study a new sentient species. Besides; shouldn't you be sending Lasuda down as your representative?"

"The goal is to recover our people and perhaps find common ground with these people," Morgan answered; "not start a war with them." She eyed the surgeon. "Damn you Dave; don't make me write a letter to your widow—or widows. You can join the show." The surgeon smiled.

Kirk got up. "I put myself in your capable hands captain."

"Nice looking place," Kirk remarked. "Who was the architect, Stephen King?"

The Sinjan class shuttle settled onto the roof of one of the garish looking buildings. Kirk thought that all of the city's structures looked like fortifications. Morgan had granted him the copilot's seat for the approach to the surface. A group of armed Klingons stood waiting by the landing pad. Kirk wondered if these aliens went armed to the bathroom.

"It's hot and humid," Morgan announced. "Think the southeastern sea coast in the late summer or the Mediterranean.

"The warmth will be refreshing after so long aboard your ship Captain Morgan," Soval remarked. Kirk had requested the Vulcan minister to meet him in the ship's library to conduct their Klingon language courses. Augustus didn't mind a hot day; even at his age. But he tended to shy away from temperatures that exceeded forty-eight C.

Kirk's stomach rebelled somewhat at Morgan's landing. "Sorry, guess I need to keep in practice." She removed her straps and swiveled in her chair. "Remember our goals here. I'm not so sure about this internal fight. Try to keep us out of it ambassador, minister."

Kirk got up hesitantly as the hatch rolled open. Dave had conducted a bacterial survey but Kirk still had his doubts about things involving germs. Farm life had exposed him to a plethora of diseases in animals. He inhaled a gulp of the air. It was indeed full of humidity. Well, if there is anything in the air I have it now he thought absently. Kirk led the way out of the shuttle. Morgan had established that he should do that since the president had anointed him the alliance's spokesperson.

The group assembled before the Klingons. "I am Augustus Kirk, representing the Federation of Planets. I extend the greetings of the federation." Not quite true, Augustus knew. The federation barely existed on paper; much less as an entity that could project power. Thorpe had nonetheless instructed Kirk to reference that organization in his dealings with the warrior state.

"Do these others have names Kirk?" a short stocky Klingon asked. Kirk thought that he looked quite young if his couple of days' worth of Klingon watching counted for anything. Augustus introduced the other members of the diplomatic team. "You come for an audience with the chancellor representing an organization that does not exist? What do you take us for?"

Kirk reached into a travel pouch which caused some of the Klingons to put hands upon the weapons in their belts. "This is a document signed by Creel Zarn of the Tellarite Alliance and Shahar Shran of the Andorian Sovereignty stating their intent to enter into the United Federation of Planets with earth upon the end of hostilities with the Romulan Empire." Kirk wondered if Klingon custom called for their young to act as representatives of their government. Kirk considered Soval's advice to maintain good bearing with these people; but that did not feel right to Kirk for this situation. "And whose child might you be?" he asked the Klingon. Several of the warriors laughed.

"I am Chang, son of Kadara,' the Klingon bristled in response. Kadara was the name of Chancellor Ma'aQ's advisor Kirk recalled.

"That is enough play for now," a tall Klingon declared. Kirk reckoned that this one towered over him by a full head. "I am Kurn. You are here only because of my support of your quest. We would otherwise remove your puny vessel from our space."

"I'd like to see them try," Morgan, who had been learning Klingon as well, said in English.

"Well put; that is why you command a vessel captain," Kurn replied in English. It was all Kirk could do to let his surprise show. "It is well to learn the ways of one's adversary." Kurn eyed the humans.

"Or ally," Kirk supplied in English. Kirk fell back into using Klingon. "We have come to meet with the chancellor. We want our crewmen back. They entered Klingon space only as a last resort after the completion of a perilous mission."

"Follow me," Kurn gestured for Kirk and his group to follow him into the large trapezoid shaped fortification. The entourage passed beneath a large archway bordered on both sides by massive stone structures supporting burning torches. The light of the alien star dimmed as they entered the hall. Kirk noticed some standard lighting but most of the stony hall was illuminated by torches and large firepots. The massive edifice just needed someone screaming or moaning to complete its resemblance to a haunted house.

"Your crew went to Romulus to die gloriously," Kurn remarked. "It is one reason why I was able to convince the chancellor to allow you to petition the empire."

"You know about the mission?" he asked in reply. That meant that this Klingon knew more than most humans concerning the Stellar Navy raid on Romulus. Kirk himself had only found out after receiving a briefing from Thorpe's aide, Ebenstark.

"You sent your forces on a suicide mission against your enemies—glorious!" the Klingon answered. "But now you must be prepared to correct the damage you have wrought on the House of Kaluch."

"We haven't done anything," Kirk answered.

"They seek to conquer us by making us into their image!" Chang spat out. "We should kill these humans, seize their ship and support their enemy. We have more in common with the Romulans than with these humans and their dogs."

"That will be for Ma'aQ to decide, Chang," Kurn said. The group followed the Klingon down a long, stony hall. Images which Kirk guessed came from Klingon history, were illustrated on richly painted wall hangings. All of them seemed to focus on acts of violence. He followed one such story that seemed to tell of a marriage or mating. It was preceded by several battles in which the participants went at one another with wicked looking, curved blades.

Kurn led Kirk and his party before an older Klingon who sat on what Kirk thought was a surprisingly simple throne. He would have guessed that the Klingon equivalent of monarch as he thought the chancellor would sit on something more majestic. Ma'aQ looked at the humans through heavily lidded eyes. Despite the chancellor's appearance as that of an older Klingon, Kirk guessed that the leader could easily dispatch every one of the humans in the landing party.

Kurn and company did not bow; rather they bowed their heads to Chancellor Ma'aQ. Kirk noted that no Klingon took his eyes off of the other. There was an exchange between Kurn and Ma'aQ in a dialect that Kirk could not even begin to understand. He glanced at Soval. The Vulcan was as stony faced as ever but Kirk had been in his company long enough to see that the Vulcan did not have a clue either. Kirk wondered if he was hearing Hurq. The only thing that Kirk could glean was that the humans and Vulcan were probably the topic of discussion.

"The chancellor remarked that this is the first time that he has seen a live human," Kurn translated. "He says that you are an unremarkable species."

"Really?" he asked in reply. "You haven't even gotten to know us. We might have more in common with you than you can imagine." Kirk continued in Klingon. "But surely the chancellor has seen humans before: There are prisoners on Rura Penthe." The actual word for the prison planet defied translation. Kirk and Smiley had agreed, at Kirk's insistence, to refer to the prison world by a name from an old holovid that Kirk enjoyed.

"They intruded upon the space of the Duras family," Ma'aQ answered. "Their fate is yet to be determined; if they still live." Kirk was about to argue when Ma'aQ continued: "I may compel L'ten'pa to release them. But you humans come here with your hands out after the despicable acts which you have committed against the empire. Tell me Kirk why I should not commit the empire to a war of conquest against your people?"

"Let me clarify this," Kirk started. "Your people purchased augmented human DNA from a snake oil salesman; now you want to hold us responsible because what you bought turned around and bit you in the ass. Does that about sum up the situation?" Kirk put the timeline together in his head along with the bits of information that the Klingons had grudgingly shared. "You've already tried to deal with this Kaluch."

"Kirk, you should be more concise in your use of their language," Soval almost exclaimed in English.

Ma'aQ roared with laughter. "You see clearly Kirk; if I grasp what a," Ma'aQ paused; "what a snake oil salesman is." The chancellor stood up slowly. Kirk noticed that one of his legs was prosthetic. He was no doctor but he thought that the artificial limb was crudely made. The chancellor limped over to come face to face with Augustus.

"The imperial navy sent a squadron to destroy V'hAch'c. This was the only way the council saw fit to deal with the scourge. Kaluch's forces repulsed the attack. Now the empire stands at the brink of civil war. This is your reality Kirk. I will not see the empire split into warring factions to have our bones picked apart by carrion. You must go to V'hAch'c and find a cure for the virus."

"And if we tell you to go to hell?" he countered. "After all; by your own admission you don't even know if our people are alive. Why should we help you chancellor? It seems like your people fooled around with something dangerous and now you want us to deal with the consequences."

"I could compel Marag to release your warriors; if they live," Ma'aQ answered. "But consider Kirk: If I engage the House of Kaluch, the Klingon Empire will be fractured. The council will prevail. But that would facilitate an alliance between the Klingon and the Romulan Empires. The Romulans will be weakened no matter the outcome of this war. Despite civil war we will be the stronger of the two. They will be anxious to enter into an alliance with us. And if we become their allies now Kirk; your federation will die in its infancy."

The Klingons would be the stronger member of any alliance Kirk suspected. They had not spent the last few years fighting a war. Morgan had conducted covert surveillance on the Klingon vessels. Imagery had suggested that their weapons were two decades behind what either the Romulans or the alliance were fielding. But they seemed to have a lead on matter antimatter technology.

Ma'aQ's strategy impressed Kirk: The chancellor would have his problem corrected by Morgan and her crew. If that happened the empire could afford to set back while the alliance went at it with the Romulans. The weakened combatants would face a strong Klingon Empire. If Morgan accepted the mission and failed or rejected it altogether the alliance would face a Klingon-Romulan threat. It seemed that the chancellor was covering his bases.

"What about an alliance with the federation, chancellor?" Kirk asked.

"The Romulans are conquerors, Kirk; as are we." Ma'aQ answered. "We know of this federation's goals; peaceful cooperation and exploration. It goes against the very heart of what it is to be Klingon. The day will never come when our people will march under your banner Kirk. The hunter does not lie down with the prey."

Kirk looked at Morgan who still seemed to be digesting what she had heard. After a full minute she spoke up. "It seems like you will get your wish Doctor Rand." Morgan spoke in English as she added: "Okay Kirk, tell him it is a deal."

Kirk told Ma'aQ of their acceptance of his terms. The Klingons looked at each other conspiratorially. Augustus guessed that they had placed a wager on the outcome of the meeting. Morgan asked him about the military aspects of journey to the Kaluch ruled world. Kirk was about to repeat that question to the chancellor when Kurn spoke up.

"Chang will go with you as military advisor. He is young but also a formidable warrior. He too can speak your language."

"It seems that you have not been very forthcoming with us," Kirk said. He supposed that he would do the same thing were their places reversed.

The young Chang's veneer of hostility dropped for a moment. Kirk stood in amazement of his first look at a toothy Klingon grin. "He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf," Chang said at last. Kirk stared blankly at the Klingon.

"Shakespeare?" the captain asked at last.

The hostile look returned to Chang's face: "Translated from the original Klingon."

A'tanatir Port, near the wildlife refuge, Vulcan, earth year Dec 2157

Lieutenant Tarang Gupta looked out of the tinted window into the harsh glare of the Vulcan day. The large saucer shaped surface skimmer was settled into a slip. It seemed to the frustrated Tarang that is where the craft would remain. Four more of the craft, each with a diameter nearing fifty meters sat immobile as well. The High Command had suspended surface travel. He listened again as Syrran explained his need to go across the planet to the official that Gupta thought of as a harbor master.

"Your request is not logical," Vestok answered. Gupta guessed that the harbor master was well over two hundred earth years old. "It would be a dangerous trek in a surface freighter, Syrran. Surely a request through proper channels would serve you better?"

There it was Gupta thought: This Vulcan was unsure of what to do. Vestok had declared himself a Syrranite and yet he wanted Syrran to pursue his goals as if business on Vulcan were normal. Gupta's acts of sabotage and carefully picked images of his helping Syrran to escape had not made the situation any better. But at least V'Las had ceased with his campaign of alien agitators. With most aliens having been expelled it was hard to convince the average Vulcan that foreign agents were the cause of the present troubles.

"You know that I am still considered a fugitive by the ministry," Syrran replied.

"Surface transportation is prohibited unless the High Command first inspects the freighter and then issues a safe passage codes," Vestok explained.

"Taurik will obtain the codes for us," Syrran declared. Gupta tensed at the mention of his Vulcan alias.

"How can that be?" Vestok asked. "That seems to be an illegal and unethical act."

"You seem to have considerable," Gupta scanned his memory for Vulcan word; "faith in me Syrran."

"You have achieved many things I had not thought possible," Syrran replied. Gupta watched as the older Vulcan's glance brushed on T'Pol.

"Even if Taurik obtains the codes," Vestok started. He seemed to understand that Gupta would use deceptive means to obtain the ciphers. Gupta could feel the undercurrent of the older man's contempt for his behavior. "I cannot assemble a crew for you. The few who followed you openly were suspended from their positions. I cannot trust the others."

"What is the level of difficulty in operating a freighter Vestok?" T'Pol asked.

"Wait…" Gupta trailed off. He realized that he had nearly lapsed into Hindi. "You aren't seriously suggesting that we try flying one of those craft?"

"Why would she suggest anything if she did not mean it Taurik," Vestok said. "That would be something a human would do."

T'Pol was standing before a wall mounted schematic for one of the sturdy freighters. "Why not; Vulcan ships are built to be operated intuitively."

"The anti-gravity units are enclosed and self-sustaining," Vestok replied thoughtfully. "Navigation is limited to the assigned freighter routes. The propulsion system must be monitored closely. Most crewmembers spend considerable time in an apprenticeship."

The Vulcans continued the discussion as Gupta turned and looked again at the docked freighters. He was keenly aware that each of them was a huge target should this ruse of Syrran's fail. He listened as Vestok grudgingly admitted that a freighter could be flown by novices—should all go well. He wanted to shutter but he could not do so lest he reveal that he was not Vulcan. It was times like these that he realized just how in over his head that he was.

He had been lucky, Gupta knew. He was certainly no trained agent. He had never even read a Paul Taggert or Ian Fleming novel. He had sat through a few drunken parties at Alvin Crosby's apartment watching old Marcus Canby holovids. The intrepid agent usually obtained results by seducing alluring women. Gupta almost laughed out loud when he pictured himself seducing many Vulcan women. He was not even sure of the outcome of his present romance.

"The matter seems moot as Taurik has yet to obtain the codes," Vestok declared. "The local prefect is very careful about following the ministry's edicts. She is an ardent supporter of Minister V'Las."

"Really?" he asked. Despite what seemed like madness to him the beginnings of an idea stirred in him.

"Of course," Vestok answered. "Are you well Taurik? Why do you insist on others confirming what they have said?"

"Bad habits," Gupta answered. "I spent some time among humans."

"You should not have acquired any of their habits," Vestok admonished him. "Humans; is it true about their smell?" He was surprised when the older Vulcan actually wrinkled his nose.

"I found the smell quite pleasing," T'Pol interjected. "From my time on earth," she added.

"Can these codes be gotten over the data network?" Gupta asked the harbor master.

"The prefect, Svorak prefers that the inspectors issue the codes in a data crystal," Vestok answered. "But yes, she has sent the codes over the network to facilitate an emergency delivery of freight. Why do you ask?"

"It looks like it is time to change into one of those extra uniforms Major M'Viar gave to us," Gupta said. "May I use your comm system?" he asked Vestok.

"Are you planning a deception?" the older Vulcan asked. "That would be most unethical. I do not believe that I should permit--

"Please come this way Vestok," Syrran said. "I believe that you mentioned wanting to know more about Surak's use of hypersphere's in symbolic logic."

"The topic has always fascinated me," Vestok said. Syrran took the older Vulcan hand.

"Let us discuss it while you show me your port," Syrran answered. "I have been interested in surface commerce since I saw a freighter for the first time in my youth."

"Indeed?" the Vulcan answered. Gupta thought that the older man was positively green with pride. T'Pol had once him that older Vulcans sometimes lost their mental discipline. Perhaps this was the case he thought. He watched as the two departed the building and headed away toward the loading area.

"Now that was a lie if I ever heard one," Gupta declared to T'Pol.

"Your smell is interesting," she answered.

"No! I meant Syrran being fascinated by freighter operations," Gupta said in English. "Really?" he asked concerning his odor. "What is it….forget that." He switched back to Vulcan. "No, really he just made that up to distract Vestok; don't you think?"

"An exaggeration is not strictly a lie Tarang," T'Pol answered. "Perhaps as a youth Syrran was indeed amazed by the movement of the freighters. Why don't you ask him when he returns? But I believe that you have a plan to obtain the code that we need?"

"Perhaps," Tarang answered. "I almost hope that it fails." He was not surprised at her questioning look. "I am not sure that we should attempt to operate a craft that none of us really knows anything about."

"We cannot expect to make it to T'Naren Province without transportation," T'Pol said. "The air freighters are grounded and the spaceports have been sealed. This is our last option."

"I know," Gupta agreed. "I just wish your people had private ground or air cars." He changed into the High Command uniform tunic and cloak as they spoke.

"You will pretend to be a High Command officer and compel Svorak to give you the codes?" she asked.

"That is my plan," Gupta said.

"I," she paused; "dislike that you use our honesty and integrity against us. You seem to grasp much of what it is be Vulcan yet you exploit our finer qualities."

"I am sorry T'Pol," he replied. Gupta looked around to ensure that they were alone. He stood before her and put his hands on her shoulders. "I'm trying to do the best that I can in a bad situation. You are a good and noble people." He remembered the dying Sremen; the first Vulcan that he had thought of as a friend besides T'Pol. "I wish that there was a," he searched for a word; "logical, honorable way to do this. But I see none. Please do not think ill of me T'Pol."

She kissed him; brushing her lips against his. "I do not. I believe that you are not the only one who feels uncomfortable with our situation. A Vulcan and human have never…" she stopped. "We should get on with this." She gestured toward the comm panel.

Gupta fumbled through the network until he found the prefect's contact information. He considered that he might be recognized but he had gone several weeks without a haircut. Gupta also had developed a growth of straggly beard. He absently ran a finger through that beard as the image cleared to show a middle aged Vulcan woman. Gupta composed himself quickly: It wouldn't do for the prefect to see him fingering his facial hair.

"I am Sub-Lieutenant Taurik," he announced formally. "I have been personally dispatched on a mission by Minister V'Las' office. I need a freighter for a priority transport of medical supplies to W'lusa Province. I require that you furnish the codes so that we might cross the surface safely."

"The ministry has not sent word of any mission," Svorak answered. Gupta grew warm as she realized that she was studying his image. "You look familiar Taurik."

"Minister V'Las has assigned the highest priority to this task." The room was growing quite warm he thought. "I am Sub Lieutenant Taurik," he repeated evenly. "The minister will be most inconvenienced if--,"

"You bear a resemblance to a terran fugitive that is loose on our world," Svorak answered. "You are at the port; stay there."

Gupta wanted to close the connection and run; instead he remained calm. "I shall await your arrival prefect. When you arrive you shall see that you have impeded a critical shipment." He reached down and closed the channel. Gupta turned to T'Pol. "We are in trouble."

"That is obvious," she declared as she gathered up their travel packs. "We must get away from here."

"I hope that we can prep one of the freighters for a flight," Gupta said as he took his pack from T'Pol. He followed her out into the heat of the day.

"That would be an ill advised action," she answered. "We do not have the codes. V'Las has cruisers in orbit which can easily track and destroy a surface vehicle."

"I've been thinking about that," Gupta said. "I know that it is illogical but the entire plan of using a freighter didn't feel right to me." They walked side-by-side down the central dock until they ran into Syrran and Vestok. The harbor master eyed Gupta's borrowed High Command uniform skeptically.

"Svorak is on her way out here," Gupta said in answer to Syrran's unspoken question. He turned to Vestok. "Is it possible to start up one of these ships and send it out on an autopilot?"

Vestok started into a long explanation when Syrran interrupted and forced the official to get to the point. "It can be done. The startup sequence and the cast off must be performed manually."

Gupta asked about the time required and soon after some mental conversion determined that the tasks could be done in about fifteen minutes. Further questioning of the harbor master suggested that Svorak would be here in about the same amount of time. He spoke rapidly as Syrran goaded Vestok into choosing a freighter. The older Vulcan led the group into the craft's surprisingly small control center. He sat back while Vestok instructed Syrran and T'Pol in the operation of the freighter.

The ship's operation might have been intuitive to Syrran and T'Pol, but not to Gupta. He listened but always felt that he was a step behind. He was surprised when he felt the freighter levitate out of its metallic slip. A vibration seeped up through the floor and up Tarang's legs as the freighter's simple jet engines started up. He studied the readings intently but realized that even if something was wrong with the engines that it was immaterial: If all went well this ship would be wreckage soon.

"Is there a way off of this thing when it is in cruise?" he asked after the last pre-launch item was completed.

Vestok now looked at Gupta as if the agent had sprouted ears' a thought that made Tarang want to smile. "Why would anyone abandon a ship in cruise?"

Gupta was about to ask the Vulcan to humor him; then thought better of his choice of words. "Indulge me please," he said at last.

"There are three exits on the primary cargo deck," Vestok said. "The aft exit is out of the slipstream." Gupta guessed that the Vulcan had figured out what he planned to do.

"I'll take it out," Gupta said. "I'll engage the autopilot and jump out of the ship." He looked at Syrran. "You and T'Pol stay hidden at the port. Vestok, I noticed what I assume is some sort of maintenance craft parked in the last slip."

The Vulcan started to explain in detail about the function of the combination tow and maintenance ship. Gupta cut him off before he got too far. "Thank you for your help Vestok. When Svorak arrives it won't be long before she relays what is going on to those cruisers. The subsequent destruction of this ship should be reason enough for you to launch a salvage operation."

"We'll head out on that," T'Pol said; meaning the tug vehicle. She stared intently at Gupta. "I mean you know disrespect Taurik, but I've been observing you as Vestok explained this vessel's operation. Will you be able to pilot it out into the desert?"

"I have to," Gupta said. "Can you fly one of these Syrran?" When Syrran replied in the negative he continued. "My grasp of things may not be as swift as yours but," he looked guiltily at Vestok. "I don't know this planet well enough should something happen. You are from here T'Pol: I am not. You must help Syrran to get onto the network and speak to the people on this planet."

"I shall operate the tow vehicle," Vestok declared. "I am old and…fearful." Gupta wanted to gasp but forced down that urge. "If you will come with me Syrran," he added. The old Vulcan turned to Gupta before departing. "I suspected that there was something strange in your manner. If you are a human then you are the first that I have ever met. You really don't smell; badly. But there is a quality about you; perhaps there is some truth in the words of those who advocate for your people." Vestok extended his hand. "Live long and prosper, Taurik," he said while offering the split-fingered Vulcan gesture.

"It is Gupta actually sir," he answered returning the same salutation. "Live long and prosper Vestok." The Vulcan turned and left.

"I will leave you two," Syrran said as he followed the harbor master.

"This is a pointless show of bravado Tarang," T'Pol declared. "I am the one who should fly the freighter."

"I admit there is that," he answered. Gupta looked out to see an approaching groundcar racing over the desert floor in the distance. "But I've been like a leaf, dropped into a stream here. I've helped but I've mostly followed you and Syrran around. You should leave." He got in the pilot's seat.

"I love you Tarang," she said. She stooped and kissed him.

Gupta kissed her in return. "I don't plan on dying. I drove my parent's groundcar through Calcutta. This won't be that difficult."

She left him alone in the control compartment. Gupta looked out of the craft's windscreen. He watched as T'Pol exited. Tarang searched until he found the control for the main exit ramp. He raised it and sealed the freighter. The control area sat on the edge of the saucer shaped craft. Gupta waited until T'Pol was on her way to the maintenance ship before applying a small amount of thrust: Nothing happened.

He shoved the thrust lever forward some more. Gupta recalled Vestok's warning about being careful when applying maneuvering thrust. The freighter started moving-- toward the metal dock assemblage. Reversers; he thought frantically. Tarang found the proper controls and engaged them as a horrendous screech of tearing metal filtered into the freighter's bridge. He saw the groundcar; now distinct as an armored carrier pull up to the port's entry point. The vessel started backing away from the torn remains of the dock.

"Madarchod!" he cursed as the freighter started a slow roll to starboard. Gupta mind's raced as he recalled Vestok's quick and thorough explanation of the controls. He shoved a smaller throttle lever forward causing the unwanted roll to cease. Cloaked figures were charging down the dock, particle rifles in hand. The rear monitor showed a blinding cloud of dust as the freighter's jets played across the desert sand. The ship was backing away steadily. He started another roll: This time an intentional one as he faced the control center out toward the open desert. He moved the throttle forward slowly; glad that the Vulcans had many of the same conventions that humans did when it came to machinery.

The windscreen shattered in a blast of heat. Gupta eyes were blinded from the flash of the particle beam. He pushed the throttle forward to the stop heedless of what would happen. He knew that the open desert lay before him. His vision went from blurred white to spots and then to a fuzzy bright red. His vision cleared to reveal the foot of a mountain range. An odd sounding buzzing sounded across the craft's speaker. Gupta wheeled the freighter around as nimbly as he could.

The buzzing stopped. Tarang guessed that he had heard the ship's collision warning alarm. He looked around until he found the small autopilot control panel. Gupta keyed in the sequence causing the freighter to lurch to the left to find its programmed track. A scan of the craft's cameras showed the port fading away into the distance. The fire from an orbiting cruiser would start any minute Tarang guessed. He maneuvered the craft in a series of random s-turns.

Gupta chuckled bitterly as he realized how fruitless his actions were. He was no pilot but he had conducted many briefings on the capability of Vulcan sensors. The freighter's logy movements would be easily tracked. He doubted that the cruiser would miss its first shot at him. The freighter's speed translated into a little over three hundred kilometers an hour. He needed to get the speed well below thirty klicks if he expected to survive the fall to the ground. He also needed to put some distance between the port and the freighter. He pushed the small jet engines to their maximum.

Floating on an almost frictionless cushion the freighter sped through the desert. Gupta looked at his chronometer. He guessed that he had departed almost five minutes ago. More than enough time for an orbiting cruiser to get a kill shot he thought. The craft rocked and pitched violently. Gupta's mind raced as he realized that his increasing the speed might have saved his life. He pulled the power lever back dramatically. He had no idea how much the freighter would slow down. He got up out of the pilot's chair and started down the ladder near the center of the deck.

Tarang grabbed the ladder hard as the freighter reeled again. This time the dull, heavy thud of an explosion radiated through his bones. He felt as if his arm was coming out of its socket as another impact shook the freighter. He wrapped his arms around the ladder and slid the rest of the way to the lower deck. Alarms started sounding in the freighter's darkened passages. He was thrown against a bulkhead. Pain racked his mouth: Tarang tasted the warm, sickening salty taste of blood in his mouth. He realized that he had bit his tongue as he staggered toward the first exit he could find. Gupta scanned the first exit door that he found.

He found a lever marked emergency and pulled it. The hatch did not open; rather it shot away from the doomed freighter. Piercing bright sunlight beamed into the passageway. Tarang looked out to see a cloud of dust. Was the craft moving at seven kilometers an hour or seven hundred? He looked down scanning the surface for some kind of reference to his speed: There was none. The buzzing sound started again; growing in intensity as the seconds ticked away.

Gupta jumped. In a single second of clarity he knew that he would die for sure if he stayed on the freighter. He hit the soft desert floor. He rolled. Sand filled his eyes. Gupta realized that he had stopped rolling. He wiped at his eyes and looked into the distance. The freighter wobbled uncertainly as it flew on. Part of it, Tarang noticed was smoking. The particle beam came out of the sky like a bolt tossed by a god. The flash was blinding. All of this seemed slow to Tarang, who wondered for what seemed like a whole minute why he couldn't hear the blast. Then the noise and heat sucked the very air out of lungs. Tarang crawled.

Gupta briefly wondered if there was a speed record for crawling. He would certainly challenge that now he thought. Tarang crawled into the lee formed by two ancient plumes of magma. A roar of torn metal assaulted his ears. Gupta guessed that the orbiting cruiser had fired one last salvo at the freighter. He wiped away the dust and filth from his face.

The freighter was no longer recognizable as a surface going vessel. Fire from what he assumed was the ship's artificial cushioning and upholstery blazed away amid a huge pile of torn smoking metal. Fragments of the ship's superstructure had a dying cherry red glow. Tarang realized that he was lucky to be alive. He lay back wishing that he had taken a water flask with him. He hunkered down as he heard the characteristic whine of a groundcar.

The same armored vehicle that had come to the port was bearing down on his location. Tarang crawled deeper into the shadow of the rock as the car passed him and halted several meters from the wreck. High Command troops poured out and formed a semicircle. Several of them scanned the wreckage with handheld devices. That's it, he thought as he lay pressed against the warm stone: I'm in the wreckage, scan there. When you don't find anything assume it is radiation from the power cells interfering with your instruments.

A tense five minutes passed. It felt like five hours as far as Gupta was concerned. He was relieved when the carrier's engines wound up. He listened as the high speed vehicle retreated back toward the direction of the port. Another sound mixed with that: A deeper throatier roar of a larger vehicle. Tarang crept around the rock and seen one of the tug vehicles leading a line of blowing sand. He edged back against the rock. Please don't let that vessel contain anyone unexpected he prayed. The roar grew louder then died away. A familiar voice called his name.

"T'Pol," he called weakly as he stood up—and nearly collapsed. He had lain so that the circulation to his legs had been cut off. Pins and needles shot through them. He stumbled slowly into view of the tug. T'Pol stood with Syrran at an exit hatch.

"You are hurt," she said as she ran to him. She openly embraced him. Gupta was embarrassed as Syrran stood framed against the hatch with the elder Vestok behind him. Her lips pressed against his and shortly he didn't care who was looking.

"I'm fine," he said as she backed away but held him tightly. "Is it safe to be out here this soon?"

"The prefect believed that we were all killed when the freighter was destroyed," T'Pol answered levelly. "Was that not the desired outcome?" He nodded absently. "She went as far as giving Vestok a transponder for salvage operations. He told her that he would likely pick up a salvage crew from the Ang'Shale province," she concluded.

He nodded again. She leaned in and kissed him deeply again.

"Do they always do this Syrran?" Vestok asked.

"I am concerned that this is the shape of things to come," Gupta heard Syrran say. "But logic dictates that we embrace the new."

UES Daedelus, in orbit of the Second Planet of Ross 128, Dec 2157

"Your antennae are aroused," Commander Lisa Somers told Lieutenant Taln. The Andorian gave her the alien equivalent of a sheepish look.

The engineer peered through the heavy sheet of transparent aluminum as the shuttles deposited the alien artifact onto the deck of Daedelus' main shuttle bay. Captain Cromwell looked on as well. He suspected that taking a piece of alien hardware into the ship was not his brightest idea. But Daedelus was a sophisticated twenty-second ship. Cromwell felt secure in the knowledge that his crew could keep the object under controlled conditions.

"Of course," the Andorian answered. "The chance to examine a piece of alien technology?" he asked in reply. His face was still turned to the shuttle bay. "What is it for? How does it operate? Analyzing and discovering the workings of even one of its simplest ancillary systems might advance our science by a whole generation."

"Good of the doctor to allow us to examine it," Somers said.

"No reason why they should not commander," Cromwell answered. He stood with his hands folded behind his back. "I wonder that we shall get anything out of it?"

"Such as if there is an answer to what is going on?" his first officer asked. Somers had guessed what was weighing on Cromwell's mind. How did he save the Ro'ha and was it really any of his business to do so.

"Taln; have you had a chance to finish the work with the doctor?" he asked.

"Weather is not my specialty captain," the Andorian answered. "But as to if the storms are normal; the answer is no. We saw that when one pursued us out of the atmosphere. But more than that; the storms' electrical signature breaks down to a series of highly organized patterns. It took the ship's computer over two days to determine that. The doctor tells me that the patterns are very similar to what she reads on an electroencephalograph."

"Then it's true," Somers declared. "What can life—what is like for someone who has had that happen to them?"

"Ask Maltz," Cromwell said using the shorthand name they had assigned to the alien. The alien doctor had actually approved, seeming to understand that Cromwell and his crew had trouble annunciating his name. "He says that the group mind will go on."

"I'm not sure I'd be up for that," Somers said. "I have some pretty racy thoughts from time to time; not sure I want them shared—until it is time."

"Me and you both," he agreed. She eyed him with a look of surprise. "I mean being part of a shared mind!" Cromwell sputtered. He sighed. Even were he so inclined to chase every female crewman on the ship he doubted he had time. Would there ever be a starship captain who could do that he wondered?

"The doctor has concluded that Picard's scan is mostly normal," Cromwell continued. "There are abnormalities but that could be the result of many things. Not the least of which is battery on the part of Mister Crosby."

Somers shook her head. "How did someone like that ever get in the SN? I pulled his profile; it looked normal. There were some psychological variances; masked introvert so forth. But nothing to show that he was a monster."

"In some small way he made up for that." Cromwell looked pensive. The shuttle bay doors rolled closed. "Perhaps in sacrificing himself he exercised his demons." Trudy would not approve of his homespun psychology. She had indicated to him that people like Crosby just needed therapy.

"Well Taln I know you want to sink your hooks into that," Somers told the Andorian as the bay door opened.

"I'll give it my best commander," the Andorian declared. "I've been analyzing some of the doctor's finds. I am forming a hypothesis." Cromwell looked at the Andorian as did Somers. "I believe that the machine may have been constructed by other machines."

"How did you arrive at that?" Cromwell asked.

"M'Altz've told me the machine imparted a great deal of information to him," the Andorian explained. "Most of it was so far beyond their science that he could not absorb it. But he did try to get as sense of who created the device. When he did that he said that he had an image that he did not understand. When I asked him to sketch it looked," the Andorian dug into his tunic until he produced a piece of paper that he unfolded. "Look at this."

Cromwell took the sheet and unfolded it so that he and Somers could look at it. "It looks like a circuit diagram"

"M'Altz've told me that he had a sense that this was the launch point," Taln said. "The way he described it made it sound like a city. Not only that; he described the mind behind the device as being precise. But it was searching for something."

"Searching for what," Somers interjected; "a can of oil?"

"No commander," the Andorian was pensive. "He had the sense that it was looking for its creator." He looked at Cromwell and Somers. "I know that it sounds insane. But consider this: All of the races we know build their cities and edifices as a reflection of their culture. You pink-skins reflect a host of cultures but your architecture reaches for the skies; as your race has done. The same is true for we of the ice. Who would build a city to reflect a circuit diagram?"

"Chief Custis would probably tell you the Henry Starling would have done that," Somers said. She beckoned to him. "I haven't seen it up close yet sir."

"It is pretty dull," Cromwell said referring to the object. He followed the Andorian out to where the shuttles were uncoupling from the alien artifact. Cromwell soon joined Taln as the Andorian reached out barely brushing his blue-skinned hand over the object's casing.

"Damn lucky those storms or whatever they are keeps the Ro'ha indoor," Somers murmured. "I'm sure they heard the shuttles' engines but as far as we observed we weren't seen."

Cromwell folded his arms over his chest. Not seen by many he thought bitterly. The shuttles would no doubt create sensational stories. But those stories would pale as the planet went in the final stages of its death. He thought that earth had been lucky despite all of its wars. At least his species had lived to look back on its earlier days.

"Yes lucky," he agreed. Cromwell turned to his engineer. "Turn this thing inside out lieutenant. We don't have the technology to save these people. But perhaps it lies in this object."

"I'll do my best captain," the Andorian's antennae drooped. "It may be that we too will be overwhelmed with information; like an ancient Andorian or man confronted with a transistor or microchip."

Cromwell knew the truth of the engineer's words. He took another look at the object. Cromwell wondered how its introduction in this situation had affected his judgment. Would he feel differently about interfering in these people's lives if M'Altz've was not already setting some dreadful juggernaut into motion with this machine's help? He bid his first officer and engineer ado and headed for the bridge.

Cromwell headed down a gangway to the connecting tube between Daedelus' engineering section and command module. The broad passageway had once seemed gigantic to Cromwell. But now, after several months aboard the starship it seemed narrow and cramped. The normally busy corridor was almost deserted. Cromwell was surprised to see the alien Ma'gua in the company of Mariel Picard. Men were getting used to their fellow bipedal aliens. The sight of these triped, on his ship, was another issue altogether. The two were approaching him from the opposite direction.

"It is good to see you," Mariel Picard told him. She reached out and touched his prosthetic right arm. He was a little embarrassed. Except for Schultheiss no one had done that. "Following me around sir; I know that you doubt me captain."

"Not at all," Cromwell smiled weakly. "This whole situation is odd to say the least." He moved his arm away. "I suppose that I won't be the last starship commander to voice a concern like that."

"I was hoping that you would permit me to show Ma'gua and Doctor M'Altz've the ship." She looked at him and licked her lips slightly. Cromwell did indeed doubt her. "You know captain, Trudy has told me a great deal about you since we have roomed together." She moved closer to him. "I perhaps passed up a," she hesitated and reached up to delicately stroke his face; "a friendship. But perhaps there is still time?" she asked coyly.

"I think, Miss Picard that I should bid you ado." Months ago the lonely explorer that he had been would have jumped at such an opportunity as Mariel presented; but not anymore. Cromwell had, as Buchanan and all of his other captains had told him, grown into his command. "I must limit where you go on the ship for security reasons and until we get to the bottom of what Maltz is doing."

"Saving his people," Picard countered. She twittered away in the expressive Ro'ha tongue to Ma'gua. Cromwell knew that she had a gift for language but it occurred to him that she was speaking as if she were Ro'ha herself. The triped hissed, whistled and snorted in reply. "Even Ma'gua is over the fear of what is happening. The being has come to accept that the group mind is far better than the slow death of the race."

"If Ma'gua accepts that notion then why not the notion of his world uniting to build spaceships to escape?" he asked in return. Cromwell grew anxious to terminate the conversation. The nerves in his shoulder that connected to his prosthesis had begun to tingle. Trudy would want to know about that he thought.

"Can they do that captain—Olly?" she asked. She smiled broadly at him. His shoulder felt like it was on fire. "We should not argue. Picard reached out and touched his artificial arm briefly. He had enough rudimentary feeling in it to tell that she was gently squeezing his hand. Picard stood very close to him. "Do you not want me captain?" The burning in his shoulder went away.

"I have to go the bridge," Cromwell said at last. "Trudy has cleared you medically but I would like for you to check in with her again; just as a precaution," and because you are acting most strangely he wanted to tell her. Her face assumed a slight pout but she agreed to honor the restrictions against her as well as to see the doctor. She headed down Daedelus' connecting tube. Cromwell stumbled slightly. He looked around and noted happily that no one had seen him. Perhaps he should see Trudy professionally too.

Cromwell stopped at a comm panel before resuming his journey to the bridge. He called the bridge where Ensign Chen was on duty at communications. Cromwell had the officer patch him through to Dieulafoy's lab. When the archeologist acknowledged his call he said: "Lieutenant I have an assignment for you."

Converted Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen, three days from 57 Eridani, Dec 2157

"You know I could really be a help doc," Lieutenant Frank McCoy told his friend Phlox. The Denobulan seemed to have picked up on McCoy's dreadful sense of loss after the death of Eileen Thomas. The emptiness still felt like a physical ache to Frank.

"Captain Townsend is not going to let you go outside," the Denobulan answered. The raider was coasting in normal space while Marshall Davies' engineering teams transformed the ship's outer hull to look very much like a Denobulan freighter. McCoy had seen the detailed specs: He just hoped that the Vulcans would trust to their much vaunted sensors and not make a close video pass of the Queen. "You are the reason for this mission; although it puzzles me why they sent a man who clearly needs convalescent leave."

"I'm okay goddamnit!" he spat. McCoy relented. Phlox was a good egg as far as Frank thought. He didn't need McCoy snapping at him because of his personal problems. "Sorry, Phlox; yeah it still hurts. I mean a man gets to a point that he thinks he's gonna be alone for the rest of his life—and is okay with that then…."

"Your child should give you a sense of fulfillment," Phlox responded. "It has been my observation that children can draw you humans together." Eileen's and his child now resided in the womb of a genetically augmented human that McCoy still had passing doubts about. He wondered how Kanya was. McCoy was so deep in thought that he almost missed Phlox's next words.

"This woman you tell me about seems like she has more than a passing interest in you," the doctor said.

"Just one damn minute!" he exclaimed. "The aug—Kanya did this as a favor. I'm not sure why. She made it plain that there was nothing more."

"You told me that you had some sort of conflict with her when you were in California." Phlox walked over to where Frank was tending to one of the doctor's Denobulan bats. "You will want to apply some of this salve to his wing. Klex is a very clumsy flyer! But you said that she was interested in you."

"Not for that reason," McCoy retorted. Just what the hell was the augment's angle? McCoy wished he had never met Erica Soames or Eileen Thomas. No! He regretted what he had done to Thomas but sadly he concluded that in another life….But there was only this life and he had betrayed and caused her to be killed. Even if another woman came along; and the augment was no woman he told himself, did he deserve a good companion after his moral crimes?

"I've not observed your mating ritual with her," Phlox answered. "So I have no basis to make a conclusion I suppose," Phlox appeared to Frank to grow pensive. He looked around his sickbay at the menagerie of animals that he had. "But you say this woman had no connection to your lover; yet she volunteered to carry her unborn child to term. She contacted you, not Eileen. Don't you think that is strange Frank?" McCoy rubbed the healing slave, which as far as he was concerned smelled like an outdoor toilet he had once used on a relative's backwoods farm, onto the bat's wings. The small creature cooed at him. McCoy gently stoked the animal's head.

"You have a healer's touch," Phlox remarked. "I once encountered this creature; a small furry thing no bigger than the palm of one's hand. It had quite a soothing effect on the nervous system. Sort of like this Nayyar woman may have on you."

"Hold your horses, doc," McCoy answered. He saw the Denobulan's look of confusion. "I mean hold on. It is too soon for that. She is just somebody doing me a favor—doing Eileen a favor." McCoy put the bat back in its cage. "Okay doc maybe I'll go down and bug the engineers."

"Why don't you go back to your cabin and read?" the Denobulan asked.

"I didn't want to disturb my roommate," Frank lied. Well, there was a grain of truth there: Brack or Mistral or both had developed an interest in the Jade Queen's First officer. Frank preferred a woman with a little more to their physique than that of Commander Margaret Sadler. He knew that Sadler was there now. He looked at his chronometer. Maybe not he hoped.

"Thanks for letting me help around here doc," McCoy said. "I've been going bonkers in my cabin." McCoy headed for the door, stopped and turned back to Phlox. "Thanks for the advice doc. It's hard," he thumped his chest. "It's a real pain in here—she's gone. But I know I'll move along; thanks."

"You humans have tremendous resilience," Phlox answered. "What do you say? There is always tomorrow; strange sentiment, but true; drop by anytime, Frank. I need someone to help me milk my Andorian snow pig."

"I'll keep that in mind," McCoy answered as he headed out the door quickly.

He strolled through the Queen's narrow passageways oblivious of the sometimes hostile stares he got off of the crew. They knew that their ship was playing this dangerous gambit solely to deliver him to Vulcan. McCoy didn't have an idea of what he was going to do once he got there. But he realized that he owed it to these fine crewmen, to his child, and yes, to Nayyar to do his best. He just hoped that he could live up to that expectation. He had already failed once he thought as he sank back into his doldrums. He slid down a set of stairs to the deck where his quarters were. McCoy passed Commander Sadler who gave the lieutenant a quick, embarrassed glance. Frank keyed the entrance control for his cabin.

"Are you through playing with the animals Frank?" Micah Brack asked him. The long-lived man was throwing his shirt on over his naked chest.

"Are you through playing with yours?" he asked sarcastically, casting a glance at Brack's disheveled bunk.

"Margaret is an interesting woman," Brack answered. "She reminds me of a merchant's daughter that I once courted in India. Her father was attached to the British East India Company." Brack's eyed rolled back in his head momentarily. "She was a fiery woman; well ahead of her time." McCoy watched as Brack smiled and then a shadow crossed his face.

"How do you deal with it Brack?" he snapped back. "I mean you've never grown old and died with anyone."

"One adapts Frank," Brack answered quickly. McCoy could see that Micah was uncomfortable with the topic. He had seen the same reaction once before when he had proffered that same question to Brack. McCoy saw the inner struggle on Brack's face; the one that meant that 'the other' as they had come to refer to Mistral, was trying to assert himself.

"The loneliness is complete; my dear Phylicia, now dead for a long time. I could never reveal my true nature to her."

McCoy wondered who was speaking. "That has been one thing we share in common Frank. I long ago learned to let my loves go. For Mistral, he had to be careful to conceal what he was."

McCoy scratched his head and sat down on the edge of his bunk. "This reunification; just how likely is it to happen?" McCoy had been wondering about this for quite some time. "Are the point—Vulcans as passionate about it as the Romulans are?"

"If you used the word 'passionate' with a Vulcan he would give you one of those passive stares," Brack answered, but it was not Brack. "I don't know. The actions of this V'Las are clearly illogical, but not surprising. Many Vulcans were looking for more. That is why I stayed behind on your earth." Mistral/Brack answered.

"Logic saved us from our own savage behaviors," Brack answered as he steepled his fingers before him. Brack/Mistral sat down opposite McCoy on his tattered bunk. "But for some we saw a trap; why explore space when it is logical that a robot probe can do so for you? Why perform dangerous research into new power sources when logic dictated using already established systems to provide energy. Logic was leading us into moribund patterns of existence we thought. Several of us looked to our past."

"The hypothesis was that those who had followed the Rihannsu way must have adopted a stabilized civilization if they still survived. Surely they could reinvigorate our civilization. Most of us followed the teachings of Surak but those seem to lead to a pointless conclusion; logic for the sake of logic. Where were Vulcans to go next?" Brack/Mistral smiled in that broad grin which Frank had come to know did not belong to the sad Brack. "The answer my friend is blowing in the wind. There are many Vulcans waiting for something more: They just don't recognize that. The Rihannsu—Romulans; if they introduce themselves properly then Reunification would be readily welcomed by my people."

"That would be a disaster," McCoy mumbled.

"For us as well McCoy," Brack/Mistral answered. "The trouble is that the Romulans have not abandoned their savage ways: They have refined them. It would be too easy for us Vulcans to abandon all that we accomplished and follow them again." McCoy was struck at how profoundly sad Brack's face had become. He also realized that whatever other half Brack had: It was fully in control now. "Your people, the Tellarites and Andorians will never permit the formation of an aggressive Vulcan Empire. We will be destroyed; swept aside as the grassy plains of Vulcan once were by the consuming nuclear fire."

He reached across the space between their beds and seized McCoy by his arms. "The secret must be kept and Reunification must be thwarted. Perhaps one day, our races will be ready to rejoin—

The warning klaxon of a red alert intruded on their conversation. "Battle stations, battle stations; a Vulcan patrol ship has spotted us and turned to investigate," Captain Donald Townsend's disembodied voice reported. "Lieutenant McCoy to the Globe," he ordered. McCoy stood bolt upright.

The Globe was the name that had been assigned to a conference room that had been converted into the 'bridge' of a Denobulan freighter. Star Fleet intelligence had issued a report declaring Vulcan computers could detect any video deception on Star Fleet's part. Hence the decision was to build a real bridge, staffed by real Denobulans. Phlox had shown Frank around the mock-up as the doctor had been acquainted with one of the Denobulan 'actors' who had been assigned to the Jade Queen. McCoy had more than a passing suspicion that Phlox's friend was a member of the Denobulan Expeditionary Forces.

"I wonder what they want me for?" McCoy asked himself.

"It is your suave, debonair personality Frank," the Mistral part of Brack said. McCoy shot his roommate an ancient gesture with his finger. "May you live long and prosper as well Frank," Mistral said. McCoy turned and left his quarters. He made his way quickly through the narrow passages of the freighter turned warship.

Minutes later he arrived, huffing and puffing at his destination. The faux bridge was bathed in a dim purplish red light. 'Captain' Kalin stood behind the re-creation of a Denobulan central astrogation station. The Denobulan was speaking in halting words. McCoy realized that he was speaking Vulcan. Sadler grabbed him by the collar of his jersey and made a shushing gesture with a finger. The commander was hidden beneath the shadow of a piece of ornate bulkhead.

She pressed close to his ear. "The pointies are suspicious," she advised him. "We sent the normal recognition codes but this one particular captain decided to check us out."

"Are the crews in sir?" he asked.

Sadler nodded. "The skipper figured that since you an expert in these buggers you should be able to snow them enough to get us out of a close video pass or being boarded."

McCoy stood dumb fasted. He was no expert on things Vulcan. Soames had told him that he was not to discuss his mission with anyone. That struck Frank as an easy order to obey since he really didn't know what his mission was. He supposed that in a vacuum of information, the crew had invented theories that explained who McCoy was. Brack had told him that one such story that had floated up to Sadler:

McCoy had been medically and surgically altered and had lived among the Vulcans until the start of the war. There on the desert planet he had lived as a high government official clandestinely obtaining intelligence for humans and Andorians. He had only recently recovered from multiple surgeries that had returned him to his human state.

The viewscreen presented the image of a single Vulcan squeezed into the cramped conning tower area of a Vulcan picket vessel. The craft would normally have been no match for the Queen but this was no combat mission. More than that, the raider had been stripped of most of her Narwhals and Spiders. Vulcan sensors would have read right through the hull and exposed the Queen as a little more than a fat, wallowing freighter. Frank drew a blank as he observed the Vulcan commander: An ageless black-haired man wearing a high collared High Command tunic. A peculiar pendant was visible on the breast of his tunic.

"Call Brack," he whispered to Sadler. The screen went blank.

"I don't think I convinced him commander," Kalin said. The Denobulan stayed at his place by the astrogation area. "I think his sensors picked up your maintenance crews. Also; he is questioning the power readings he is seeing from the Queen. He believes that we have a power plant problem. I think he wants to send a cruiser to help us."

McCoy knew that the Jade Queen's mam had been switched to standby. Its anti matter core removed for the same reason that the ship's offensive weaponry had been taken. With the exception of a recently installed special weapons platform and a few lasers the Queen was just a wallowing freighter. Frank saw the question on Sadler's face.

"Believe me commander," McCoy said. "Micah knows," he paused and sighed. "He knows a lot about Vulcans." McCoy didn't think that telling Sadler that Brack had a Vulcan in him would go over well. Brack's passage had come after the industrialist had pulled some political strings. Thorpe himself had authorized Brack's passage, the billionaire had told Frank. So as far as the crew knew Brack was little more than a political crony.

"Okay," Sadler said quietly. She reached past Frank and keyed in the code for him and Brack's quarters. McCoy observed that she knew the combination quite well. Brack replied that he would be there immediately.

"Get ready to go to warp," Townsend's voice boomed out of the overhead. Communications had been severed between the Queen and the Vulcan ship.

"What do you want us to say in the meantime skipper?" Sadler asked.

"Agree that we need help," Townsend replied.

"He wants to make a close approach Captain Townsend," Kalin advised. "His monitors may see through our disguise."

"Agree to that as well," Frank heard Townsend answer. "What has our Vulcan expert come up with?" Frank could hear frustration in the captain's voice.

"He is er—working on the problem," Sadler answered while casting a glance of uncertainty towards McCoy.

"The Vulcan is pinging us again," Lieutenant Martin Savoy announced. The Star Fleet officer had agreed to undergo a little cosmetic surgery and was now portraying the part of a Denobulan communications' technician. "He is requesting voice and visual again."

"You're on Captain Kalin," Townsend said. McCoy could hear the tension in his voice. He knew if this turned sour the captain would be called upon to get the Queen out of harm's way. A freighter now solely reliant on its fusion power plant and warp build-up coils.

The conference resumed between the Denobulan and Vulcan as Brack stepped into the carefully constructed bridge look-alike. McCoy started apprising Brack of the situation when Brack stopped him and stepped into clear view of the Globe's video pickup. There was a collective gasp around the Globe.

McCoy watched in amazement as Brack rendered an odd split fingered greeting to the picket vessel's pilot. There started a tense exchange in Vulcan between Brack and the Vulcan. McCoy wished that he had tried learning a little Vulcan but he thought that English was hard enough for him to master. Sweat dripped down McCoy's face as the exchange continued. Minutes later the picket ship captain raised his hand mirroring the odd gesture that Brack had rendered earlier. The Vulcan's image faded.

"Report," Sadler inquired throatily.

"Paul reports that the patroller is moving off," Townsend's voice answered. "No outgoing transmission so far."

"He'll have to report to his sector commander, captain," Brack raised his voice and declared. "But I believe that Sub-lieutenant Savim will let us proceed."

"Who is this?" Townsend asked. Frank guessed that Townsend could not see the Globe's end of the communication.

"Micah Brack sir," the industrialist answered.

"Seems like we have two Vulcan experts here," Townsend answered. "Good work Brack. Radar reports that the Vulcan is still moving off. The Bitch lives to fight another day."

The chime ended that conversation. "How did you know?" McCoy asked his companion. The incredulousness was heavy in his tone.

"The same way you knew Frank," Brack answered. "The kol-ut-shan that Savim wore is the same as I've doodled on my pad in our quarters. You must have seen it there."

"Kol-ut-shan?" the commander asked; clearly confused.

"The symbol meaning infinite diversity in infinite combination Margaret," Brack answered. "It identified Savim as a follower of Surak; perhaps a more devout follower would explain what I mean. I know devotion sounds like a contradiction for a Vulcan but let me just say some believe more strongly in their logic than do others. I merely appealed to his logic."

"Whatever you said, seems to have worked," Sadler answered as she monitored the patrol ship on an auxiliary radar display. That panel was one of the few real displays that the Globe boasted. It had also been installed by one Lieutenant Frank McCoy.

"Let me show you a diverse combination Micah." Frank watched as Sadler pressed her skinny frame against Brack.

"I've been around Margaret," Brack answered with a sly smile pasted on his lips.

"You can be around me," McCoy heard her whisper as the two departed the Globe.

Frank sighed. Thoughts of Eileen Thomas rose unbidden to his mind's eye. An image of Nayyar standing defiantly over the City of San Francisco replaced that image. His quarters would be in use he groused. He left the Globe. Frank wondered what milking an Andorian snow pig would entail.

Armstrong Station, the earth's moon, Jan 2158

A long week on the moon with no results; Erica Soames hoped that her request for leave would be not be viewed with suspicion. It had after all, been awhile since her last leave. Soames had elected to stay with Nayyar and pool their resources. A quick scrambled patch to Malcolm Reed had ensured that the heat was off of the admiral—for now. Erica sensed that Reed felt another threat; one perhaps directed against Reed himself. Regardless, Soames had reasoned that was the Romulan agent to accomplish anything her protection of her clandestine activities would be pointless: She had engaged in this secrecy solely to stop the Romulans and their allies here on earth.

Soames' stomach was coming out of her mouth as she and Kanya Nayyar dropped in a passenger tube to Armstrong Station tube terminal. Nayyar had rented wings and flown about Heinlein Caverns in a pursuit of the enemy agent. That had proved fruitless as the Romulan had evaded Nayyar by apparently clumsily colliding with a group of tourists. Soames had meanwhile used routine network access and a bit of bravado to discover that Mister Galland as the Romulan now called himself had made reservations for the Armstrong-Tyco tube. The interconnected series of subterranean transfer tubes connected the lunar colony.

The two women boarded the forty meter long metal can. The transfer tube had an upper and lower level. She had traced Galland to a private compartment. Soames bought tickets for her and Nayyar and the two women boarded in search of their prey. Soames had no time to see the tube transit out of the series of silicone environmental curtains onto the lunar surface for a few brief minutes before plunging back underground.

"It can't be this bloody simple," Erica declared as the women stepped off of a small life into the section of tube containing the private compartments. A young man and woman stumbled drunkenly into one of those. The women giggled as the man fondled her playfully before they closed the door. "Cabin three-three," she told her companion.

"Romulan games are a series of overlapping gambits," Nayyar explained. "The object of which is to lead your opponent to a wrong conclusion as you carefully build your forces." Nayyar peered up the long corridor. "This area is under surveillance."

"Safety mostly," Soames declared. She followed the augment's gaze until she saw the small video pickup in the far wall of the tube's bulkhead. The two were just out of its view.

"We should move about without being seen admiral," Nayyar said. "Do you have a weapon?"

"What sort of bloody jackass carries a gun in this day and age of civilization?" Soames asked playfully as she removed the Webley from her travel pouch. She carefully lined up the twenty-first century weapon's front sight and back sight. The monitoring device vanished amid a muffled burst of sound.

"So there is a reason that Perex is leading us to his cabin," Soames said. "It figures into his plan but leads us to the wrong conclusion." A chill went through her; or take care of his pursuers. "Check out Perex's cabin. I know I don't have to tell you to be careful."

Nayyar bowed her head slightly. Soames looked carefully around her. She was no expert on lunar travel tubes but she had been a pilot: Aircraft preflights involved an examination of components. It was a cursory look for anything out of the ordinary. Soames was looking for anything out of the ordinary now.

They had spent the last week looking for Perex who had led them from one lodging to another. It took no spy; Erica knew to see that they were being played with. She still was no closer to guessing what sort of plot the Romulan was attempting to accomplish. Soames wondered if Nayyar might've been fooled and that they had been led away while Romulans unbeknownst to the augment went about their deadly business back on earth. Soames opened purely decorative panels and looked at the environmental piping and power connections below.

They did know that Perex had boarded this travel tube. Soames and Nayyar had caught up to him enough to get a positive identification. Where was he now Erica wondered? Nayyar stepped out of his assigned compartment and shook her head. Soames walked up and looked in; nothing.

"You know that we are probably the target here?" Erica asked.

"Among other things admiral," Nayyar answered. "Perex wants to be out here. We are kilometers from anything here."

"Let's go back to the lounge," Soames said. "Maybe he ducked out in the 'fresher."

The two women turned down the empty passageway—and ran straight into the Romulan. Nayyar hit the blond with a flying tackle knocking the agent to his back. Soames took the Webley out of her pouch and leveled it at the Romulan. She was surprised to see—tears.

"I'm playing the part!" Perex pleaded. "What kind of production is this? You two bitches really hurt me! I hope you have your union cards!"

Soames watched as Nayyar knelt and pulled the agent up by his mop of bleached blond hair. "Who are you?" she asked the agent roughly. Nayyar drew back and slapped their captive. The noise of the slap sounded to Erica like the one her gun made minus its silencing device.

Anger was replaced by fear. "I'm just an actor in a holovid!" He started to squirm away from the augment. A section of 'skin' hung loosely on his face. Nayyar reached down and pulled at it. Blood trickled out of the man's mouth. Red blood, Soames noted. A cabin door opened; the same one where the drunken couple had retired to.

"What's going on here?" the man asked in an angry tone. Erica noted his lack of pants.

"Please come back to bed Tony," a female voice pleaded from the darkness.

Soames looked down to see that the skin was actually a cleverly made mask. She looked at Tony with her best command glare. "You bloody well listen here!" she started. She remembered the couple from their first trip through the lounge. The woman had laughed at Tony's comments but had struck Soames as being nervous. "I'm with lunar security! Does that woman have ID?"

Tony looked guiltily at the nude woman sprawled on the small bed. "Well I a," the man sputtered.

"Speak up! I don't have all bloody day here," Soames spat. "Your names will figure in my investigation. You can be damn sure that investigators will be coming to your home to ask questions!"

"Our homes?" his question came out in a squeal.

The woman seemed to be recovering out of her drunken haze. "Tony; don't let Mark find out!"

"Ma'am, please!" he begged Erica. A part of her was enjoying this.

She poked him hard in his soft belly. Soames wondered why he wasn't in the military: He was certainly young enough she thought. Then she thought that the military was better off without this kind of trash.

"You don't look like trouble Mister Tony," she said and poked him again. He issued forth with a small squeak. "Get your ass back into there with that woman."

He thanked Soames and backed shakily back into his cabin. Erica turned back to Nayyar and the holovid actor. "What's your story?" she asked as she leveled the Webley between at his head.

"Who are you people?" the actor asked shakily. "This thing is for real. I…I was told it was a production. It was all a big to-do so I could deliver a package for the wedding." Nayyar turned back to Soames who nodded at her. The augment sprang up lightly releasing the frightened actor.

"What package?" Soames asked.

"The wedding gift he gave me for the bride!" the actor pleaded. "Can I set up?"

Soames looked at Nayyar. "Better get to some pressure suits!" she exclaimed.

"Equipment locker one level down," Nayyar said as the two women sprinted down the passageway. Erica stopped at an emergency station and knocked the cover free with the butt of her pistol as a large pop and frosty vapor heralded the blowout. She handed Nayyar an emergency mask as the air pressure dropped to zero.

Soames' skin prickled. She took a breath out of the mask. The actor was not so lucky. He crawled less than a meter as his eyes bulged painfully in their sockets. Nayyar pulled her along. Erica knew that she would bleed out through her skin soon. The masks were only made to get to the airtight cabins. Nayyar kicked at an emergency hatch. She beckoned for Soames to go first. Erica clumsily mounted the top of a ladder and slid down to the deck below.

Soames moved out of Nayyar's way. She was aware that the augment had only let her go first because Erica was the one most likely to pass out soon. Erica breathed in great draughts of air. She knew that more was evolving through her skin. She felt nauseous. Erica realized that Nayyar had picked her up and was gingerly scrambling over the unfortunates who had not gotten a mask on in time. Erica lifted her mask knowing it was sure death. But she had to vomit.

The roar of air filled her ears. Spots cleared before her eyes revealing the small cramped interior of the equipment locker. Erica's last meal made another appearance onto the deck of the wrecked tube. She wiped at her mouth and nose and came back with a bloody palm. Nayyar handed her a thickly padded surface suit. The augment looked like she was genuinely concerned for the admiral's safety.

"I'm all right," Soames declared and then threw up again. She took the suit and quickly wriggled into it.

"Perex blew up the travel pod," Nayyar said as she dressed with superhuman speed.

"So he wanted to shut down part of the lunar transfer system and…." Erica trailed off weakly. "He may not even have gotten on."

"I do not know what was useful for him back at Armstrong," Nayyar said as she affixed her helmet to its mount. Half of the augment's face was hidden between the helmet and her mane of thick jet black hair. "He was on this travel tube admiral. I know."

Erica had cinched up her suit and gloves. She put a helmet atop her head. She checked for and programmed in a private frequency for them to use. "This suit has about four day's capacity." Soames said as she studied the suit's specifications. "But really I just don't see us bumping about on the moon's surface for that length."

"Check, check," Nayyar said as she verified the operating condition of the suit's radio. Erica nodded in turn and did her own check. "Perex will not bump around that long either admiral."

Soames nodded. "Cycle the compartment, please." Nayyar initiated the locker's depressurization. Erica felt her suit balloon out and stiffen somewhat. They stepped out into the passenger section. A few suited figures rushed past them. Most of the passengers riding in the coach seats were covered beneath a transparent protective webbing. Soames noted many nose bleeds and bleeding out of the some of the frightened passengers' ears. A few tried to reach through the airtight mesh to seize her gauntleted hands. Part of heart stopped as she wished that she could reach out and help the wounded.

"They will live," Nayyar declared flatly. "The air blast came from ahead."

"You could feel the blowout?" she asked. Rapid depressurization happened in a split second. Soames had been made to endure manufactured blowouts as part of her flight training. It had all happened so fast that she had no sense of which direction the air had gone. Nayyar turned out to be right: The next compartment boasted a hole; beyond which lay the sharply defined airless lunar vista. Tube crewmen hastened about setting up a temporary patch.

"Awful convenient that this thing blew up on part of its surface run," Soames said quietly. She led the way past the startled workers. She guessed that she and Nayyar would be taken for crewmen in the confusion.

"Youse guys gonna check the rest of the exterior?" a thick northeastern American accented voice asked. Soames found the switch for the common net but decided against speaking. She raised an open hand and made a fist as she and the augment stepped out onto the surface.

Soames stepped lightly until she regained her low gravity footing. Nayyar was already bounding ahead to the pinnacle of a rocky peak. Erica followed carefully. She pulled an interactive chart from her pouch; glad that she had possessed the presence of mind to transfer her pouch to her suit. She stood beside Nayyar in the dim greenish blue earthlight.

"This is the first time I have seen the earth from space," Nayyar said. "I got to earth in a Vulcan freighter. It is quite beautiful."

Soames stood by her side. "I hardly ever look at it." It was an awesome sight when Soames thought about it; billions of people going about their lives on its surface. She turned her attention to the surface. A few surface skimmers, flying bed frames as Soames called the ugly functional craft, streaked across the surface. Erica guessed that more than a few were emergency vehicles. The wrecked tube lay five hundred meters behind and below the two women. She knelt and unfolded her chart.

A glowing dot illuminated as the device's satellite interface found its position. They were near to Tyco. Erica looked down at the few lights that belied the existence of the sprawling underground city beneath the sand. She returned to her scan of the chart. Several areas were marked indicating that something manmade was there. Soames pressed a gauntleted finger against each bringing up its name.

Erica shook her head. "A tritium processing plant; a salvage yard; a micrograv research facility," she went through a list of possible destinations that were in lunar walking distance. Her chart went black as a shadow bathed the women into absolute darkness.

Soames looked up as the old ship climbed out overhead of them. It took Erica a few seconds to place it: An old DY class freighter. Erica looked at where it had come from. Her moon suit was very efficient save for a handy pair of peepers. She wondered how Nayyar's augmented vision was. Erica nudged the woman and pointed in the direction from whence the spaceship had come. She returned to her chart: Clavius; the location that held a salvage yard.

"There are several pieces of spacecraft scattered across the surface." Erica watched as Nayyar looked out over the surface. "Several are intact but there are no outward indications of active power plants. I can make out what I believe is a habitat dome."

"Do you know anything about Clavius, Kanya?" she asked. Erica supposed that the Romulans had prepped their human infiltrators. Soames wondered if she and McCoy had not passed up a valuable mine of information.

"Clavius along with the installation at Mare Crisium is where the earth governments finally agreed to dump their surplus ships." Soames realized from Nayyar's style of delivery that the woman had indeed been indoctrinated in earth and Sol landmarks. "Most of the vessels there are sublight and over one hundred years old. The metal from the hulks have been used in the construction of lunar population centers. It is located low on the Tal Shiar's list of high profile targets."

"That DY came out of there," Soames said. She had turned bodily to look at the augment. She barely caught Nayyar's nod through the shadow cast over her suit helmet.

"Perex may be trying to go somewhere else," Nayyar said at last. "If the salvage yard has working ships Perex has more than enough credits to purchase a vessel."

"Do you have any idea where he may be going Kanya?" she asked at last.

"Nothing here that the Tal Shiar briefed us on was considered of vital importance." Soames watched as she scanned the ground between them and Clavius. "Perex has had flight training covering a variety of terran, Andorian and Romulan vehicles. But to what end admiral?"

What end indeed she asked. Erica scanned the surface and looked again at the damaged travel tube. She switched through her helmet comm system until she came to a news broadcast:

"—has called for calm during this tragedy. No lunar cities have been threatened but it is still unknown if the bombs, detonated along the main tube routes are just the first in a wave of attacks."

"This is not good," Erica sighed and rose. She listened as the broadcast continued. "He has shut down the entire tube system. But what does that—

"The president has issued an order rescinding the system wide travel restrictions in an effort to support the lunar relief effort." Soames switched the broadcast off.

"The chart says that it is fifty klicks to Clavius," Soames said. That had to be it: Perex could obtain a ship but before the bombing the Stellar Navy defense pickets would never have let him go unmolested.

Nayyar looked at her in that odd inhuman way that Erica had come to attribute to her upbringing by an alien culture. But for a few seconds a radiant, human smile blossomed on that veneer. "I think I feel like a little stroll, admiral."

Star Fleet ship Serendipity, operating in Klingon space, Jan 2158

"What do you think of our guest?" Captain Marissa Morgan asked the table. She picked at a dish of blueberries that looked to be fresh out of the freezer.

Augustus Kirk leaned back and picked at his teeth. Growing up on a farm had left him a loose sense of manners. He smiled at Morgan's question. He had come to discover that Morgan liked playing the part of instigator. Kirk had honed his meager political skills by being a good judge of people and the roles they played in a group.

"It's why I decided to dine early," Doctor David Rand said. "I've seen the inside of human beings under less than ideal conditions but the sight of someone eating live worms…" he trailed off with a shake of his head.

"Here I thought it was my bubbling company David," Kirk said. Augustus dropped the toothpick on the table in favor of a cigar that he retrieved from his pocket.

"First worms and now one of those foul smelling things," Rand said as he wrinkled his nose at Kirk and his stogie.

"Try one of these, Kirk," Morgan said. She slid a fat tube across the table to him.

"I thought that you were all for health and fitness captain?" he asked with a broad grin plastered on his face. Kirk took the cigar out of the tube, bit the end of it off and lit it with a flourish.

"I am," she answered. "Want to wrestle, Kirk?" Morgan winked at him.

"Don't tempt me," he answered. "Besides; what makes you think you can whip me? I've busted a few horses in my days." He blew out a puff of venomous blue smoke.

She leaned back in her chair assuming a mock seductive pose. "I'm waiting for that ride Augy."

"You humans are a complete puzzle," Soval declared. "I seem to understand the Klingons more than I understand humans." Kirk watched as the Vulcan finished a forkful of salad.

"As much as I'd like to see this escalate," Rand started. "I think that you would hurt our esteemed ambassador, captain." Kirk shot him a look of betrayal. "Besides," Rand shook his head. "Our guest is here."

Kirk and the rest of the diners followed the doctor's gaze to the galley entrance. The short, broad Klingon had entered the room and was looking around as if he were a lion on the hunt. Kirk wondered if Klingons ever relaxed. Chang was wearing the armored breastplate that he had arrived with. Daggers stuck out of his belt and the top of his left boot. Chang saw the captain's table and made his way to it.

"Take a seat Chang," Morgan said. Kirk watched as she assumed a more military posture.

Chang eyed them all as if they were plotting to kill him. He sat down warily. Kirk blew a puff of smoke into the air eliciting a growl from the Klingon. "Your people have an attraction for fire captain." A nervous navy file approached the table.

"What would you like today sir?" the woman asked nervously.

"The skull stew with a helping of e'liq tentacle on the side," the Klingon answered. The cook turned away but jumped as Chang reached out and grabbed her. "The e'liq should be served within one of your minutes of being killed; so that it is still moving on the platter." The cook agreed that the galley staff would do their best. Chang released her and turned to the humans at the table. "As I was saying; your people seem obsessed with fire. You burn your food and smoke burned plant matter."

"It is most barbaric," Soval agreed.

"It is a reflection of different tastes Vulcan," Chang retorted. "One thing I'll give the humans and their allies. Your tastes differ but you fight given the choice. Not like the habi'dA who choose to shrink from an alliance to avoid a fight."

"We don't always choose war Chang," Kirk asserted. "Some humans say that we won't start a fight; nor will we walk away when one is forced upon us."

"That remains to be seen Kirk," Chang countered. "Some among you oppose your war with the Romulans; even in the face of being attacked."

"It's our nature to quarrel among ourselves Chang," Kirk said.

"So it seems," the Klingon said.

"So you are at the second age of ascension," Rand said to the Klingon. "That makes you about fifteen in earth years."

"Klingons grow at a different rate than do you humans," Chang replied. "I may be a youth in your eyes but I have already fought in many campaigns. We Klingons do not shelter our children. Don't your male children suckle their mothers' breasts until well into adulthood?"

"No; some of us just like suckling breasts," Kirk mumbled.

"What was that?" Chang asked sharply.

The discussion was interrupted when a cook returned with a skull full of steaming meant and vegetables. Kirk actually found the aroma strangely pleasant in an earthy sort of way. Beside the skull of stew two tentacles writhed in a final death dance. The cook placed the meal before Chang who got an almost human look of satisfaction on his face. He picked up one of the squirming tentacles and bit into it. The ship's PA system chimed.

"We have a ship just entering radar range captain," Major Lasuda announced. The Tellarite's voice boomed out of the overhead speaker.

"That will be cruisers dispatched by the House of Kaluch," Chang said through bloody mouthful of food.

"It is about time," Morgan asserted. "I was beginning to think that they were afraid to come out and meet us." Kirk waggled his cigar at Morgan. She had confided to him that she considered Chang to be a pompous pipsqueak.

Chang threw his dinner down on the tray. "Make no mistake captain: They have been altered by your virus; but they are still Klingons." Kirk could see that the Klingon was clearly steamed by Morgan's leaving after her comment.

"You're here to advise us, Chang," Kirk interjected; "so advise."

"You had better have the cure Kirk," Chang retorted. Kirk could hear the undertone of danger in the young Klingon's voice.

"There is no cure for what should never have happened in the first place!" Rand exclaimed. "Soong's little vials of DNA weren't meant to infect a race: Each sample is designed to enhance the patient in a certain way. Bad hearing; your hearing can be enhanced, the same for strength, vision, dermal enhancements, the works. They've created unintended results but never a genetic plague."

"So you claim," Chang answered and then paused. "Doctor," he added in a malicious tone.

"Listen you little son of a—

Morgan returned to the table to bid them all to accompany her to the bridge. Kirk got up taking a final puff on Morgan's gift. He considered his friend David's reaction to Chang's unspoken suspicions. He was surprised at his Rand's reaction. But then again upon reflection Kirk realized that in all of his dealings with the doctor one thing seemed to move Rand: Questions about his character or honor.

Chang burst into laughter as he got up from his seat. "Here's ado to lock up honesty  
and honor from the access of gentle visitors," the Klingon quoted. "So you humans do have a temper? It is about time: You will need it when dealing with Kaluch."

Kirk joined Morgan as they made their way to the bridge. Soval fell into step with them while Rand and Chang had lagged behind. Kirk wondered if Chang was trying to get another rise out of Rand. Kirk wished again that Serendipity had a better system for the movement of people. He followed Morgan up two sets of steep stairs finally arriving at one of the turbo tubes. Morgan started it on its way mentioning that Rand and the Klingon could follow.

"Captain," Soval started. "Have your people introduced a genetic virus among the Klingons?"

Morgan stopped the tube. "No," she answered bluntly. "You know the president Soval; better than I do as a matter of fact. Do you really think that President Thorpe would do such a thing?"

Soval looked thoughtful. Kirk wondered as the Vulcan seldom paused to answer a question. "I earlier said that I do not understand you humans, captain. Forgive me; I did not mean it as an insult. The president is a man of honor. It may surprise you but I was," Soval paused again. "I was distressed that my people did not join your fight against the Romulans: Distressed that I, along with Karzai, had to deliver the news of the abrogation of our treaty with your people. I do not understand Minister V'Las' intentions."

Morgan manipulated the tubes controls and sent it along its way again. "I believe you; for what it is worth, Smiley," Kirk said to the ex-minister. The tube doors parted admitting them to Serendipity's bridge.

"The computer has obtained a firing solution sir," Ensign Ang Wong declared.

"Good, feed it to the fire control system," the Tellarite answered. He spun in his chair and climbed up out of it. "Three cruisers on approach, captain; the ones that Star Fleet intelligence is designating as the D-2."

"Six high-yield nuclear missiles slung under wing pods along with four lower yield nukes," Morgan recited as she assumed her seat. She looked around to see if Chang and the doctor had arrived yet. She continued when she saw that they had not. "Intelligence thinks they are packing four times that number internally."

"I'm no ship expert," Kirk chimed in. "But it sounds like their people sleep on top of their missiles. How much room for living can there be on something like that?"

"Klingons prize martial prowess over comfort," Soval supplied.

Chang and the doctor stepped onto the bridge at that moment. Kirk looked at presentation of Serendipity's radar on the main view screen. He had started to pick up an idea of what the stream of information beneath each contact meant. The three unknowns were on a reciprocal heading from that of Serendipity's. The power readings were what Kirk remembered from before. Lieutenant Commander Swenson had explained to him that the Klingons ran their matter, antimatter plants at well over one hundred percent. The woman had given Kirk a highly technical explanation. All the while he had been recalling an old petro fuel tractor that his dad had maintained. One day, while going through a particularly rocky piece of Iowa soil the old tractor's motor had exploded.

"They are sending us text again in their version of linguacode, captain," Chief Roger Calloway said. "Same as before sir: They order us to come to a halt and prepare to be boarded."

"I've had my fill of that too," Morgan said. She gestured at Kirk while issuing orders to Calloway. "Open an audio channel to them on one of the frequencies that the chancellor provided us." She turned to Kirk. "I want you to translate what I say as word for word as you can Mister Kirk."

Kirk nodded and stepped up to the audio pickup. He looked at Calloway who nodded. Morgan started speaking. Kirk listened and did his best to render the gist of what she was saying into passable Klingon:

"I am speaking for Captain Marissa Morgan commanding the Star Fleet ship Serendipity cruising under the personal seal of Chancellor Ma'aQ. We will not permit an armed boarding party aboard this vessel. We invite you to come along side us to escort us to V'hAch'c."

There was a long pause as the vessels continued along their course heading. Ensign Karen Lockley reported the ever diminishing distance between the Klingon group and Serendipity. Morgan sat impassively, barely acknowledging the information. Kirk heard Lasuda growl. But he realized at the last second that it was a throaty chuckle and not a growl that the Tellarite was annunciating. Lockley announced the distance once more this time informing everyone on the bridge that just thirty seconds were left before there would be a collision.

"Drop out of warp and prepare to be boarded!" a harsh voice boomed out of the overhead speaker grill. Kirk quickly translated.

"No," Morgan said simply.

"Shall I alter course captain?" Chief Shannon Baxter asked.

"Steady on this heading," Morgan answered. The collision alert sounded. "Stifle that thing!" Morgan roared.

"Though this be madness, yet there is method in it," Chang declared.

"Klingon ships veering off!" the sensor officer yelled. "The sudden course change can't be good captain." Lockley shot a quick look at Morgan. He knew that Morgan had been using subspace sensors to look at the surrounding Klingon space despite the moratorium against doing so.

"I'm sure it isn't ensign," Morgan answered. "Chief Baxter; bring us out of warp and turnabout."

"Incoming transmission," Calloway chimed in. "Voice over video captain."

Morgan nodded at the communications' chief. Kirk turned his attention to view screen. A Klingon with a short mane of black hair appeared on the screen. He looked more like he was from Asia than another world Augustus thought. Rather than the garish body armor that Chancellor Ma'aQ and his people wore this Klingon was dressed in a black tunic overlaid by a sleeveless gold pullover garment. He glared into his viewscreen at the humans and their allies.

"We do not those who consort with Ma'aQ into our space human," The Klingon declared. Kirk translated for Morgan who sat back impassively. He translated her introduction and then Morgan's explanation of what they wanted in Klingon space and why they wanted to make a call on V'hAch'c. "You have the cure for this?" he said. Kirk knew that the Klingon meant his human appearance.

"An introduction is in order," Morgan said. Augustus translated.

"I am Ka'an, human, commander of this squadron," the Klingon answered. "Do you have the means of reversing what you have done to us?"

Kirk and Morgan both looked at Rand who shook his head. Morgan turned to Kirk. Kirk and Morgan both looked at Rand who shook his head. "We have done nothing to you. We have been helping the chancellor to find a cure—

"Ma'aQ tried to exterminate us!" the Klingon roared back.

"Then let us try," Kirk shot back. "We have had some experience with altering our genetic makeup."

"And you will then get your warriors back," Ka'an commented. "We know that is what your purpose is. I also suspect that you hope that Ma'aQ stays neutral in your war against the Romulans." Kirk looked on as the Klingon reclined in his severely styled command chair. He supposed that the fact that the Klingons had a bridge structured like those of humans and their allies meant something. It probably meant something to naval tacticians and exopsychologists he thought. "We respect strength and candor, and cunning. I suspect that you and your allies fall into that last category."

Kirk quickly translated for Morgan then continued "Whatever you think; we are people who may be able to help you."

"Very well Morgan," Ka'an said. "I shall escort you myself. The other vessels of my squadron will take up a patrol route out here."

"Ensign Lockley?" the captain got the sensor operator's attention after the view screen went blank; "status of the two Klingon vessels?"

"One of them appears to be drifting," Lockley answered. "The other is launching shuttles I believe."

"Too bad they had to execute an uncoordinated turn in warp," Kirk listened as Morgan actually snickered.

"That was foolish captain," Soval declared in as close to an emotional tone as Kirk had ever heard him use. "What would have happened had the Klingons continued?"

"We wouldn't be having this pleasant discussion then would we?" she answered with a smile.

"We're a day from planet fall folks," Kirk looked on as Morgan rose and paced about her bridge. "Doctor, you're sure that we are not susceptible to the effects of this virus?"

Kirk looked at David whose face had assumed a sheepish look. "I can't guarantee anything one hundred percent. So far from the materials I've tested the answer is no. But I don't even understand how this could happen to the Klingons in the first place."

"Limited shore party then," Morgan advised.

"You probably won't be included in the party," Kirk said to Chang. Morgan agreed that it was too dangerous for the Klingon to be exposed to the virus. "Too bad; we'll miss your company."

Chang smiled in that venomous Klingon way. Kirk thought of it as the way a lion might smile before chowing down on an antelope. "My life is for the empire. I shall go there."

"Now wait a minute Chang," Rand intervened. "I might not be crazy about you, but if you go down there you could catch this thing."

"It is not fatal," Chang said. "Before we left the chancellor asked me to do just as I am demanding. It will give you doctor and our geneticists a basis from which to observe the virus."

"You'll be changed," Kirk interjected. He had found that despite the youth's arrogance that he had a sort of liking for the Klingon. Augustus supposed that his having sons who he sometimes had called cocksure and arrogant went some way in explaining that feeling for Chang.

"It is not death Kirk," Chang countered. "And if it leads to that, then: When beggars die there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

Yes but don't forget," Kirk started; "if you live to be one hundred, you've got it made. Very few people die past that age."

"I don't remember that play Kirk," the look of bafflement on Chang's face was worth it for Augustus.

"Burns and Allen," Kirk said.

Taskforce 18, UES Beagle, outbound from Sol, Jan 2158

Commodore Jocelyn Stiles leaned over the conference table. She ran a pointer along one of the three view screens that were arranged in a triad on the table's center. The assembled officers and enlisted personnel followed the glowing dot that the pointer made. There were some new faces she thought as she paused in the briefing to allow her people time to catch up to her. Stiles surveyed the table while she waited.

The Tellarite Cruz had been promoted to lieutenant and transferred to gunnery officer. That was fine as far as Stiles was concerned: Tellarites had shown a penchant for wanting to see things blow up. Cruz had replaced Damon Rice who had been promoted to lieutenant commander and moved to the operations' position. Stiles knew that she was only two years older than Rice who shared Stiles' African ancestry but was a few shades darker than was Jocelyn. But she felt decades older. Rice still looked too much like a cadet anxious to please his commander. Ensign Nandalal Bose was gone, replaced by Chief Dalia Morris. The middle aged enlisted woman impressed Stiles as a no-nonsense non commissioned officer. Also gone was the Andorian Anjin.

The Andorian was not moved to another taskforce much to Stiles' pleasure. He was serving as first officer of the Harry S. Truman; one of the carriers in her taskforce. Stiles missed the Andorian's warrior sense of doing business. She knew that he understood that the birdies had to be crushed; then perhaps negotiations could start. Stiles didn't know why she suspected it, but she had a feeling that the Romulans would only understand a total defeat. She wondered if her new first officer understood that.

Captain Jean Baptiste Jospin had been bound for command of the Tannhauser Vicksburg when the bureau of personnel was looking for an officer to fill Ed Minford's billet. Stiles was surprised to learn that the captain, a man on the bad side of his thirties, had earned most of his rank prior to the outbreak of war. The Frenchman had a close cut crop of curly black hair setting of a pair of piercing blue eyes. He also had a record of insubordinate conduct.

The late Admiral French had entered a bad rating after Jospin had maneuvered his ship in warp within the restricted volume of a war games area. Stiles had researched the exercise and discovered that French's ship had been recorded as destroyed by Jospin's destroyer. Several of Jospin's captains had noted that the officer had less than passing regard for regulations and procedures. Stiles thought that the two of them would get along just fine; unless Admiral Forrest had sent Jospin in to observe her conduct. She had been unable to find a convenient time in which to feel her new first officer out.

"There have been attacks here," she said, pointing to a point out from Topaz. "Here and here," Stiles continued. "Admiral Forrest's tactic of moving the carriers to random locations is paying off."

"Old, can't see the trees for the forest gets one right," Jospin exclaimed eliciting peals of laughter from the audience.

"Yes; Admiral Forrest is doing a superb job under difficult circumstances," Stiles bit her tongue and declared in a warning tone. She was at a level of command where she realized just what Forrest was dealing with as far as coordinating the efforts of two alien navies along with the SN. His seeming inattention to individual battles was, however, giving him a bad name in the fleet.

"Sorry sir," Jospin said. "I was just trying to lighten the mood."

Stiles continued without comment. "Where does this lead us besides losing carriers" she asked rhetorically. She put the pointer down and pulled up the sleeves of her gold jersey. Stiles placed both hands firmly on the table and leaned over her audience. "These attacks have forced us to string out our taskforces. In the meantime the core worlds have less and less ships to defend them."

"We'd surely have scanned a large force deployment sir," Rice declared. "They may have shut down sensors but we have enough radar surveillance drones to cover the space out of Topaz."

"Unless they have a force in an area of space that we cannot scan," Jospin announced quietly.

Rice looked oblivious while Stiles nodded at her first officer. "The force that jumped Grizzly Oulette seemed to come out of no where." She paused dramatically and looked around.

"No where, meaning pointie space," Jospin supplied.

"That is my guess," Stiles said. "Star Fleet Command is maintaining its policy of laying off the Vulcan border. There is still hope that they will join the president's federation."

"He shouldn't bother," Jospin mumbled. Stiles asked him to speak up. "He shouldn't bother," he repeated. "They sold us out from the very beginning. I'm sure they'll be anxious to jump on the winning side when all of this is over. You Americans have a saying, 'good riddance to bad news.' They showed their Vulcan integrity to everyone who wanted to see it when they backed out of the treaty. I say to hell with them!"

"Be that as it may," Stiles began. "That is why I ordered us past the restricted zone." She looked around at her subordinates. Most of them knew of the order that she had given yesterday. "Some of you know me. I've got a reputation as a cold-hearted bitch; that is correct. But I'm asking everyone here, and everyone in this comm conference." The briefing was going out to the rest of the taskforce. "Is anyone uncomfortable with this?"

"It's about time," Chief Morris declared. "I was on the Catskill when we watched a cabbage and two jellyfish make a run for their border. We couldn't pursue and Captain Mohler couldn't even pursue to the outer edge of sensor range."

"I have no problem with this of course, commodore," Jospin said. "But if the pointies discover us…"

"You mean us dumb old humans?" Stiles answered in the thickest, most exaggerated southern American accent that she could mimic. "Why our backwards navigation computers must've set us off a few of them light year things."

Everyone in the room laughed. Stiles heard a few twitters over the briefing room speakers. She looked around at those that she could see. If this ploy failed quite likely the president would relieve her. Stiles entered a command into her handheld. The image on the screens changed.

"Groombridge 34AB," she said; while looking around. Stiles stood straight. "Captain Jospin," she nodded at her first officer.

"A lifeless system orbiting a red dwarf," Jospin explained, taking up his portion of the briefing. "The system does contain three gas giants and several class 'D' worlds. The pointies surveyed them. Their surfaces hold high concentrations of tritium. In fact; the Stellar Navy petitioned the Vulcans to build a way station there in the thirties. The petition was denied: I'm sure the Vulcans didn't want us close enough to walk away with their family china. They have cataloged the system and put probes down in the worlds there but have done remarkably little exploration there."

"I remember that attempt to build there," Cruz interjected. "Tellar submitted a proposal as well. The Vulcans were quick to reject that; even though the system lies far out of their space lanes. I remembered thinking that it was just typical pointy obtuseness." The Tellarite studied the readout presented on the viewer. "The frequent solar eruptions would foul radar and subspace sensors." The Tellarite scratched at his hairy chin. "Seems like a perfect place from which to conduct offensive operations."

"Captain Mohler snuck a little under the hold short line," Morris interjected. "We scanned the birdies turning on a heading in this general direction." The chief looked around; a sheepish grin on her face. "Of course that never made it into the official after action report."

"I want to take a look there," Stiles declared. "Our carriers are running a rotating sphere around the taskforce. We can't see as well as we could with sensors but our fighters are putting out a screen."

"Captain Harrison here," a tinny voice announced out of the briefing room speaker. "We've started to scan activity there commodore."

"Okay," Stiles said, "reduce to warp one and continue on for another quarter AU and then come to a halt." She looked around the room. "If these are pointies you can bet they'll be out here to investigate us."

"I would assume they are not," Jospin supplied. "Pointie sensors are even better then what we were operating with. They should have seen us," he looked at his wrist chronometer; "about twenty-five minutes ago."

"I agree," Stiles said. "We'll hold out here unless things change. The corollary of all of this is that the Romulans would be looking through a good deal of interference—if they are there. We have the longer look here folks; let's use it."

Stiles concluded the briefing after there were no more questions. Her crew filtered out of the room, save for Jospin. She was not surprised. Stiles had not had a great deal of time in which to speak to her new first officer. Perhaps now was the time she realized.

"No matter what happens here this could be bad," Jospin said at last. Stiles watched as he took out a small fist sized ornate metal case. She realized that it was a cigarette case. "Do you mind?" he asked as he took out a small white tube. Stiles shook her head.

"I've considered it," Stiles said. "Intelligence reports that this V'Las may be arming for war. Their have been an increase of incidents along the Vulcan Andorian border. You know the andies; they are selling it all as if they are the innocent party. But when you filter out all of the rhetoric it does come down to a pattern of provocative acts being made by the Vulcans."

"It doesn't surprise me," Jospin answered. "I was an operations officer on Fearless during the negotiations. The pointies were slipperier than eels. They denied that they ever conducted surveillance against the Andorians. When our mediator pointed out that their observation post had been uncovered the pointies merely said that 'it had been removed; therefore there was no surveillance being done presently—never mind what had transpired." He struck a match to his cigarette. Stiles watched, as the end glowed cherry red.

"Tell me Jospin did Forrest send you here to keep an eye on me?" she asked without ceremony.

She looked intently at him as he exhaled a stream of smoke. "Oui, mademoiselle," he answered at last. "You've seen my folder commodore. What you don't know is that this is my last stop."

So; Jocelyn thought that was it. She had wondered why the Frenchman was not commanding a ship of his own. Stiles was young and inexperienced in the navy's underpinnings but she realized that these days, for someone like Jospin to not have a ship of his own meant that he had pissed too many people off. She waited for further explanation.

"I received retirement papers despite the fact that even older flag officers are being waivered. So when this assignment came along I put in for it. I had a few friends in personnel; they helped. But I spoke to Forrest's attaché the day before I shuttled up to Beagle. Captain Hernandez told me that this position came with the stipulation that I watch you and report back to Star Fleet Command on your conduct."

Stiles considered her new first officer in light of some access codes that Major Reed had given her. She knew that Jospin was on thin ice. Now she wondered why Star Fleet had not given her someone more straitlaced. Then it occurred to her that holding Jospin's career out before him could be a tremendous stick to make him do as bidden. Stiles nodded at her first officer. He reclined comfortably and continued smoking.

"Have you sent out any dispatches concerning me, captain?" Stiles asked.

"Call me Jean please, commodore," Jospin said. He exhaled a thin line of smoke. "I didn't have the heart. That is not me."

"Look cap—Jean," Stiles began, "you are twice my age. I got here because President Thorpe saw something in me. Okay I'm here; I want to fight Romulans. I know that President Thorpe sees this bright future and that is good. My dad was a lot like the president. But someone has to deal with the here and now so there is a future. These Romulans are suicidal. They aren't going to go home because we have good intentions. They need to be beaten and beaten in a way that is so complete that their descendants will come out bruised."

"I agree completely commodore," Jospin said. "The pointies are looking for a pretense though. You might hand them one if we are caught here."

"If there are Romulans based out of Groombridge then the Vulcans will have some questions to answer," Stiles said. The truth was that as much as she wanted to see dead Romulans she was also here out of fear: Fear for her mother back on earth. She had a niggling fear that the Romulans would turn on earth.

"Send out your dispatches on me then Jean," Stiles said at last. "You might still be a plant of some sort but I'm going to continue to press forward with what I'm doing here. Damnit; the president sent me out here to beat the birdies. I need to be free to do that."

"I understand your reluctance to trust me commodore," Jospin said as he stood up. He took a long drag on the end of his cigarette. "I hope to change your mind."

"Juice up those messages to Hernandez," Stiles answered. "Turn me into a real villain to a degree that they despise me but can't do anything to me. Maybe if they are spending time chasing minutia they will overlook the more," she paused and cleared her throat, "the more serious violations of orders; because I'll let you know here and now: I intend on doing whatever it takes to beat these bastards. I can't protect you if anything happens to me. But at least if you play along that should cover you."

"I shall do as you order commodore," Jospin answered. He stubbed out his cigarette. "I shall ensure that you see everything that I send to Star Fleet."

The comm system alert sounded. Stiles was still not used to the ancient boatswain's call that had replaced the characteristic chime. She supposed that the terran navies had won out over the air and ground services with respect to that. But then again she remembered reading that most alien auditory organs picked up on the mournful call over the mechanical chime. She hit the table top comm panel.

"Squadron Thirteen has radar returns showing bogies in typical birdie formations commodore," Damon Rice informed her. "Signal intelligence is reading Romulan caterwauling."

Stiles remembered the first time that she had heard a playback of the digitized Romulan transmissions: The nickname was well earned. She acknowledged the information and told her bridge staff to proceed as planned. Stiles had no idea of how many birdies ships were in the system. It was time to wait and see. But Jocelyn knew that she couldn't spend forever out here undetected. She turned to Jospin.

"We'll come in using the planetary masses as a screen," Stiles began. She punched up a graphic on Groombridge. "Depending on where they are is where we'll concentrate. We'll head in with Celebus, Hazmq and Panther. The squadrons from the Truman and Potemkin will split up into slightly oblique z-plus and minus approaches. Cyane and Seawolf will stay with the carriers."

"That gives us little cover commodore," Jospin said.

Stiles switched over to another file in Beagle's database. "What do you think Jean?"

"Pointie code groups," he said. "How did you come by these?"

"Let's skip that for now," Stiles said. She had been somewhat fearful of Major Reed but he had left her a data wafer with much more information on it than he had told her was there. Stiles had been surprised and then pleased to find an extensive file containing Vulcan ship-to-ship recognition codes. "I don't know how the birdies will react to what they, if all goes well, thinks is a group of Vulcan ships. I do know how they will react to Star Fleet ships."

"One thing is for certain," Jospin answered. Stiles watched as he lit another cigarette before continuing. "We may find out if the Vulcans are in league with the birds."

Stiles nodded and led the way from the conference room. "Those things aren't good for you; you know." She eyed Jospin's tobacco.

"I thought that you didn't mind…"

"I don't," she said as they sped up a set of steep metal stairs to the deck that housed Beagle's command center. David Hudson's father had smoked. For a few seconds she remembered being a young girl: She and David Hudson were sitting together on an old porch swing on the back of the Hudson home. Tom Hudson was smoking and trying clumsily to give advice to his son and his future wife. She realized that her first officer was speaking to her. "I'm sorry; what?"

"I was just commenting on how this might break the Romulans' hold on the shipping lanes." Jospin looked hard at her. "Are you alright commodore?"

"Fine," Stiles answered. The bridge hatch slid open. Stiles stood in the hatchway until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Rice had ordered a tactical plot on the main viewer. The amalgam of radar images from Beagle, the roving Minotaurs and the remainder of the capital ships showed at least thirty-three distinct returns. Stiles noted that the bogeys were arrayed about one of the moons of the outer gas giants.

Stiles checked the readouts at each alcove before taking her seat. She realized just how badly outnumbered her forces were. Stiles looked again at the position of the bogeys. The gas giant caused the graphic to curve somewhat; creating an illusion that made it look like the unknowns were laid out in an elliptical formation. They had surprise on their side, but Stiles realized that they needed more. They needed to deliver a quick death blow.

"Do you want the tubes loaded commodore or are you just here for a walk in the sunshine?" Cruz asked.

"Sunshine," Stiles repeated. She remembered an Air Force Academy astrophysics lecture. "Guns, warm up four Grand Slams," she said to the Tellarite. "Tellarite cruisers carry a planet busting nuke; don't they?"

Cruz growled. "Yes commodore."

"Captain Jospin; relay to the main group to arm two salvoes each of Grand Slams. Set targeting solution for the core of the gas giant. Set timing for simultaneous detonation." She turned to the nervous ensign who was manning communications. "Ensign Pascal; put me through to Hazmq's commander."

Stiles had soon arranged for Hazmq to add the fire from its single Entiza missile. She then consulted her engineer who she knew had been conducting solar studies before the war. Stiles had not had to perform higher level math in some time. She moved to an empty science alcove and compared notes with Lieutenant Commander Vasquez. The bridge was silent for almost ten minutes. Stiles became lost in the numbers until the two of them finally came up with the result that she hoped for. Stiles remembered her maiden cruise aboard her Beagle. They had been sent out to conduct solar studies she thought bitterly.

"The Minotaurs are in position commodore," Jospin informed her.

"Ensign Pascal," She began. "I'm releasing some alien code groups to you. Transmit them in the clear using a known Vulcan High Command frequency." She turned to Lieutenant Martin Ward. Stiles had only briefly met the new helmsman. She seemed to recall that he had a brother who was a navigator as well. "Prepare to engage at warp three Lieutenant Ward." She sat back. "Signal the taskforce to proceed on my mark." When she watched him complete her orders she proceeded to strap herself into her seat. "Engage."

"Radar shows movement commodore," Chief Morris announced. Stiles could see her face pressed against the hood of her radar readout. "Just a guess sir, but it looks like they are jockeying to a position that would put them on the far side of our approach vector."

"They are trying to hide from the pointies," Jospin summarized.

"Slams are loaded in the tubes," Cruz announced. "We will be at optimal firing range in four minutes."

Four minutes was an eternity in space combat. Stiles was outwardly cool. Inside she was trembling as her meager forces closed on the gas giant. She again studied the readout. The Romulans would need a little over a minute to turn against her forces—once they realized that they were not dealing with Vulcans.

"Inbound linguacode from the bogeys," Vasquez piped up.

"Well," Stiles said brusquely.

"It's in a Vulcan format," the lieutenant continued. He was staring intently at his panel. "The transmission reads that they are a mining expedition here under the auspices of the Vulcan ministry. Some sort of algorithm is buried in the code; maybe like an IFF return." He turned to Stiles. "Shall I continue transmitting sir?"

"Time to target?" she asked quickly.

"Three minutes, five seconds," Cruz reported.

"Cease transmission for ten seconds," Stiles said, "then resume."

"We will give the birds something to crow about," Jospin said; his lips peeled back in an evil grin.

"They are turning on reciprocal headings," Morris said. The older woman held out a warning hand. "Wait a minute; they are slowing. I think the transmission is making them scratch their heads."

Despite the coolness of the bridge Stiles found herself sweating. She dabbed at her forehead as the distance to the gas giant shrank. Her group was well under two minutes when Morris announced that the bogeys were on the move again.

"Status of fighters?" she asked. Stiles could see the blips showing her Minotaurs closing from the edge of the viewscreen.

"Twenty seconds behind us," Morris said. "Should be in enemy radar range; now."

"It looks like they don't like party crashers," Jospin said.

"It doesn't matter," Stiles said. "They can't possibly intercept us before we launch now." The time wore away. "Standby to fire missiles; your crews need to reload with Narwhals in record time Cruz."

"If you would allow me to put them under the lash I could move them even faster!" Cruz retorted. "They will be ready when the pirates get here commodore."

"Fifteen seconds," Ward announced.

Stiles sat back. A great calm came over her. "Firing and away," she heard Cruz say as if from afar.

"Bogies in plasma cannon range and slowing to fire," Morris said. "Mass and magnetromic readings are consistent for Romulan cruisers—positive ID."

"Tubes reloaded commodore," Cruz bellowed.

"Lay down a defensive pattern," Stiles ordered sharply. "Have the fighters hang back and do the same for us. We have to stay here a few minutes."

"Firing and away," Cruz announced as the first salvo of Narwhals made their way towards the Romulans.

Jocelyn's stomach lurched as the artificial gravity burbled. She turned to the engineering control and saw a collection of warning lights illuminate. Beagle had taken a plasma cannon hit. She did a mental inventory and concluded that the damage was not severe. Jospin confirmed her hypothesis as he performed his other job of Beagle's first officer.

"Minor damage to 'b' deck," the Frenchman said. "Panther, Hazmq and Celebus are still in the game. Radar shows two enemy cruisers destroyed. They have deployed a line of forty two vessels against us."

"More returns commodore," Chief Morris said.

"Inbound Eightballs," Stiles concluded. "Keep up the fire." Stiles sat through a nightmare minute as a panel exploded sending shards of molten metal across the bridge. Lieutenant Vasquez screamed as he beat at the arm of his burning jersey.

"Medics to the bridge!" her first officer barked out sharply.

"I'm getting odd gravimetric readings sir," Chief Morris declared.

"Blanket our escape corridor guns!" she ordered. Stiles turned to Ward. "Helm get us out of her; maximum warp!" It seemed like forever. Stiles realized that she hadn't breathed since giving those last orders. Beagle jumped away into warp.

The Romulan cruisers were framed against the backdrop of the great green gas giant. They were engulfed in planetary shadow rendering them almost black. The mighty vessels were briefly illuminated by the expulsion of their plasma cannons. Small explosions blossomed around them as incoming allied missiles, fell prey to neutronium pellets. Two of the greenish vessels were not as lucky as Narwhals made their way without hindrance to their targets. Two Sabinus class cruisers vanished in a ball of white hot fire.

Allied ships shot missile after missile into the enemy swarm. Plasma beams hit Celebus sending the destroyer reeling. Blue lightnings ran along her hull as the polarized plating saved the earth ship. Beagle turned away slowly, atmosphere vented out of some small rents in the converted Bison. Beagle fired a last salvo and then stretched away into warp. Celebus followed. A Veronus and Sabinus were destroyed by the retreating Star Fleet ships. The last Minotaur leapt away.

The green disk of the gas giant shrank. A few Romulan ships were pulled into the gravity well of the great giant. The rest accelerated away, but not for long as they came to a relative stop. The planet was now a darkened disk. That soon changed: The tightly compressed mass erupted forth into a new sun. The surviving Romulans were burned away in the conflagration. Groombridge had a new sun blazing in her system.

"That lends credence to many theories concerning gas giants," Jospin remarked. Stiles was, like her first officer transfixed by the playback of Groombridge Six's final moments.

"Yes," Stiles answered quietly. "Yes it does." If it weren't for the Romulans she thought then they wouldn't have had to prove any theories during war. So much was different now; all because man had trusted to the enlightenment of other species. She bowed her head for a moment before continuing. "Let's get our asses to the border."

Stiles unbuckled her restraints and sipped at a flask of water. She listened absently as Jospin gave the orders setting her taskforce's course for the border. They would be back in allied space before the pointies even realized that they had been there she hoped. But she would wait there. The birdies had taken advantage of Vulcan space long enough. Stiles planned on denying them that privilege.

A ridge overlooking Clavius crater, earth's moon, Jan 2158

Erica Soames was a little out of breath but she forced her voice to try to sound normal despite her gasps for air. Nayyar's voice came over their shared secure comm circuit as normal as if the young woman was exerting no more effort than reading a book by a fireplace. She switched over to her helmet binoculars and took a good look at the landscape beneath them. Erica was not sure what she was looking for: It was her first trip to what amounted to a junk yard.

She saw several DY class vessels in various stages of decomposition. Soames supposed that disassembly would have been a better term as nothing decomposed out here. A few of the old ships had scoring from what she guessed were inadvertent brushes with atmosphere. One freighter was reduced to its submarine like conning tower section. Soames blinked, for next to the sturdy conning tower sat an old US Air Force Block D shuttle. Soames searched her memory but did not need that as her assumption was proved when she spotted part of the craft's name: Scylla.

The old shuttle, sister ship to the doomed Charybdis had not been treated kindly by the centuries. The vessel's aft section, containing the gas fission drive was gone. Soames observed some sort of covering over that area of the craft. The narrow aircraft like cockpit looked to Erica as if it had just rolled out of its assemblage hangar. The green-blue earthlight reflected off of the shiny top of the spacecraft. Several square sections of hull were missing about where Soames remembered the living quarters should be. She wondered that men were cooped up for months on the small shuttles.

Her eyes traveled beyond the old shuttle to a circular landing platform. A large permacrete igloo lay beyond the landing pad. Erica had recovered her breath. Se turned to her traveling companion and motioned for her to follow. The two women bounded down the side of the crater's ridge to the floor below. Erica was cautious: She remembered her initial micro gravity awareness class. She might feel one sixth her mass but it was still there. Erica proceeded at a pace that allowed for speed but would not put her smashed remains on the crater floor. The two women were soon on the crater's sandy surface, loping along using an exaggerated gait suitable for lunar foot travel.

"What is that?" she heard Nayyar's voice ask over her helmet radio. Soames stopped short. She stepped carefully to stand beside the augmented human being. Nayyar's gauntleted finger was pointing to a small edifice.

Soames worked her mind out trying to recall. "It is a grave marker," she answered at last. An ancient holovid actor is buried under it," she continued, referring to the large jet black monolith. Now she recalled the whole story: "There is another one at Tycho. The holovid story centered around man's first contact with alien life."

"You mean like your—our First Contact?" Nayyar asked. Soames was struck at how innocent and girl-like the augment became when she questioned things human.

"No," Erica chuckled. She vaguely remembered the story that had been rescued and updated as a holographic presentation. Her father had taken her and her brother to the cinema to see it many years earlier. "These aliens were a next step in evolution; or the end of evolution," she answered, trying to recall her interpretation of events. "They operated through devices that looked like that grave marker. They were trying to help man along to the next stage."

Erica waited for the augment. She supposed that Kanya had digested her explanation and was inwardly laughing at the notions of her simplistic, normal brother and sister humans.

"We were supposed to be an evolutionary improvement," Nayyar answered at last. "Instead we were duped by aliens and used as tools." Soames watched as Nayyar turned bodily to look at her. "It will be a long time before we are wise. Perhaps the key to improving man is for men to try to be better than they are; to leave a great legacy and challenge for the next generation." Erica looked on as she rubbed at her belly that lay beneath the armored environmental suit.

"I think you've hit upon something," Soames answered. "But we can't help ourselves if we stand here taking in lunar sites."

"Agreed admiral," Nayyar said. She started to bound away from Soames. Erica leapt after her.

"Just one thing," Soames added; "we may be just a step behind your old boss. If there are people here who've dealt with or seen Perex please let me handle them."

"I thought that my methods yielded positive results admiral," Nayyar answered.

"Well," Soames answered. "I don't know if we'll encounter a man or woman or both but every question does not need to be proceeded by crushing someone's testicles." Soames recalled the youth in the travel tube.

"I shall try to," Nayyar hesitated. Her voice sounded as if she were mulling over something unpleasant. "I shall try to be more conversant."

"Thank you," Erica answered. They arrived near the igloo like structure. Soames examined it warily. Perex had already planted one bomb; no reason that he could not do so again. She saw a flashing blue light in her helmet: Someone was calling on a public frequency. Erica thumbed the channel on her wrist controls.

"—stand out there all night! Do you have your comms set up?" a male voice called over her speakers.

"Good evening," Soames said. "We would like to speak to you about operable ships."

"This must be my lucky day," the voice answered. Soames watched as the outer lock slid open. "Come on in!"

"Looks okay," Soames said on her private channel. "I'll go in first then you step out before he closes the outer lock. If he catches it I'll just say that you are looking over the ships."

Nayyar nodded. Soames soon found herself cycling through the airlock. She stepped into a spacious well lit room. A small fountain dominated the center of the chamber. It was surrounded by palm trees. Erica stood gaping at the chamber's appearance. She realized that what she had taken for carpet was actually grass. A compact, well tanned, middle aged man with a head full of curly brown hair got up from an outdoor recliner that sat near a grass hut. He was dressed in a garish flowered pattered shirt, bright yellow shorts and a pair of open-toed sandals He smiled and motioned for Soames to swing her visor.

Erica did so and was instantly hit by the sound of Latin American music. "Where is your buddy?" the man asked. "Take your helmet off." He gave Soames an appraising look. "Take off as much as you'd like. My name is Arnie Griffin." Soames carefully removed a gauntlet. Griffin stuck out his hand. "If I move a few more ships I might just retire." Soames shook the man's hand. He released her hand, reached into a chiller and produced a pitcher of red liquid. He poured some into a glass.

"I believe that you can come in my dear," Soames told Nayyar. Griffin nodded happily, pushed some touchpads on a control panel and then poured out another glass of liquid. He topped each glass with a small umbrella.

"Two walk-ins in the same day!" the man exclaimed as he handed Soames her drink. He looked bemused for a few seconds. "I've been pushing junk here for fifteen years and never had a walk-in customer. Next thing you know I have two in one day."

Nayyar stepped up besides Soames. "Your last customer didn't leave you any strange boxes did he?" Erica asked. She relaxed her voice but stared intently at the salesman.

"Just a fat letter of credit!" he answered. Griffin sighed. "I have another DY that could be made spaceworthy in day or two. Guess you two are responding to the lunar crisis?" Soames nodded and sipped cautiously at her drink. Nayyar had removed her helmet. Erica could see that Griffin was taken by her dusky, exotic looks. "That was quick. But the more ships we get in the sky the better off we'll be. I wonder who did it?"

"Who knows at this juncture," Erica answered carefully.

"True," Griffin answered. "I bet it was one of those Sons' of Terra sons' of bitches. They don't get their way so they resort to terrorism. I hope the president invokes the death penalty for those traitors."

"You seem very angry sir," Nayyar said. "But you are sympathetic to earth." Nayyar looked at her. "So I will not crush your testicles."

Griffin gave Nayyar a look of bafflement. "My friend has a strange sense of humor, Arnie."

"Yeah you can say that again," the junkman answered.

Soames sipped at her mai-tai. "Did your last customer purchase the DY?"

"You saw that?" Griffin asked. "Yeah, odd fellow; he said he wanted to outfit the old girl as a system yacht. I wasn't going to sell but he mentioned dropping supplies into Luna City. You know these rich playboy types."

"Me and my friend need to get underway immediately," Soames fumed.

"Well," Griffin ran a hand through his hair. "The only ship I got that could be prepped that soon is Scylla."

"That doesn't even have a bloody drive!" Soames snapped.

"Actually it has a standby impulse drive," Griffin answered. "The Stellar Navy museum was all set to buy her but then the war came along." Griffin seemed saddened.

"Too bad you did not make a sale," Nayyar said. Soames heard the sarcasm in the augment's voice.

"We all do what we can," Griffin answered remorsefully. "He slapped at his left leg while looking down at his feet. "They both look real, huh?" He smiled. "I was in the navy in the thirties; one of those little accidents. I tried to go back in after the news was released about our colonies. But I guess Star Fleet isn't interested in washed up old shuttle pilots. Ones with no real legs that is."

"I'm sorry," Soames said.

"No worries! Anyway you'll get the better deal," Griffin said. "That DY has leaky baffle plating. That fellow will need a small fortune to fix that. I don't expect the navy will let that baby in space long when they read its leak."

"Really?" the augment asked. "What sort of radiation?"

"Hard beta stuff," Griffin answered. "Messy; I doubt they will let him into the inner loading zones."

Soames and Nayyar exchanged glances. That would make Perex easy to follow. Erica was pleased until she realized that she really had no idea how to purchase a spacecraft. She looked again at Nayyar. The augment seemed to detect her distress. She removed a handheld from a compartment of her suit.

"How much for the ship?" she asked.

Griffin rubbed his hands together expectantly. "Well ladies' I've had a good day today. And I'm not one to make profit of misery." He quoted a price. Soames restrained her reaction. She started to negotiate when Nayyar laid a restraining hand on her arm.

"We can meet that price," the augment said. She pulled a wafer from her handheld. "Check our credit." Issued as a request, it sounded like an order from the augment. Nayyar looked sidewise at Soames. "Please," she added.

Griffin walked away to a small tropical hut. "You have those credits?" she asked incredulously.

Nayyar smiled slyly. "The empire provided us well for our mission here. The question is: Can you fly that craft admiral?"

"We'll see," Soames answered.

Griffin soon returned with a happy look on his face. Erica wanted to speed up the ceremony of purchase but knew that she didn't need to appear suspicious. She used a manufactured name for the co-owner portion of the paperwork. The two women and Griffin were soon passing, one at a time, through the shuttle's cylindrical airlock. Soames had gone first. She restored internal pressure and heat to the cockpit and galley. The rest of the craft was more or less a shell. Erica removed her helmet as Nayyar cycled through.

"Blimey," she whispered under her breath as she sniffed at the frigid, rancid air. The word was accompanied by a whitish stream of vapor from her mouth. Erica removed a gauntlet and passed her bare hand over an air vent. "It least it will warm up."

She looked at the ancient heavily padded pilot and co-pilot seats. This was a piece of history for sure. Erica studied the controls and touched each one; reciting its name and function under her breath. She watched Nayyar look around.

"I suppose you augments would have come up with something better?" Soames asked as she started the impulse drive's warm-up sequence.

"No; I was actually thinking that if the Tal Shiar had seen this craft; realized that humans went out in space in it, they would have been more cautious as humans were plainly crazy to fly into space in one of these."

Soames felt the old shuttle vibrate as heat and power went through it. Griffin joined the women; removed his helmet and gave them a brief tutorial on the old shuttle. He was surprised to see that Erica had already started firing up its engines.

"Well you know what you are doing," Griffin said with a grin. "You have a big bag of maneuvering fuel and enough deuterium to get you to the outer edge of the system." He had a small case that he secured in the ship's galley. "It's a little snack with my compliments," Griffin explained. He extended a gloved hand to both women. Soames shook it first while Nayyar looked hesitantly at it. Soames arched her brows at the augment who then returned Griffin's gesture. "Good luck ladies and thanks."

Soames waited until the junkman was out of the lock and clear of the shuttle. He was soon a small figure waving at them from the outside lock of the lunar shelter. Soames flashed one of the shuttle's landing lights in reply. She ran a quick preflight in the meantime. She took a deep breath. This ship would take all of her skill to pilot.

"Local traffic is uncontrolled," Soames said. "I don't expect anything until we get out past the Mars Defense Perimeter."

"We will be old women in the time it takes this craft to do that," Nayyar proclaimed.

"Let me show you what an old girl can do," Soames answered. She fired the shuttle's main rockets. The ship slid forward rising slowly. Erica nudged the impulse engine slightly. The surface receded quickly. Soames heard a groan of metal fatigue as her body felt heavier. She quickly retarded her impulse power.

"I'm picking up a stream of beta particles," Nayyar said. Soames watched as the woman fumbled through the operation of the twenty first century scanning device.

Erica looked at the results that Kanya had obtained. She worked slowly with the navigation computer. It had been designed in a time prior to universal galactic coordinates. Erica sweated out some conversions in her head and soon had the shuttle on a course that paralleled the radiation stream. She relaxed back into the padded seat and sighed. The shuttle's nose was now up as a result of the tiny vessel's acceleration. Erica wanted to pour on the power but she didn't want to attempt a sustained high g flight.

"I have a distant radar return admiral," Nayyar said at last. "It is a match for the end of the radiation trail. At this speed—

"Fourteen hours and some pence," Soames said. Nayyar looked closely at her. "A few old pilot math tricks; we'll continue accelerating along this heading."

"He is on a course that puts him on a tangent to the Martian orbit," Nayyar said.

Soames nodded. "Nothing out there of any value except for the shipyards," she said. Erica closed her eyes. "I've set the alarm. No point in staying awake. Hopefully we won't encounter any micro meteors."

"This shuttle has a navigation field; does it not?" Nayyar asked.

Soames laughed. "This thing was built quite a few decades before that."

Erica knew that she should be wide awake but she was not. Questions abounded in her mind as she drifted off to sleep. She passed into an uneasy dream. A dark figure threatened Kanya. At first she thought it was the Romulan Perex then she realized it was not. A darkness more than a person she realized. Soames felt powerless to protect the augment who seemed rooted where she stood. A gleaming blade slashed against Nayyar's stomach. Soames jerked against her straps. She sighed. The nightmare soon faded from memory as sleep claimed her again.


	28. Chapter 28

UES Daedelus, in orbit of the second planet of Ross 128, Jan 2158

UES Daedelus, in orbit of the second planet of Ross 128, Jan 2158

"It's not a bacteria?" Captain Michael Cromwell asked his ship's surgeon.

"In a sense, no," Commander Gertrude Schultheiss answered. He threw his uniform jersey over his shoulders. "At first I was baffled by what I had seen. I actually had to consult Taln for the answer. You Herr Kapitan were contaminated by nanites. They would not have affected any of us but you are unique because of your prosthesis. I believe that they migrated through that to your nervous system."

Cromwell shuddered inside. "What did they do?" he asked in a steady tone.

"Nothing that I can see," Schultheiss answered. Her office chime sounded. Cromwell smoothed the wrinkles out of his jersey.

"I wonder if they were brought in on the probe?" he asked. So far Taln had determined that the device's structure was made up of highly cohesive micro particles which the Andorian characterized as unknown material.

Schultheiss opened her office door admitting Marcel Dieulafoy. The archeologist looked around nervously. "I am not interrupting am I?" he asked hesitantly.

Cromwell was about to answer when Schultheiss spoke up: "We had been making love but we have our clothes on now." He shot her a baleful glance. She smiled mischievously at him.

"Have you found out anything?" Cromwell asked the lieutenant. Michael realized that his face was getting warm.

"Mariel is not herself," Dieulafoy answered. "You already know that captain." Schultheiss motioned for the Frenchman to take a seat. Cromwell looked at Trudy. He had gotten to know her well enough to read her looks. Right now they were telling him to allow Dieulafoy time to come to the point.

"At first she was warming to me," Marcel continued. "But all of that changed after she was nearly electrocuted. At first I thought it was because of her close brush with death. But she has been spending hours at the computer. She tries to conceal what she is doing and I try not to look as if I am trying to spy, but the speed! She is almost machine-like in her speed."

"This is like one of those old science fiction paperbacks that circulate Daedelus," Cromwell said. He stroked his chin. "Okay doctor; I know this sounds absurd but could Picard be under the control of an external entity?"

Schultheiss looked thoughtful. Cromwell monetarily thought of how beautiful she looked. "The Vulcans have some sort of tactile telepathic power," she remarked. "So they say," she added hastily. "I've heard rumors that the power extends beyond that in some of them; a limited hypnotic suggestion type of telepathy. The notion seems absurd to you because you have an intuitive idea of just how complicated the human brain is."

"M'Altz've claims that they can be stored as energy," Dieulafoy interjected. Cromwell watched as Marcel shook his sadly. "It is not Mariel captain."

Cromwell looked at Schultheiss. She too shook her head. "I know what you are thinking Olly: I don't even begin to understand how another conscience could be in there; if indeed that is the case."

"What about outside influences?" he asked. "I hate to say this but obviously Crosby had some control over her despite the way he treated her."

"Nothing that we no about but where is it coming from?" the surgeon asked.

"That is the question," Cromwell answered. He came to a decision. "As much as this pains me I'm going to order her to sickbay for observation."

"You mean confinement?" the doctor asked knowingly.

"Put it that way Trudy," Cromwell answered wryly. "I don't know if she could affect anything but I'm not willing to find out. Also rather she is under an influence or wholly taken over that would best be discovered here doctor."

"I had hoped to discover more by letting her run," he continued. "But I no longer think that is justifiable."

"She would have been crushed—before," Dieulafoy said. "Now I do not know how she will react. May I stay by her side captain?"

The ship's public address sounded. "Captain Cromwell this is Somers," his first officer's disembodied voice announced.

Cromwell nodded at Dieulafoy. "Approved," he said as he leaned over and accessed Schultheiss' desk comm panel. "Bridge this is Cromwell: What is it?"

"Astronomy has been examining Ross 128," Somers' clearly agitated voice answered. "The increased eruptions indicate another solar expulsion. Our solar probe is returning data showing increased magnetic activity. Doctor Oguma says that another solar eruption is pending."

"We'll have to move back to the safe line," Cromwell answered. "Start maneuvering in that direction commander."

Cromwell waited longer than normal for Somers' response. He got a bad feeling as he heard muffled noises of activity from the bridge crew. He was about to inquire as to what was wrong when Somers finally replied: "A shuttle just left bay two, captain."

"None was scheduled," Cromwell said. He turned to Schultheiss and Dieulafoy as he held down the mute button. "Picard cannot fly a shuttle?" he asked the two. "Where was she last Marcel?"

"I left her in biosciences sir," he answered. "We don't even know if Mariel took—

"Ensign Krauss reports that he saw our Miss Picard in the shuttle control spaces of number two just a few minutes ago captain," Somers concluded delivering the damning information.

"Where is she going?" Cromwell asked.

"No where as far as I can tell sir," Somers answered. "The shuttle was launched on standard auto launch sequence. It is drifting away from us on a relative heading but remains in our orbit. No one has returned our hails."

"I'm on my way to the bridge," Cromwell said. He beckoned Schultheiss to follow him. "Marcel, go back to biosciences and try to find out what she was in to. Ask our Ro'ha guest if they know anything." Dieulafoy answered in the affirmative. Cromwell sped out of sickbay toward the command module.

"If there is another solar eruption what will happen to those in the shuttle?" she asked him. Cromwell raced through the connecting tube between the engineering hull and the command module. Schultheiss followed his gait easily, her long legs making up the time.

"They won't stand a chance," he answered; "neither will we. Once the eruption occurs there will only be minutes before the star matter gets here." He raced up the central stairwell to the bridge level of the module.

Cromwell stepped onto the darkened bridge of Daedelus. Somers had ordered general quarters. The bridge crew was all intent upon their tasks. Schultheiss pointed at the tactical plot that Somers had displayed upon the viewer. It showed the position of the shuttle as a little over a kilometer from the starship. The viewer was split. The second half of the screen was filled with a video image of Ross' red dwarf star. It looked like it had just hours ago Michael thought. But that meant nothing whereas the astronomers' readings meant everything.

"Energy reading from the planet sir," Chief Peter Custis announced.

Cromwell was somehow not surprised to see that it was one of the storms as he still thought of them. Michael supposed that was easier than thinking of them as a collection of living souls. Cromwell studied the power reading on the storm. His eyes opened wide in surprise.

"Is that correct chief?" he asked.

"Yes sir," Custis answered. "It appears that several of the storms converged over the central continent. It has formed into a single mass."

First the renewed and unexpected solar activity and now this; "splendid," Cromwell said.

"All yours sir," Somers smiled wryly at him as she vacated the command chair.

"Bridge, astrometrics," a nonchalant voice called out of the bridge speaker.

Cromwell nodded to Somers. "Go ahead this is the bridge." Cromwell recognized Doctor Hino Okuma's voice. The scientist seemed to be in a world all his own. But he was also one of earth's foremost astrophysicists.

"The sun is cycling for another eruption," Okuma said as if he were telling them that he had dropped his cocktail napkin. Cromwell impatiently inquired about the timing. "Within fifteen minutes; that is my best guest based on the data." There was a short pause; "any way that we could move closer for an examination?"

"I wish that were so doctor," Cromwell answered. "But Daedelus cannot protect its crew against the radiation; keep us apprised doctor."

Somers answered a call at her console then quickly turned to Cromwell. "Security can't find either Miss Picard or M'Altz've."

"They have to be out there," Cromwell supplied. "Find the other Ro'ha; Ma'gua. I want him brought up here and get Lieutenant Dieulafoy and the translator."

"Lieutenant Harris," Cromwell turned to the navigator. "Bring us closer to that shuttle. We'll dispatch another shuttle to retrieve it."

"Not sending someone EVA?" Somers asked.

"No, we'll see if another shuttle can use its retrieval system," Cromwell answered. He doubted that it could. "Easier to send someone in a suit, I know Lisa. But I'm not going to send anyone out there when they could be irradiated." Michael was keenly aware that the longer they stayed the more possible it would be that they would all be irradiated.

"I just hope whoever is out there doesn't try anything," Somers answered. "This could turn ugly."

The wayward shuttle had started a lazy tumble. Cromwell understood exactly what Somers was speaking about: Whoever was flying the shuttle had only a rudimentary idea of what they were doing. They were obviously not using the tiny boat's attitudinal thrusters. He realized that if Picard tried anything it would be something unpredictable to the retrieval shuttle's pilot.

"Subspace soundings from the sun sir," Chief Custis announced. He stood up from the hood of his sensors. "I think it is the doctor's eruption."

The bridge doors parted admitting Ma'gua and Marcel Dieulafoy. The archeologist was staring intently at the translator that was in his hands. The Ro'ha seemed perfectly at home on the alien ship. That fact struck Cromwell most of all; how would a twentieth century man react were he placed aboard an alien starship.

"Shuttle away," Somers reported. "I've told him to hurry."

"Very good," Cromwell answered. He turned to the Ro'ha.

"Ma'gua realizes what is going on," Marcel burst out. Cromwell had been made to understand that the translator was now working as near efficiently as it could since being supplied with alien vocabulary.

"Tell him that this whole area is going to be lethal soon," Cromwell snapped. "Ask what Picard and M'Altz've hopes to attempt by being killed."

"Shuttle boosting away," Somers said sharply. "Sloppy maneuver," she said and looked sadly at Cromwell. "Sir; I'm really in doubt that the retrieval boat can save them. That last maneuver added a great deal of spin to the shuttle. Phelps can't possibly make contact with that."

"They are still not returning hails," Ensign Chen announced from communications.

"Ma'gua says that the time of change is upon the Ro'ha," Dieulafoy said as Ma'gua's squeaks and grunts stopped. "It is all for the best. The poison from the sun will help to absorb all into the new life."

"What the devil…" Cromwell trailed off.

"Somehow they are going to use some of that expelled matter," the Andorian Taln announced. He had stepped onto the bridge as Marcel had rendered Ma'gua's words into English. "I looked through some of the doctor's work captain. He needed much more power to complete what he referred to as the master energy matrix." Cromwell followed the Andorian's gaze. The small Sinjan shuttle spun sickly over Ross Two. "A nexus point was needed as well; something to act as an energy collector."

"The shuttle," Cromwell said bitterly.

There was a noise of Ma'gua speaking. The alien clearly seemed excited. "Ma'gua says you should know most of this since the machine was in communication with you." Marcel translated.

"What does he mean?" Cromwell asked. "I would know if I spoke to some bloody machine!"

"Captain if I may," Taln interjected. "The doctor asked me about the nanites. They matched the same size as the microscopic material that the alien device is made of. I don't know the physiology but it is possible that they got to you through your…" the Andorian trailed off. Everyone on Daedelus knew that he was uncomfortable that one of his limbs was not what the other was.

"Can this thing be stopped?" he asked Dieulafoy sharply. Strictly speaking, he hated talking to the archeologist like that. But he knew that his words would be noise to Ma'gua. Beside he thought; he wanted Dieulafoy to try to convey a sense of urgency to the alien. He listened absently as the translator turned his question into something that Ma'gua could understand.

"Tell the shuttle pilot to return," Cromwell ordered. Somers closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds then did as he had bidden. He knew that it agonized her to have to abandon Picard and the alien to what was about to happen to them. She completed the task and informed him that the recovery would take about five minutes.

"Ma'gua says that the machine helped M'Altz've to complete the great task," Marcel said at last. "He says that your computers aided that task."

"Get ready to eject that thing out of the shuttle bay," Cromwell snapped.

"I'm still studying it!" Taln's antennae stood rigid for a few seconds. "Sorry captain. It is rigged to be blown out in space." The Andorian turned to his task.

He heard the alien's sounds as background noise. "Are you going to abandon them out there Olly?" Schultheiss asked in horror.

He shook his head. "My first duty is to Daedelus. We have to get ready to get away from here. The best shuttle pilot might easily spend ten minutes trying to recover that ship; and than another five minutes back. That is time we no longer have doctor."

"The machine is not doing anything captain," Marcel read off of the translator. "It merely showed M'Altz've what had to be done. Your vessel provided the rest. You may find out for yourself if you desire."

"Can," Cromwell was snatching at straws now. It pained him as well to abandon Picard to whatever might happen out here. "Can the device do anything? Can it prevent whatever is about to happen and save those people?" He waited impatiently while Dieulafoy worked the translator.

"Standing by to eject," Lieutenant Commander Taln said.

"Stand by!" he exclaimed.

"Why would you wish that?" Dieulafoy read from the translator's screen. "It can perhaps save M'Altz've and the strange one of us; but why do you condemn my race captain?" Dieulafoy looked up in surprise. "Perhaps you should ask the machine yourself Cromwell."

Cromwell looked at his prosthesis. "You have the bridge commander. Take us out of here in six minutes if I am not back."

"Guess I'll get my run in," Schultheiss said breathlessly as she ran following him. "You are really going to try to access that thing Olly. You have touched it before but nothing happened."

Cromwell slid down the master stairwell and headed down the connecting tube at a dead run. "I never touched it with my…this arm," he yelled behind him as he held aloft his right arm. Crewmen hugged the wall as he jostled past them. They arrived panting at the shuttle bay. Cromwell keyed in an opening command.

"The refusion?" she asked him, referring to the operation that would allow his synthetic arm to feel like a real one.

He nodded as the heavy space doors parted ponderously. "I have only a modicum of feeling in this so I don't really use it like that. I touched the device with my…real hand."

He raced over the lip of the door as it retracted into the floor. Cromwell stood before the alien device and stared. Now what he wondered? Just touch it? Was he being a fool? Cromwell reached out tentatively, first with his left arm. He needed to break that habit he thought. He reached out with his right. He laid it palm down on the device's smooth surface. Michael hoped that he was not throwing away Picard and the alien's lives over a whim. Nothing was happening.

Michael shook his head at Trudy. "Nothing," he said. He began to feel lightheaded. He felt a tingle go up his arm.

"Are you alright sir?" Schultheiss asked. He nodded at her.

"The command unit," the words appeared in his mind. "Thinking biological units; many have been categorized."

"Who are you," he asked. He had spoken the words aloud.

This unit was dispatched to discover what has happened to our master controller; this sense of one.

"What are you doing on this world?" he asked.

The explorer was damaged. This place was chosen to make repairs.

"Why are you helping M'Altz've? You are helping to change the Ro'ha."

The biological units are soon to cease to exist. This unit is helping to preserve them.

"It is not right that they be changed in this way," Cromwell said. He was still speaking aloud but the shuttle bay was gone around him. Cromwell stared. He was standing on a metal surface. Machines and machine elements stretched away into the horizon in all directions. Some towered over him like skyscrapers while others were squat and cubical.

Survival is preferable.

"Then why are you out here?" he asked abruptly. "You said that your controller was damaged. Why seek answers outside? You were surviving weren't you?"

There was a longer pause. Some of the buildings as he thought of them emitted bolts of blue energy.

Survival is the first state. This unit must find more.

"You deny the Ro'ha that more," Cromwell retorted. "Or you deny them choice."

This unit has only furnished information to the M'Altz've unit. It has not made any decisions for the units on this world.

"But you gave knowledge that unfairly empowered one to do so," Cromwell countered. Was the more some sort of machine consciousness he wondered? "You must help me undo this situation. Do you know what is going on around you?"

This unit sees all. This choice is a possible outcome of decisions. A choice was made to send this unit in search of answers. I must analyze what has happened here. This unit must leave this mechanical unit. You shall go with me.

It felt right. "Eject the unit!" he shouted. "Trudy, get out of here and order Taln to send this thing out." He could see that she about to protest. Calm came over him. The machine's metal climbed up his arm in the form of a fluid. She stared horrified at him. He thought that she was rooted to the spot as the metal engulfed him completely.

Picard suggested that this unit send out probes to discover the access routines for Daedelus. This unit did not understand. This unit has conducted a thorough search of your database; that which you call memory. You have the oneness. All of you do.

Cromwell felt himself go weightless. He realized that he was outside the ship. As he was still alive and not feeling the dreadful internal body pressures created in a vacuum he assumed that the machine was protecting him. He, it was tumbling. Cromwell watched as Daedelus' impulse drive pushed it gently away from Ross Two. The tumbling settled out. The device maneuvered close to the shuttle. Cromwell 'saw' the solar expulsion as a data stream. The Ro'ha energy storm rose to meet the shuttle. Cromwell went light headed again as the device positioned itself between the shuttle and the massed lightnings. It moved to engulf the shuttle. Cromwell felt a pain like bees stinging his entire body. He tried to scream out.

This unit has learned something of what it is to be aware. But the knowledge shall not go any further than this. The energy matrix is returning to the planet's surface. This unit is damaged. It shall use the shuttle's energies to get your units to safety Cromwell. It has computed many probabilities but cannot see a favorable outcome for the units known as Ro'ha.

It is not good. But the Ro'ha are individuals. They must be free to decide their fates. Many may choose this alternative that you have allowed to be. But many will not. I have provided the Ro'ha data that I now believe I was wrong in doing.

Right and wrong; all possible outcomes as defined by a code. This unit does not understand it. But in so discovering that it exists this unit has learned more. It is time to start the journey back to the starting point. Cromwell seemed to float in ether. His vision cleared to see the welcoming shuttle bay of Daedelus.

"Is he alright?" Michael heard the voice of Commander Lisa Somers' riddled with concern.

"Physically yes," he heard Schultheiss answer. He felt her hands caress his cheek.

"Mentally as well," he barked out. His eyes fluttered open. He saw Schultheiss kneeling beside him while Somers looked on. He struggled up on one arm. "Check me out if you will doctor." He looked around until he saw Picard she was stumbling out of the shuttle. One of Trudy's doctors grabbed her quickly and gently lowered her to the deck. M'Altz've was on a litter being carried by two technicians. "What has happened?"

"I was hoping you would tell us captain," Somers said. "You get all the good shore parties!" Cromwell watched as she grew serious. "The shuttle came out of the leading edge of the radiation. I ordered it brought aboard. When we got down here you were on the deck and there was the shuttle. Except for some sort of ionization on the hull the shuttle is okay."

"So am I," Picard barked weakly. They all looked at her. Marcel practically ran across the deck to kneel by her side. "They are gone," she muttered.

"Scanners recorded some sort of an energy buildup from the storm," Somers interjected. "Then the storms broke apart into smaller phenomena and headed back to the planet."

"You have doomed us human!" M'Altz've exclaimed from the litter.

"Whatever I've done I'm tired," Cromwell said at last. He looked at Somers. "You have the ship while the doctor gives me a good going over. I would expect that were our places reversed." His voice grew weaker as he continued. "I will sleep now."

St. Louis, Missouri, earth, Jan 2158

Fred Watson was tired. He had spent the last three hours searching the Naval Investigative Service's database. He had a great deal of respect for his friend Karl Ebenstark but sometimes Fred thought a duck was after all a duck. The installation's chief of information hovered over the Unified Intelligence agent. Watson's excuse of looking for a possible black marketer of stolen naval property was thin at best.

"I can't believe that anyone in the Stellar Navy would do that," Lieutenant Albert MacKay remarked. Watson smiled at the slightly flabby over aged officer. Fred was well past his fiftieth year but so was MacKay. Watson guessed that this storage facility was the man's life. The Stellar Navy would've jumped at the chance to keep it manned with someone who was a little long in the tooth to go to war.

"People do all sorts of things lieutenant," Watson commented as he scanned through yet another file concerning Major Malcolm Reed. "Drugs, prostitution: I guess man has solved all of the technical glitches that life throws out. Trouble is he is a little behind at improving himself."

"Still," the lieutenant started in an officious tone, "our boys and girls are better people than that." Watson noted the emphasis on the word 'that'.

"You know something Lieutenant MacKay," Watson started. He was glad for the distraction. Reed was clean. Watson thought that the major's life was a little too settled. There were problems dating back to Reed's teenaged years but those who could corroborate anything seemed to have faded away. There was nothing here to show that Reed was up to anything. He continued at the officer's curious look. Watson wondered how many live people the database manager actually got to talk to. "I've seen people hit the dregs and bounce back; then I've seen a few who had access to everything and threw it all away."

"I can't believe a fine officer like this Reed could be involved in anything," MacKay said. Watson realized that the administrator was not as obtuse as he had first taken him for. "Wait a minute, I've met him." Watson waited while MacKay worked his memory. "He was here reviewing some of the Terra Nova data."

"Terra Nova?" he asked. Watson knew that Reed at been sent out to that world many months ago. The Stellar Navy had wanted to instigate security procedures against potential Romulan spies. Watson recalled reading an interagency memo about that and breathing a sigh of relief. The intelligence and law enforcement agencies on earth had enough on their hands with the Sons' of Terra; not to mention the routine stuff.

"I'm not sure what he was looking for," MacKay answered. Probably doing a follow up for the tons of reports that was expected from bureaucrats Watson guessed.

He became aware that MacKay was talking again. "What?" he asked in exclamation as he caught something the archivist had been saying.

"I said," the man was obviously miffed by Watson's lapse of attention. "I said that he left in such a rush that I never got to tell him about the holophotos."

"Holophotos?" he asked sharply.

Fred watched as MacKay visibly puffed up. He realized that his was the manager's forte. "Why yes; this facility was built prior to the organization of the United Earth. It was originally intended as a storage facility for use by the United States to preserve man's posterity. There are nine floors of storage space two hundred meters beneath us."

"Do you mind?" Watson asked. "I would be very interested in those photos." The electronic database was a dead end Watson realized. He stood up. "Probably nothing, you know. I actually wanted to follow up on a lead that the major had passed along to me."

"That is just splendid!" the archivist exclaimed. "I don't mind at all. Everything is being stored electronically these days. Okay, okay I know it's been going on since the twentieth century, but we've lost something."

"Holding something in your hand and examining it?" Watson asked. MacKay nodded vigorously. He got up and followed the manager to the lift. Watson did understand the value of evidence or an artifact in one's hand. A picture did indeed say much but Watson's experience as an investigator had showed him that nothing substituted for first hand examination of an object.

Watson followed the archivist to a large freight lift. He was surprised to see the ancient manual doors that split horizontally in the middle. Fred expressed his surprise to MacKay at the ancient set up.

"Remember this place was designed to take a hit from a nuke," MacKay explained. "The builders went for simplicity rather than having an electronically controlled lift that would burn out because of EMP." The archivist opened the doors entered after Watson and closed them behind him. "You'll want to check your stomach here Mister Watson."

Watson didn't have time to react as the lift dropped out from under his feet. He had not been in zero g for some time. "No kidding about that," Fred answered as his belly sank back to its proper place.

Fred waited. Less than minute later he felt the blood in his head rise up. The lift was slowing. They slowed to a stop. MacKay opened the doors admitting a chill breeze. Watson shivered and thought about his jacket that was thrown over a chair now hundreds of meters above him. He let MacKay lead the way. A large marble floored corridor extended out from the lift. Watson realized that the lift shaft was centered in a nexus of out flung corridors such as the one he now followed MacKay down. Large metal containers that looked to Fred to be a meter square lined the eerily quiet vault.

Fred jumped when he heard a noisy hollow thump. He realized that he must have been startled by the closing of one of the heavy vault doors. "Spooky down here," he remarked.

MacKay laughed. "Not many people come down here." He led Watson to a numbered vault drawer. Fred stood back a respectful distance as the archivist keyed in an entry code. The vault slid open in the form of a large drawer. MacKay stepped aside.

"All the exhibits from Terra Nova are here Mister Watson."

"Thank you lieutenant," Watson forced a smile. The archivist obviously wanted to feel like he was a part of whatever Watson was doing. "Mind staying around in case I have any questions?" Fred didn't expect that he would but he wanted to placate MacKay.

"I have another storage vault to inspect; just down the corridor," the lieutenant answered. "Just let me know if you need anything."

Watson nodded as he stood over a drawer full of carefully sealed holophotos and several artifact containers. He sighed inwardly. Watson guessed that this would amount to a colossal waste of time. He studied the vault's index and soon cross referenced everything that involved Malcolm Reed. Fred started an examination of several photos. Most had to do with security assessments and vulnerabilities. They were all unremarkable as far as Watson was concerned. There was the obligatory group holo of the Naval Investigators that had been sent out to Terra Nova. Fred tossed it aside and then stopped.

He picked it up again and studied the caption and then the image itself. "That's not Reed," he mumbled under his breath. He heard the archivist's hurried footfalls.

"Is there a problem?" MacKay asked.

Watson held up the holo that he had been examining. "The caption says that this is Major Reed along with the remainder of the Terra Nova team. But this is not Reed in the picture."

"Let me see that," MacKay hastily snatched the sealed photo from Watson's hand. Fred was not surprised when the archivist produced a large ornate magnifying glass to examine the artifact. After a few seconds MacKay looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"I don't understand it," MacKay said. "There has to be an error made somewhere. Perhaps Major Reed was scheduled for a group holo but couldn't make it."

"Then they should be short a number," Watson said. He looked at the clearly befuddled MacKay. He knew a man that wanted everything accounted for and everything in its place: The archivist was such a man.

"It is some sort of error," MacKay said as if confessing to the assassination of Paulson.

"Maybe not," Fred declared with a grin. "May I obtain a copy of this?" MacKay nodded. "I'd also like the data on the NIS junket to Terra Nova; I'm sure that someone got in a picture that they weren't meant to get in.

Watson was sure that this whole thing was just a fool's errand. Police work had shown him that most errors were just that. They were not dark conspiracies just waiting to be unearthed. He waited while MacKay made copies of the things he wanted. He was soon in the lift rocketing back to the surface. Watson sighed. He supposed that he could get some more barbecue while he was here.

Scylla, inbound for the outer Mars orbit, Jan 2158

"No traffic admiral," Kanya Nayyar announced. "I've warmed up some of the sandwiches that Griffin provided for us." The augment stuck a delicious smelling concoction of bread, meat and cheese under Erica Soames' nose.

"How long was I out?" she asked. Erica felt the absence of any acceleration. It was invigorating and distressing on her inner ear. She took her bearings before settling down.

"About four hours," Nayyar answered.

"You do sleep?" Soames asked the augment.

"I can put my body in a restive state," Kanya told her. "I can be fully aware while resting at the same time."

"Where were you when I was finishing my academy finals?" Soames asked in a tired voice. Her mouth tasted indescribably bad. She unstrapped and floated back to the craft's single latrine. She washed her mouth out with a water bottle then absently scrapped her gloved fingers across her teeth. Erica was sure that moss was growing there. She looked with disdain upon the old zero g toilet. As near as she could figure she would have to be near death before she chose to use that.

"We were overtaking the target admiral," Nayyar informed her. "I assume that vessel; however old has some sort of detection system on it."

"Quite right," Erica answered. "I got a peak at Arnie's records. It appears that all that craft has is an old radar setup. "If we had a good impulse engine and not the clunker that is back there I'd say we could jump him before he was aware of us."

"Jump him?" the augment asked. Her voice fairly dripped with skepticism.

"I know what you are about my dear," Erica answered as she carefully swung into her seat. "What do we do when we catch him? By the way aren't we getting human?"

"I am human," she answered; "just more so." Soames listened as she let out a very human sigh. "I must learn so that I can help McCoy with his daughter."

"Whoa!" Soames exclaimed. She almost choked on her sandwich. She had understood that Nayyar's agreement with McCoy had only gone as far as the delivery room.

"Is all well, admiral?" the augment asked her. "I am sorry. I am skeptical of what we can do with no weapons."

"That is where being humans count for something," Soames answered. "We've spent our whole existence coming up with exotic ideas out of dilemmas. The short answer is: I don't know yet." Soames munched on the sandwich. "Arnie; if you made this yourself I may just return to marry you," she mumbled absently around the sandwich.

"Why would you do that admiral?" Nayyar asked. "Is a mate who can cook a plus factor in a long term agreement?" Soames was about to answer when Nayyar added: "Can McCoy cook?"

"I think that you need to take your humanity one step at a time," Erica said at last. She absently leafed through a ten year old copy of the Annual Book of Solar Navigation and Traffic Advisory while thinking of the unfortunate McCoy. Poor Frank, do you know what you are in for? She wondered if he was on Vulcan yet.

"Is there a return along oh-four-five mark eleven?" she asked the augment.

"Near that bearing, yes," Nayyar answered. "It is moving at a speed indicative of a stellar body."

"It is Hailey's Comet as a matter of fact," Soames answered.

"We cannot use that as a screen," Nayyar answered. "He is past that relative to our position."

"No;" Erica answered quickly. She needed to convince herself of the scheme that was forming in her head as much as she needed to persuade Kanya. "But the comet's particle trail is less than one hundred kilometers from the DY at this point." Soames held the book's chart up for her.

"He would see us when we came through the particle stream." Nayyar looked intently at the book. "This manual is a decade old."

"Not this ship," Erica declared. "Just one of us: There is a working thruster pack listed in the inventory."

"You are proposing crossing ninety kilometers and some—pence," Kanya began, "in a thruster suit. What if he reignites his engine?"

"Then everything is off and you come get me," Erica answered.

"It is possible," Nayyar answered after a long pause. "But I shall go." The augment started undoing her acceleration harness.

"No!" she exclaimed. "There are all sorts of nasty stray radiations out there now. All I'll need is a shot of Hyronaline. You on the other hand…" Erica's eyes fell to the augment's midsection. "You two, I should say."

Soames finished the last of her sandwich and took a pull out of the water nipple of her suit. "I'm going to check the thruster pack—

Nayyar's grip squeezed Erica's arm even through the heavy reinforced moon suit. She turned in surprise to the augment. "If he gains the upper hand admiral," Nayyar started. "You are a woman. Perex has a way; he has…" Soames felt her grip loosen.

"Anything you want to tell me Kanya?" she asked.

The augment hung her head. Gone was the proud arrogant genetically enhanced human being. In its place Erica saw a frightened child. But just for a moment. The hardness returned. "Ka pla!" she said fiercely.

"Bless you," Erica answered with a grin. "You should get that cold checked."

"It is a wish of success," Nayyar told her.

"Romulan?" she answered.

"Klingon actually," Kanya told her. "The empire collects intelligence on all in its purview."

Erica unstrapped and floated back to the airlock that separated the galley from the open cargo compartment. She opened a locker and examined the thruster pack therein. Soames was pleased at first as the pack looked as if it were manufactured yesterday. She looked at the date emblazoned on a metal tag.

"Inspect by zero-one, two thousand forty five." She chuckled. "A bit overdue," she remarked sardonically. Soames removed the cumbersome pack and soon had it strapped on her suit examining its functions.

She reckoned she had enough fuel for a short burn. That would give her the speed she needed to close on the DY, turn about and decelerate. The only upshot to this whole thing was that Nayyar could come and pull her back in if she missed. Soames was not kidding herself: She was in the process of shooting an arrow from about one hundred kilometers. The less sophisticated Erica's calculation; the further off the arrow would fall from the target. The trouble Erica thought was that she was the arrow.

"We will be at perihelion with the DY in two minutes admiral," Nayyar's voice crackled out of the overhead speaker.

"I believe that I'm ready," Erica said as she drifted gracefully through the ship's narrow access way. She hovered over control board studying the figures that she would need to calculate a proper rendezvous with the antique spacecraft.

"What will you do when you are over there admiral?" Nayyar asked.

"Truthfully?" she asked in reply. "I don't know. I've had flight training and zero g training but my military training in sabotaging spaceships was lacking."

"It's a gas fission drive," Soames remarked thoughtfully. "I remember an old physics professor of mine saying that the trick was to keep those things from blowing up on their own. Perhaps I can help it along."

"I'll fly Scylla in when you call admiral," Nayyar said. "I still believe that I would stand a better chance against Perex. But I shall defer to your judgment. One minute," she concluded.

Erica nodded. She closed her helmet visor; checked her suit fittings. Soames climbed into the lock, sealed it behind her then started the depressurization sequence. She felt her suit stiffen as the air pressure dropped to zero. She rolled the outer lock open.

"It's now or never," she said to herself. Soames pushed with both feet. She was out past Scylla in a matter of seconds. Erica stretched out and took her bearings from star positions that she had determined would get her where she wanted to go. She took deep breath and hoped that vacuum had spared her little pack from the ravages of time. Weight hit her midsection giving her an unwelcome reminder of the sandwich that she had just wolfed down.

Erica timed her traverse for thirty eight seconds. She cut the thrust. Soames reckoned that she had ten minutes until she would turn around and start a deceleration. She had no intention of stopping the DY by using herself as a projectile. Soames had heard the horror stories of astronauts who had forgotten their speed only to make contact with intended targets at speeds that mangled them against the objects fatally. Erica wanted to call the augment but the two had discussed the need for radio silence.

The tail of Hailey's Comet made for an awesome distraction from Erica's solitude. Her body was turned so that the bluish earthlight shone through the comet's icy trail. She stared transfixed at the sight. What was all the fighting about she wondered? Who were the Romulans that they could not look upon visages such as this and not see the beauty and wonder of space; the knowledge to be gained? She sighed and swiveled back along her direction of travel. The DY was a gray pinprick now visible in the blackness before her.

Soames lowered her helmet binoculars. She lined the DY up in their crosshairs and started reciting numbers to herself. Erica ran through some mental calculations. She was too high! Soames reoriented her body and started the deceleration maneuver. She changed the dynamic somewhat to correct for her azimuth. Erica burned the little thruster pack for a little over half a minute. She stopped and turned slowly. The submarine looking spacecraft was now fully visible before her. It was growing slowly in size. Erica looked at her fuel readout: This was now a one way trip she groused.

Emergency markings covered the exterior of the antique. Emergency what Soames wondered; emergency airlocks, emergency radiation vents? She tried to recall everything she could about the DY 100's. Man's first successful working class of freighter. Built and flown in the early twenty-first century they were most remembered for their innovative cargo container system. Soames took a close look at the arrangement of box like containers slung beneath the ship's primary control hull. She saw several access ports dotting the surface of the scorched and pitted containers.

The DY grew. Erica took some readings from her Mark One Eyeball. She looked at the large chronometer mounted on her wrist control unit. She turned and gave the pack a short burn. She swiveled back to see that her closing rate was a safe one. Erica reached out and took hold of a rung that was mounted on the side of one of the DY's containers—and promptly slid down the side of metal box.

Space suddenly had a direction for Soames. She was sliding down the side of the DY. For a few seconds she thought that her inner ear had come back to betray her with a vengeance. She reached out and seized another rung. Her descent slowed. Her foot jammed into a rung beneath her. She felt her ankle twist painfully. Perex must have fired up the ship's engine she thought wildly. Erica stopped, breathing heavily. She held onto a service ladder. Soames looked down and instantly regretted it as a wave of nausea hit her. She looked back at the hull and saw to her surprise that a manual hatch mechanism was near to her free hand. Soames pulled on the lever. She almost had a panic attack as the lever seemed to her to be frozen in place. She pulled the handle over. The hatch opened. Soames touched her chin to her helmet light control.

Erica made an awkward show of climbing into the cargo canister. She wanted to sit down somewhere and stop the apparent spin of her head. Her inner ear was sending out bad signals. Soames fixed her gaze ahead of her. She didn't need this now. Intellect forced her mind to ignore the signals that her body was sending to it. She took a deep breath and descended without ceremony to what had become the floor of the cargo container.

Erica clung to the ladder while she swiveled her body in the protective suit. Soames played her light over the interior of the gutted container. Ancient stickers providing information on the carrier's contents were peeling away from the wall. A colorful spray painted admonition of a certain cargo company ran along the wall above her head. The author seemed to think that his managers had their heads in an anatomically uncouth position. Soames noted the exit on the far wall. She stepped carefully to the opposite hand rung and started up.

She knew that the central passage tube led to the master interior airlock: She vaguely recalled a high school history course. It also helped immensely that the word 'airlock' was emblazoned along the wall along with directional arrows and instructions. From that point of view Soames reckoned that the setup was indeed efficient for its day. Erica opened the inner lock door. She felt rather than heard the grating from the ancient door. She was sweating profusely. The exterior passage was illuminated by the reddish glare of a single flickering emergency light. The inner airlock lay at the bottom of the tube. Soames started down.

Down lost its perspective when the DY's thrust stopped. Erica pulled herself to the rung. Her head started spinning. She focused on the rough metal before her while trying to force her mind to tell her body that she was in control. Erica pushed herself toward the airlock. She guessed that the antique freighter had some sort of green board to tell its crew that all was sealed up. Soames wondered if she could bypass that. She continued pushing until she realized that her booted feet were on the deck. Erica bent down carefully.

She pulled the cover off of an area marked for emergencies. Erica reached in and twisted the recessed red lever. She looked at a gauge that told her that the pressure inside of the trunk equaled what was outside. Erica spun the wheel on the lock and it opened. She entered the inner lock hoping that the Romulan was somehow unaware of her intrusion. Her suit softened around her as air cycled in. She opened the inner lock and floated into the corridor beyond.

She had no plans to open her visor. Soames imagined that the Romulan could cause all sorts of nasty things to be injected into the air around her. For that matter he need only change the mixture to incapacitate her. She peered around as thoroughly as she could, given the limitations of her suit. Erica guessed that the control room lay away from where she was at now. Were there gravity she would say up.

Erica glided along the deck. This was another piece of history she thought. Soames wondered how many men and women had spent months out of their lives aboard tiny vessels like this. A journey to Mars in those days took almost a year. Theses ships had been a lifeline for the research stations that had sprang up on the red planet just prior to the last war. Another corridor she said as she floated up another level. Soames saw rooms that she guessed were crew quarters. They looked little bigger than a large coffin she thought morosely.

Erica had only a split second to acknowledge the change in lighting. Something hit her across her back knocking the wind out of her. Soames twisted wildly fumbling for the Webley that she had strapped to her side. She was hit again. A curtain of darkness slipped before her eyes. Erica remembered to reach for her transceiver control. She passed out.

Utopia Planitia, Mars, Jan 2158

"So this is the man who is going to fix our sensor problem?" President Christophur Thorpe asked. He had been around the baby kissing circuit enough to see that Chief Edward O'Brien was nervous.

"I hope so sir," the Irishman mumbled nervously. Thorpe was a little surprised at O'Brien's assistant. The gaunt young man's gold jersey and stripes declared that he was in command; not engineering. The commander wore a patch on his shoulder emblazoned with the image of a snarling Minotaur seizing a bird of prey in its fist. That picture overlay a number. Thorpe guessed that the commander was a fighter pilot.

"Pleased to meet you commander," Thorpe said as he extended his hand. The man's breast patch showed that he was assigned to the carrier Valley Forge.

"Walters, Mister President, Commander Bill Walters," the young man answered. He shook Thorpe's hand vigorously. Thorpe looked past Walters' outward appearance. He could see a certain hardness that belied the man's years.

"Ah," Thorpe said as recognition hit him. An uncomfortable silence ensued. Thorpe had been about to remark how Walters was the sole survivor of the Deneva Massacre but had thought better of that. "I signed your waiver promoting you to commander," Thorpe said at last. He had signed hundreds of such documents these last few months. The only reason that he had remembered Walters' paperwork was because of the letter attached to it from Admiral Buchanan.

"Thank you sir," Walters answered. Thorpe knew that a decoration for the action at Hell's Gate was also pending for the commander.

"So you are here with the chief because of some engineering interest?" Thorpe asked.

"Yes sir," Walters answered. "I am thinking about transferring over to engineering when this war ends."

"These officers just don't know how good they have it sir," O'Brien interjected. Thorpe was pleased that the engineer was opening up. "There he is with a cushy job flying fighters and now he wants to get his hands dirty."

Thorpe would have liked nothing better than to stay there and make small talk with these men. He spent his days dealing with politician who were masters of obfuscation. Thorpe appreciated the plain talk. He needed that now. He skipped to one of the primary reasons for his visit there. "Can you get our sensors back chief, and if so, how long are we looking at?"

O'Brien looked pained. The chief looked at Thorpe then at Walters and then back at him. "Bare minimum is four months Mister President." Thorpe watched confidence flow into O'Brien as he spoke in his element. "The trouble is translating equations into instrumentality. I did it once on the Forge but that rig was so fragile that it's a wonder I didn't blow it up by breathing on it." There it was, Thorpe thought: Directness. How he wished his fellow politicians could speak like this. "The bottom line is that we may be looking at hauling our ships in and doing a major refit."

Christophur sighed. "I suppose that must be then." He looked around the lab at the pieces of components and test equipment and thought of paths not followed. Military engineers and civilian technicians were hard at work at many stations. "Best of luck gentlemen," Thorpe declared. A woman with an almost clean-shaven head peered at him. "And ladies," he added hastily.

"We'll get our ships' eyes back Mister President," O'Brien declared.

Thorpe motioned for his security contingent to follow him. "I know that you will." He bid everyone a good day and made for the orbital elevator with his dour looking protectors in trail. He was a little distressed at the suspicious glances they cast upon the military people in the lab. Thorpe was far more concerned for his safety in the company of some of the council members than he was around his military.

"Just our job Herr President," one of his frumpy guardians declared. Clarissa Gerhardt wouldn't win any beauty pageants Thorpe guessed, but she could pick a fly out of the air and hit a robin from thirty meters with her sidearm.

"It seems that we should move past that," Thorpe said. "But if we did that you would be out of a job." Thorpe was not surprised when the only reply was a tight-lipped smile.

He picked up his pace when he saw Doctor Emery Erickson approaching his party from a crossing corridor. Thorpe realized that he would not make the lift before the dark skinned scientist was upon him. He was a likeable chap Thorpe thought. But Erickson's invention scared the primitive in Thorpe. He could accept the matter transmission of inanimate objects but not of living creatures. Christophur wondered if what would come out on the other side would still be human.

"Mister President," Erickson spoke up as he made his way to Thorpe and his entourage.

"Doctor Erickson," Thorpe replied. He knew that the scientist had been anxious to speak to him these past few days.

"Mind if I join you on the way up?" the scientist asked him. Thorpe nodded without expression. He noted how Erickson looked uncomfortable before Thorpe's guards.

"They have the highest clearances," Thorpe told him. "And Max here will ensure that I don't say anything that I shouldn't. In some ways my security people are more effective than my wife Maggie at keeping my foot out of my mouth."

"It is not that Mister President," Erickson started. "It is some disturbing findings I've run into with transporter technology."

Thorpe couldn't imagine anything more disturbing than being turned into energy and projected to another location. "Do tell," he answered.

"What if I told you that I believe that ours is not the only universe?" Thorpe could tell that the scientist was warming up to his subject.

"I suppose that is a reasonable speculation," Thorpe answered. "My knowledge of physics runs out about where the apple hits the ground."

"I've been studying various applications of my technology," Erickson answered. He looked sheepishly at Thorpe. "I believe that I've stumbled onto an alternate universe."

"Doctor, really," Thorpe answered. He didn't want to insult a brilliant man. Christophur regrouped before continuing. "I'm sorry. It all sounds a little far fetched."

"Not really sir," Erickson answered. "My transporter works through a device that attempts to compensate for uncertainty. Once that is accomplished a decision has to be made on where to reintegrate the matter. If that decision is thrown off then uncertainty is reintroduced."

"I don't understand one thing that you are saying doctor," Thorpe answered. "Are you saying material could be sent to another universe?"

"Possibly," Erickson said; "materials, people, electromagnetic radiation." Erickson seemed distressed. "Who knows what is in those other universes Mister President?"

"That seems like something we would like to discover," Thorpe countered. "New worlds, new civilizations, so forth," Thorpe quoted.

"What if some of those civilizations were abhorrent?" the scientist asked. "What if you were a cold blooded tyrant in another universe?"

Christophur laughed. "Some in the Sons' of Terra think I'm one of those right now. Funny how they are shouting the loudest and yet I've not ordered my," he paused and grinned, "secret police to haul them away."

"Imagine the societal implications if it were discovered that another you was actually doing those things," Erickson continued with a single-mindedness.

"Okay," Thorpe said after a minute. "That could have some effects on how business is conducted I suppose. Do you have knowledge that another me is doing these things?"

"Not really sir," Erickson said as he averted his eyes. Thorpe did not know quantum physics but he did know men. Erickson was holding back with something. "I just think that the research should proceed away from that direction. Since the taxpayers are helping to fund me I had hoped that you might tighten the purse strings in a way that steered future researchers away from that end. It is an arcane line of research."

"I've never stood in the way of—

Thorpe's reply was drowned out by the warbling of an alert klaxon. He and the guards and Erickson were the only ones in the passenger lift. He looked out with concern at the red surface of Mars. Thorpe looked skyward as the web of the orbital shipyard started to become visible. His security detachment drew closer to him. A female voice boomed out of the overhead speaker declaring that an attack was in progress.

"Time to get below Mister President," Clarissa advised him. He nodded as she crossed the floor and took manual control of the lift. It stopped. Thorpe's stomach caught up to him.

"They should have been caught at the perimeter," Erickson said. Thorpe could see that the man was nervous.

"Who knows," Thorpe answered quietly as the lift started back down. He removed his secure handheld from his jacket pocket. The captain of his flagship had already been trying to get in touch with him. Thorpe hit a button extinguishing the flashing call light.

"Mister President," Captain Choi began formally, "the defense perimeter has picked up twelve bogeys. They are headed for the shipyard. Can you get to your boat in four minutes?"

Thorpe looked at his protectors. They were both shaking their heads. Their stolid expressions were unchanged. Christophur knew that a deep bomb shelter lay beneath the complex. He told Choi that he would go there. He looked on to see his security team nodding their approval.

The lift stopped its descent. Thorpe followed the security team with Erickson in tow. He knew that this war was far from over but a part of him had hoped that Sol would be immune from further attacks. He was not surprised that the Romulans were after Utopia Planitia. The San Francisco yards still lagged behind the orbiting giant that was overhead. The last attack had already set the commission of the Conqueror class back several months. Who knew what would come of this? Thorpe's mind raced through possibilities and contingencies.

UES Fearless, docked at Utopia Planitia, Jan 2158

Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey Sutton noted the subtle looks and attitudes that had been directed his way. He was awaiting reassignment to Star Fleet Headquarters along with Talas. Talas was being assigned there as the Andorian liaison officer for personnel. The truth was that Sutton knew that his assignment was only because of his wife to be; that and Jeff's quick thinking action in saving Shahar Shran's life. Sutton guessed that some strings had been pulled to get him a posting alongside Talas.

But the silence had started shortly after twenty-five's disastrous engagement with the Romulans. Talas had made the decision to jettison the damaged sections of Fearless. Unfortunately almost one hundred people had been in those areas. Sutton knew the old Stellar Navy command adage. He could recall his instructors drilling it in to him: Your first duty is to the ship. And so it was in the Andorian Imperial Guard. Sutton was going to seek out someone that he felt might be able to smooth things over with the rest of the crew.

Shato was bent over a work table carefully examining a circuit board. A large hooded electronic magnifier covered his eyes creating the image of an antennae sprouting mechanical humanoid. The Andorian had been mechanically cool to his roommate but Sutton had not seen much of that as he was sharing Talas' bed these days. The Andorian's antennae jerked at Sutton's footfalls. The Andorian replaced the board into a control box and looked up. Sutton was taken aback by the visage of the alien's wildly magnified eyes. Shato lifted the viewer off of his face.

"It is good to see you Jeffrey," the engineer said. Sutton could tell that the Andorian was a little reserved in his enthusiasm.

"Same here," Sutton suddenly felt awkward.

"You humans call it absolution," the Andorian said. The two were alone in one of the engineering shops. "If you are seeking it here for her then you are the wrong person in the wrong place."

"She did what she had to do Shato," Sutton protested. "Commodore Oulette endorsed her action."

"She could have waited thirty seconds longer," the Andorian answered.

"That is your opinion," Sutton countered hotly.

"You expected me to support her actions because we share a common heritage?" the alien asked him. "For someone about to bond with one of my people you seem to know little of us."

"It is wrong to abandon someone to the ice," Sutton recited. "But this is a functioning starship at war. We could not have hung there much longer."

"I have come to respect you Jeffrey," Shato answered, "even to love you like a sibling. So it is that I must tell you: She is an aggressive warrior. She has a reputation for driving those under her command. That is not always a good thing when lives are sacrificed needlessly."

"She did what she thought was right," Sutton said. He sighed. "We'll be leaving so it won't be an issue I suppose."

"I'm sorry that it is under these circumstances," Shato answered. "Too many of us had friends in those sections. I won't belabor the point: They are dead now; that is war." The Andorian extended his hand. "Good luck to you Jeffrey."

"Thanks," Sutton answered. He shook his friend's cool hand. "Maybe your next roommate will like the cold."

Fearless' newly installed boatswain's call sounded. Sutton and Shato both looked up toward the speaker. "Bogeys have been sighted on radar," Talas voice rang out. "They are past the inner perimeter. Battle stations, battle stations,"

Sutton watched as his friend fairly dived for the comm panel. "Bridge, engineering," the Andorian said he proceeded without waiting for a reply. "The mam is powered down. We're on backup fusion—as you well know."

"Understood engineer," Talas answered. "This is still a fighting vessel. We shall head out to augment the Archers and Currans; that is Commodore Oulette's orders as well!"

"Impulse engine power at your disposal in three minutes, bridge," Shato answered crisply. Jeff could see the anger on his face. The Andorian punched off the comm. "This ship is barely in fighting condition."

"I better get up there," Sutton said. He could see that he could do nothing to assuage Shato's anger toward Talas. "The commodore wouldn't order us out unless he thought that we were ready."

"Unless his progress reports were modified," Shato answered. "But I do not know if that happened. Perhaps there are too many pirates for the defense force to deal with. I'll be in the auxiliary missile control room—good luck my friend."

"And to you!" he called over his shoulder as he hustled out of engineering. Sutton took off smoothing down his jersey as he did so. He missed the old one piece flight suits that many of the Stellar Navy crewmen had worn before the war.

Sutton was soon standing on the darkened bridge of Fearless. He listened as Talas gave the final orders to cast off. He looked around in confusion. Sutton had supposed that Grizzly Oulette was back from his leave on earth. He walked up to Talas who was seated comfortably in the command seat.

"Is the commodore alright?" he whispered. The whisper carried in the Pioneer's small bridge.

"Commodore Oulette is still on leave," Talas informed him. "There was an alert for all ready ships."

"Dock has been cleared," Spaceman Robert McGivers declared. Sutton remembered the nervous youth that had maneuvered Fearless out of harm's way at the end of their last engagement. The man who sat in the navigator position was a far cry from that boy. Sutton supposed that they had all grown up.

"Take us out past the maintenance arms on thrusters," Talas ordered; "then engage the impulse drive for the anticipated path of the intruders."

McGivers answered crisply in the affirmative. "Did the dockmaster release us?" Sutton pressed his mouth almost to Talas' small ears.

"I decided that we were battle worthy," she answered. "Part of Taskforce 17 is going out to engage the enemy. We shall add our firepower to theirs. I am in command." This last carried audibly over the bridge.

"Very well," Sutton answered, falling into the first officer role. "Lieutenant Merrick do we have an update on the hostiles?"

"The radar platform on Jupiter reported that the unknowns came in with Tellarite IFF's," the communications' officer reported. "Once they got within range they fired a salvo of missiles, probably Moolahs. Jupiter Station went silent shortly after that."

"Radar reports sporadic readings near the asteroid belt, sir," Chief H'Tok reported. The Andorian sensor operator was a new addition to Fearless' crew.

"Seventeen is launching fighters on flanking maneuvers," Sutton listened as the laconic voice of Commodore Zimmermann crackled over his earpiece.

"Unknowns are vectoring through the Trojan Group of asteroids," H'Tok reported. Sutton noted how his antennae were drooped over as he stooped over the hooded radar display. "It looks like they are on a heading for the Massalia Group," the Andorian concluded.

"They are using the gravitational resonance to foul radar," Talas remarked. "We did the same thing once to ambush a Vulcan patrol."

"Fighters are going to warp," Sutton reported. He found himself sweating despite the coolness of Fearless' bridge. As defacto first officer he was the focal point between Fearless and the rest of the cobbled taskforce. "Currans are spreading out in a screen."

"Engineering this is the bridge," Talas said after she opened a comm link to Lieutenant Shato. "Do we have any warp capability?"

"I'm pushing things at half impulse," the harried reply came.

Sutton watched as Talas lithely got out of the command chair and moved to the engineering status alcove. She examined the readings there for a few moments and then continued her conversation with Shato: "Take us to three-quarters impulse engineer."

There was an explosion of Andorian from the speaker. Sutton recognized several derogatory terms for haste and impetuousness. Talas replied in the same language. Sutton recognized the low high continent royal court tongue. It was basically a harsh command reserved for an underling.

"Three-quarters impulse, captain," the reply came several seconds later with a thick human-like sarcastic emphasis on the last word. "There will be some disruption in the artificial gravity web."

"Very well, engineer," she answered.

McGivers responded that three quarters impulse was available. Talas ordered the change in speed. Sutton's stomach lurched and he felt a vibration from the deck up through his boots.

"The lead group of unknowns is exiting warp," H'Tok reported; "four returns, growing in size, suggestive of a fighter launch. The other two are accelerating to warp three point six."

"They are pushing it for birdies," Sutton commented.

"The main body of our attack force will be at IP with the Romulans in nine minutes," Sutton reported after examining the coded data display from Zimmermann's Agincourt. "Utopia P reports that they are launching their Minotaurs and Archers."

The time seemed to draw out. Sutton was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Fearless was pretty much out on her own as the main bulk of seventeen had warped away from the slow moving Pioneer class cruiser. Sutton listened to numerous reports both from inside the cruiser and from Agincourt. Zimmermann and his fighters had emerged out of warp.

"H'Tok, get me a good radar picture," Talas ordered. "We're set Narwhals for proximity blasts. We'll bring those pirates out of warp and deal with them from there."

"They are engaging the main body," Sutton said as the reports filtered over his earpiece. Agincourt reports that Bowen has been hit and is drifting. Minotaurs are tangling with Eightballs. Birdies are screening their cruisers." Sutton stopped as another voice came over the secure channel. This one was from Utopia Planitia. "That team trying to overcome the sensor glitch is calling. They have been running active subspace scans of the hostiles. They are definite Romulan cruisers, two Veronus class and four Sabinus'. They are also running their plants at one hundred twenty percent."

"They're not going back," Talas said. "Prepare to fire Narwhals," she ordered as the radar presentation showed the two Romulan ships nearing missile range.

"Pirates slowing!" H'Tok exclaimed.

"Fire missiles!" Talas commanded.

"Firing and away!" Lieutenant Sylvia Moran answered smartly. "Birdies slowing," the gunnery officer said with much concern in her voice. "They'll short of the blast area!" she exclaimed in frustration.

"Reload tubes," Talas commanded.

"Decompression in the missile room!" the gunnery officer exclaimed. "Gunnery crews are suited up."

"It's the seals from our last action," Sutton spoke up. He remembered reading Shato's recommendation that testing be completed before Fearless put to space again. "That'll slow them down on the reload."

"They are increasing speed again," H'Tok reported.

"Time to reload?" Talas snapped. Sutton knew that it was a miracle that the Romulan ships were surviving the changes in speed. He realized that Talas was right: This was a one way trip for these birdies.

"Reload complete in another five seconds," Moran replied tersely.

"Radar shows them coming out of warp," H'Tok declared, "range…eight thousand kilometers."

"Evasive port!" Talas snapped.

"Missiles loaded!" Moran exclaimed.

"Fire!" he heard Talas bellow. Sutton reported Fearless' situation to Zimmermann. The battle was going against the Pioneer.

The bridge lurched although Sutton's mind told him that it was a burble in the artificial gravity webbing. Complete blackness fell. Jeff counted seconds as he seized his console, thankful that he had strapped himself into his seat. Rather than the red emergency lighting the next illumination that Sutton saw was an explosion from the unmanned engineering alcove. He gasped as noxious fumes from burning circuit panels filled the air around him. He reached beneath his seat and pulled out his emergency mask. He put it over his head and took a few breaths of clean air.

He grabbed a torch from under his eat and shined it around the bridge. Smoke and fire fighting chemicals billowed out of the damaged alcove. The light flew out of his hand as the artificial gravity lurched once again. Sutton recovered to see the light's beam play across various scenes: Crewman desperately trying to perform their duties while others struggled with their breathing masks. The light stopped, catching the captain's chair and its occupant in its illumination. Sutton struggled to get up momentarily forgetting that he was strapped in.

He hastily undid his straps and ran to Talas. The metal fragment protruded grossly from her forehead. Blue blood ran down her face. Her eyes remained opened, unseeing, and dead. Sutton shook her shoulder gently. He knew the futility of his action. His wife to be would never stand again. The emergency lights came on at last. Sutton recovered enough to analyze the situation. He was the captain now and it was up to him to save Fearless. He wondered how he could do that when all he wanted to do was curl up and join Talas.

Mars was a bright star in the blackness of space. The Pioneer class Fearless cruised silently through the velvet blackness. Part of the cruiser's hull was stripped away so hastily had it left space dock. The stars reflected off of Fearless' hull. Thousands of kilometers away two Romulan Sabinus' emerged into normal space.

Fearless' adversaries had no sooner exited warp than they lined up to fire their plasma cannons. The glowing containment rings in the bows of the Romulan ships were already glowing. One of the Sabinus' warp nacelles was glowing cherry red. Its plasma beam narrowly missed the lone earth cruiser. The second cruiser did better: Fearless was struck solidly amidships.

Fearless' hull plating crackled protectively for several seconds. But only for a short time: Seconds after the Romulan beam hit the cruiser the ship's hull was blasted on its starboard side. Fearless rolled end over end. Gases blew out of exposed sections. The interior deck lighting showed through the great rents in the ship's hull. The second Sabinus moved closer to Fearless. One of the Romulan cruiser's three warp nacelles glowed first red then started turning molten white. Flecks of molten metal trailed off of it. A shuttle bay door opened on the side of the Sabinus.

A large cylindrical object was ejected from the open bay. A single warp nacelle glowed blue on the side of the lethal looking tube. The object accelerated away then stretched out into warp. The Sabinus' containment ring glowed. It mate ejected a similar missile that warped away after its companion. The warp nacelle erupted, splitting up the middle in a slow nightmare explosion. The aft section of the Sabinus was a molten hell. The nacelle split all the way up to the cruiser's superstructure. The Sabinus erupted, sending molten shards of metal out in a ball of radioactive shrapnel.

Fearless would not fight again. The ship's external lights faded as did the few interior lights that had been exposed to space. The surviving Romulan satisfied that Fearless was no threat jumped away into warp.

DY 100 on a course for Mars, Jan 2158

Erica Soames felt cool. Her hands were numb and started to tingle when she tried to move them. She felt weight. The DY was under drive. The back of her neck and head reminded her of a time she had drank one too many ciders in a favorite pub. She vaguely realized that her spacesuit was gone. Her eyes fluttered open. The blonde Romulan agent was seated across from where she lay.

"So noble, you humans," Perex said. "Your president has declared that he won't engage in subterfuge to defeat us. Apparently you did not receive the memo on that admiral."

"I'm acting alone," Soames croaked. She had no idea where he was leading but she supposed it would be disastrous were he to be recording this conversation.

"You came from a ship somewhere," Perex retorted. He rose from the thickly padded seat and crossed the floor to where she lay. Soames barely saw his hand but she felt the tremendous crack across her cheek. Her hearing went numb in her left ear. Erica's face stung so badly that she had to hold back the tears. The Romulan dealt another blow to her other cheek. He struck her repeatedly until her vision clouded over. Soames felt a warm liquid running down her left cheek and guessed that it was her blood.

"You are alive only because I need to know where you came from," Perex informed her. "I have a task that I must do and I shall not allow you to interfere." He stopped slapping her. Tears ran unbidden down her cheeks.

Her grogginess cleared. Soames guessed that she was alive for another reason as well: Nayyar had told her of the Romulan desire to boast; to demonstrate their superiority. If their positions were reversed Erica would be using instruments to look for a ship. A live source of intel might well lie. She was on the deck of what she assumed was the DY's main control room. Perex saw her gaze. His hand drew back.

"Is that all that you have to muster?" she asked defiantly as she tasted the salty tang of her blood. "Kanya told me that you fancy yourself quite the ladies man."

"If this is a plea it is misplaced," the Romulan answered coolly. "If you are trying to stall for time then we have it. My part of this little escapade has yet to be played out."

"I'm just commenting," Erica answered carefully. How should she play this she asked herself? Perex was not a human. She was taking a dreadful chance that her assessment of his psychological motivations might be wrong. Still, from all they had been able to determine the Romulans were related to the Vulcans. They had emotions. And the Vulcans had confessed that they had emotion to boot in ancient times. "But then again you are not a man. You are an alien. Your brothers are devoid of emotion. I can't imagine anything with less sex appeal than a Vulcan—except perhaps a stone. I think it carries for you as well."

"You know nothing of me Erica," Perex answered. She thought that she could detect an undercurrent of warning in his voice; if that was hostility and not some other alien emotion. Soames recalled an exopsychology class: Alien emotions were thought to be no different than human ones. It was what sparked them that could turn out to be radically different.

She saw her suit lying in a heap in a corner of the control module. The thruster pack lay with it. Soames wondered if her Webley was somewhere in that heap. He followed her furtive gaze and gave a very human shake of his head.

"Tsk, tsk," Perex said. "I am afraid not." Erica knew that he was right. Soames hands were firmly bound with plastic straps. She would have trouble getting her weapon even if it was somewhere in that heap. Soames needed to get her hands free.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Soames began. She knew that she was proceeding on a dangerous tack. "The great Vulcanoid race: Like I said before, the sex appeal of a computer, a bloody toaster. You are out to conquer us? That is laughable. Your brother computers don't seem interested in joining you. What an inbred arrangement that would make; computers and a third rate empire. Why it's taken us this long to defeat such obviously losers—

Erica's head snapped back. She hadn't even seen his fist. She fell backward slamming hard into the control room's bulkhead. She felt something warm run out of her nose. His open palm cracked against her cheek again. Her head snapped from left to right as he hit her from both sides. She was frightened but no more so than when she had become disoriented while flying. Soames knew that she could always have punched out. But she saw a flash of sharp metal. Part of Erica's mind told her that she could not simply bail out of this situation. The knife flashed down. Soames wanted to close her eyes but couldn't.

She heard rather than felt the knife slice through the material of her blouse and bra. Soames flailed wildly as he ripped her top away from her. She landed a savage kick to his mid section. He didn't seem fazed, much to her growing horror. She wished that she had learned more about Vulcan physiology. Soames kicked up sharply at a place that would lay a human male low. Perex deflected her feet and smiled cruelly at her.

"Now I'll show you the human role when you are a conquered people beneath the empire," He leered at her and proceeded to unzip the jumpsuit that he was wearing.

"Try your best you pathetic green-blooded bastard!" she spat back at him. Soames kicked out futilely at him. A shadow crossed her vision. The Romulan twisted around like a snake. He narrowly avoided a killing blow from Nayyar's out flung foot. She managed only to connect with the base of his jaw before he slithered away.

"Looks like all of my girls are here," Perex told the augment. Kanya Nayyar stood framed before the control space entry hatch. She had a plasma pistol leveled at the Romulan. "This is an oxygen rich environment. You know what happens if you shoot that weapon in this space." He smiled and laughed. Soames saw a trickle of green blood running down his chin.

Soames did not immediately understand what that meant but apparently Kanya did. "How…" the question hung in the air. "The implants," she added.

"A little surgery," the Romulan smiled. "The human surgeon was quite surprised. He is also quite dead. I won't ever feel any sensation again but that is a small sacrifice for the empire; something your people would never do. That is why we will conquer you."

Soames crawled for the tattered pieces of her shirt. At least she hoped that the Romulan believed that she was trying to cover her exposed breasts. She grabbed at the torn remains that lay close to her space suit. She realized that she was leaving a trail of blood from her mouth and left ear.

"Quite the standoff we have here," Perex said. His booted foot connected solidly with Erica's stomach. Soames rolled over trying to gasp, the breath knocked out of her. The Romulan produced a small weapon. Erica still had the presence of mind to recognize the cheap two shot laser that was favored by many in earth's small criminal community. He fired at Nayyar who was already dodging wildly. She narrowly missed the beam. Erica heard it sizzling into the metal behind the augment.

The Romulan fired again. Nayyar screamed as the plasma pistol went skittering. She fell back into the narrow corridor behind. Soames saw the flames running up her arm. Her head swam. The thrust had been cut. Erica pushed herself along the deck floating just on top of its cold surface. She knew that Perex was turning on her. Soames guessed that she couldn't fight the Romulan. She extended her bound hands and pushed the thruster pack's controls.

A teeth rattling hissing rose out of the pack. It sprang across the small chamber. Erica rolled away from the confusion. She heard a sound like a wet branch breaking. Her legs kicked out. She rolled in a ball as she went flying out into the passageway. She was only just recovering her breath when she collided with the padded wall of the corridor. She felt a hand wrap around her arm.

"It's me admiral," Nayyar declared. Erica spun in midair. A wet liquid blinded her: She realized it was her own blood. "You look like hell."

"I get that a lot lately," Soames wheezed out at last. "We need to attend to Perex."

"You accomplished that," Nayyar said. Soames rolled over slowly to look in the control room. A fully conscious Perex was wedged against a control console. The Romulan was impaled on the control arm of Soames' thruster pack. The pack's arm extended through Perex's midsection into the wall padding.

Soames stared in horror at the sight. The Romulan's green blood was floating before him in congealed green globules. She looked into his eyes and knew that he was perfectly aware and unfeeling. He even grinned at her. She looked down as Nayyar cut her bonds.

"Not a good situation," Perex said. He coughed and exhaled a gout of green blood mixed with spittle. "Still; we are not done here. When Reunification is a reality we will turn to earth. I am but one operative; not the last." He coughed again and again. "Others will complete my work; including instructing you in respect, Erica."

"I've heard enough of this bloody nonsense," Erica answered. She cared not that she was beaten, bleeding and topless. "What were you doing out here?"

Perex grinned. Erica floated up carefully to him. He looked back at her through dead unseeing eyes. Soames reached out and touched the still warm Romulan's face. She turned a questioning glance to Nayyar.

The augment floated up beside her and put two fingers beneath Perex's neckline. She nodded at Erica. "He is quite dead."

"The question is what was he doing out here?" Soames floated over to the control board. Her knowledge of navigation was rusty at best. Her disorientation had been diagnosed just as she had entered the orbital mechanics and spatial navigation part of her flight training. She floated down into the seat and was about to strap herself in when Nayyar pushed up to her with her suit in hand.

"You might want to cover up admiral," she said.

"It is a little chilly in here," Soames agreed, adding a smile. "I told you not to come over here."

"After you departed I discovered the shuttle's flight manual." Nayyar spoke as Soames proceeded with the difficult business of putting on a spacesuit in a weightless environment. "Your vessels have an access code that allows another ship control over many of its functions. You know someone might misuse such a thing one day?" Soames was about to reply when Kanya continued. "I discovered that I could override this ship's collision warning and tracking system."

"It works that way so that ships can rendezvous with one another," Soames explained. "Say another vessel's crew is incapacitated. How did you find this ship's code?" Soames felt clammy in the well worn spacesuit. She wanted a long bath.

"Griffin included a data wafer with that information for all of the ships in his yard," Nayyar explained.

"Then we can just blow this ship and go back to Scylla," Soames said at last.

Nayyar shook her head. "Perex fired the freighter's engines after I made the crossing. Relatively speaking, Scylla is somewhere along an opposite vector to this ship."

"Lovely," Soames declared. "This control panel appears to be locked out. Just what was Perex trying to do?"

Soames sat about the complicated business of determining where they were headed. Nayyar excused herself to search the rest of the DY. Erica's best guess was that the Romulan planned to hit the shipyard at Utopia Planitia. Fifteen minutes later she was certain of nothing. Perex had set the ship on a trajectory that roughly intercepted the orbit of Phobos. She was also aware of an increasing amount of military communications' traffic. Soames absently switched through the civilian comm traffic. Nayyar swam back into the control room as Soames heard the warning concerning a Romulan attack.

Erica cleaned herself up while she listened to the navigation warnings being posted concerning the birdie attack. "Awful convenient, that your old boss was out here; a bomb in the hold perhaps?"

"Nothing admiral," Nayyar answered.

"We are too far out to do anything with this ship to aid in their attack anyway," Soames said. "We aren't even on a heading for the shipyard." Erica returned to her analysis of their flight plot. She glanced absently at Nayyar who was studying the old vessel's navigation system. "That is the forward scanner array," Erica said as Nayyar ran her finger over a readout.

"The return is very good for a space based radar," Nayyar said. "The Romulans use radar for their system ships. This return is far superior to anything that they use."

"That is because it isn't radar," Erica explained. Part of her history of the space program came back to her. "The DY's pioneered a laser detection system. There is a large emitter cone in the forward section of this ship. It was an excellent system prior to the introduction of subspace radar and warp drive."

"A laser?" Nayyar asked. Soames stopped when she heard the emphatic curiosity in the augment's voice.

"Yes a laser," Soames answered. "If memory serves the beam is projected out of the emitter. A wave guide scans variations in the laser's reflective—

"Some Rihannsu guidance systems rely upon a laser being projected on a destination," Nayyar supplied.

"Or a target," Soames said. She sat back against the cushioned pilot seat. "We used laser targeting in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. This ship's nose is pointed at Phobos."

"The shipyard is well protected," Nayyar said. Her voice grew tense as she floated before Soames who had turned the pilot's chair away from the control board.

"Phobos is not protected," Soames said. "I believe that it was considered—

"The United States space agency once considered it as a refueling stop for their Aries' missions." Soames looked at the augment who was reciting her litany of facts. "The idea was dropped in favor of segmented fuel carriers. Phobos' use as a refueling or even way station was abandoned after the Third World War."

Soames turned the seat carefully in the zero g. She set her mind to the ballistics of a fragmented moon. The object was a little over ten kilometers in diameter. A nuclear weapon detonation could provide the push that would move it out of its fast orbit. The fragments could severely damage, or maybe even destroy the orbital shipyard.

"We have to get this ship off of autopilot," Soames declared. As if in answer she felt weight return as the engines fired again. Of course she thought; Perex would set in course corrections to ensure that the laser navigation system illuminated Mars' moon.

"There is an engineering section aft," Nayyar said.

"I don't suppose your Romulan intelligence indoctrination didn't include gas fusion engines and twenty-first century computer systems?" Soames asked.

"No," Nayyar answered. "But surely this craft has many manual controls." Soames looked on as Nayyar looked around; her doubts as to the DY's structure evident in her expressions.

Erica unstrapped and started to stand when the thrust stopped. She was about to sail out of the seat when Nayyar grabbed her. She thanked Kanya and carefully bounded away towards the aft section of the spaceship.

"We need to point the laser somewhere else," Soames said. "The worst case is missiles on the fly towards the target."

"A fraction of a degree at this distance and velocity would direct the beam toward Mars," Nayyar said.

Soames thought quickly. Mars was dotted with several small settlements. If she directed the DY's laser toward the surface it was unlikely that anyone would be hurt; unlikely but not impossible. The alternative was the destruction of earth's main shipyard. She could point the laser out in space but would whatever the Romulans were hurling then just continue on course? Erica vaguely recalled that function as being programmed into older laser guided weapons.

Soames picked up a dogged-eared solar navigation guide out of the locker and returned to the chair. The equations and tables of stellar body positions looked pretty much like Egyptian symbols that she had seen in museums. She took a deep breath. Soames had been through the academics of all of this. She needed to dredge up information that she had not used in almost two decades.

She became aware that Nayyar was speaking. "I think that I can use this navigation computer. There seems to be some preprogrammed Terra-Mars routings in the database." Nayyar looked over to see the augment floating over what she had concluded was the control room's auxiliary control panel.

"We may be able to use that," Soames answered quietly. She was struggling through the orbital period of Mars' other moon. "Deimos peeks over the horizon relative to our entry vector." She sent the book careening across the small space to Nayyar.

Nayyar seized the spinning book out of midair. She gave it a cursory glance then put it down. "He would have raped you admiral," she said quietly.

Soames was silent for several long minutes. She tried vainly to either shut off the laser navigation beam or to disengage the autopilot. "I needed to buy time. I'm not stupid: I know what might have happened." Almost did happen she thought bitterly. "There is worse happening to those fighting out there." She absently waved a hand meaning the space around them. "Besides; I knew when I took this upon myself that there would be consequences. It is too late for me." It was too late when Soames had sat through Marlin Killian's pitiful death rattle.

She turned and smiled at Nayyar. Soames didn't feel like pursuing the issue any further. "Hopefully it won't be too late for Frank." She started to get up when The DY's engines fired: Another course correction she thought. "I believe if we can stop the engines the autopilot will shut off."

"We should be able to override a cargo lock and use the vented atmosphere to make a course correction. Perhaps we can even regain thruster control," Nayyar said thoughtfully. "Maybe it won't be too late for you admiral. You are saving your—our people."

"Not exactly using Marquis of Queensbury Rules to do that," Erica said. "That is the thing about moral relativism; its dirty little secret: Sooner or later someone has to pay for the mistakes; the things they've done wrong. Someone has to take responsibility. I'll accept the fault for the things I've done to save my people. But that does not make those things right."

Zero g returned as the engine thrust fell off. Erica floated out of her seat. "Let's get aft; shut the engine down then see how much we need to correct for a Deimos orbit."

Erica swam out of the seat with the augment in tow. She grew nauseous as aft became a relative term. She choked back her gorge and forced her mind to focus on the faded, peeling directional arrows. Erica stayed low next to the padded deck should the freighter's engine fire while they were in transit. She opened a heavy metal door over which the words engine room, were emblazoned upon a plaque. She pushed her way through it.

Several control panels lined the walls. Erica shoved her way over to one. She reached out her hands and stopped her forward motion. Kanya smoothly rolled out of a ball before the same panel. "Showoff," Erica chided.

"Main engine emergency cutoff," the augment recited. She was looking at the same instrumentation as was Erica. Soames looked dubiously at the control board. The red lever was marked by crosshatched yellow and black warning tape. Nayyar looked at her. "What do you think admiral?"

"Okay," Erica took a deep breath. "Pull the bloody thing."

Nayyar pulled back the lever in one fluid motion. Part of Soames' mind expected to hear something. No change was evident for several seconds. "Nothing's happening." The harsh, deep bellow of a warning alarm contradicted Erica's words. The engine room lights switched from cool white, blue to a warning red and then back again. "Then again maybe something did happen."

"Let's go back to the bridge and see what we have," Soames declared.

They bounded through the narrow confines of the DY's passageways. Erica immediately recognized the change in the ship's primary control panel. Several indicators flashed, demanding attention. Soames concluded, after a cursory glance, that the DY's autopilot was indeed uncoupled. She took a seat in the commander's chair and asked Nayyar if there were any Luna-Deimos plots stored in the database.

"There are two," Kanya answered. Soames watched as her hands moved over a keyboard; first with hesitation then picking up a speed that made it look as if she had been doing it all of her life. "Transfer complete admiral," Nayyar said at last. "It looks like a minor course correction."

"Thruster control is available," Erica declared. She was starting to feel confident with the DY's controls. The correction was so minor that Soames allowed the ship's little navigation computer the chore of realigning the ship's nose. The DY's movements were almost imperceptible to Erica. When the course correction was made she went about the business of verifying the new course.

"The navigation laser is pointed at Deimos," she said at last. "Rather we have accomplished anything here remains to be seen." Nayyar nodded tersely in turn. Soames knew that the augment knew what was at stake here. The two women turned to listening to the news' bands.

"I've acquired Scylla," Kanya said. "We should be able to execute a turn and interception."

Erica was surprised at how much of her navigation schooling came back to her. "Pick a point along our flight path; execute a circle while decelerating with the idea of coming up right alongside our shuttle." She watched as Kanya sat about the task that Soames had given her. She hoped that they could restart the DY's engines.

Syrtus Major, Mars, Jan 2158

"We'll have to be careful releasing the water in this flow," Clair Wong announced in a stern tone. She steadied the probe over the red sands of their campsite.

"Give me a break," Klaus Anspach countered. "We find some old civilization buried under the sand and now we have to creep around. At this rate Mars won't be terraformed until the twenty fourth century!"

"It could be these Preservers!" she replied passionately. Clair wanted nothing more than to see blue skies over her planet of birth. But the ruins of an alien civilization excited her. A degenerative bone disease, made livable through modern medicine had forbidden her entrance into the navy to be become an explorer. So it was that she had chosen instead to join the terraforming teams that the Martian communities were sponsoring.

She detected rather than seen Anspach's chiding grin beneath his breath mask. "You know I want to see who lived here those many millions of years ago just as bad as you do Clair." She could hear his soft chuckle through the tiny speakers in her ears. "I'm getting you ready for Alan."

"I like science too!" Alan Schultz exclaimed. Clair knew that Klaus was busy playing his game of matchmaker. Schultz was a tall serious man equal in age to Clair's twenty-six years. An explosion in the missile room of the Norfolk had left Schultz minus an arm and leg—and a navy career. Anspach seemed to think it his mission in life to see Wong married. The truth was that Clair would rather be with the much older Anspach. She had developed a crush on the gentle widower. She knew that his wife was gone now many years after a surface skimmer accident.

"I'm going to try for the archeological team," she said. "I hope that you give me your endorsement Klaus." She would have tried for the team even if the older Anspach did not already have a place on the dig crew. She had been given a tour of the initial archeological site. The ruddy spires of the old city were thought to have been kilometers tall in their heyday.

The probe settled in its tripod. Wong peered out over the red landscape. She imagined how it would look beneath a blue sky. She thought that her imagination was running a bit to extreme. The sky actually seemed to be turning blue—then white. Clair put her padded gloves over her visor. The awful light grew in intensity. It seemed to fade or had she gone blind?

Wong looked cautiously toward the sky. Glowing fragments looked like video of fireworks that she had once seen. She realized that she was staring at the remains of Deimos. Mars' friendly traveler was gone. Blazing fragments of molten rock spread out over the dark sky of Mars.

"There is some kind of warning coming in over the viddy," Ally Kapoor's heavily accented English announced over Clair's speakers. The surface crew's lifeline was safely inside the habitat dome. "You all need to get inside!"

Clair looked out over the horizon. The Antonov City complex of domes was barely visible. A glowing mass left a brightly illuminated tail in Mars' thin atmosphere as it headed straight for the city. Wong vaguely heard Klaus's warning to get down. She felt the full impact of him knocking her to the sand. A flash filled the horizon where her family resided. A roiling fireball raced toward her. Wong was picked up bodily. She screamed in terror and agony as she felt her suit burning away. Her suffering was mercilessly cut short as she was flung brutally against an outcropping of rock

Beneath the surface of Utopia Planitia, Jan 2158

President Christophur Thorpe was convinced that Emery Erickson was mad. He was thankful that the battle being displayed in the darkened situation room had given him an excuse to avoid the doctor. Thorpe was no scientist but Erickson's tale of alternate universes seemed outlandish at best. Should he discreetly investigate rather exposure to the matter energy transmission device was harmful?

"We are mopping up their last cruiser Mister President," Commander Helena Markel informed him.

"It seems like a strange way to attack the shipyard," Thorpe said. "Surely they didn't expect to get past the Mars Defense Perimeter."

"Actually Strategos Antor says that they may have had a plan sir," the commander said. Thorpe had learned after arriving at the underground command post that the Andorian cruiser Ventizen had put in to the yard for repairs and rearmament. He allowed the commander to guide him over to a video display. "It looks like they used something equivalent to one of our Hercules missiles: A small warp engine gave it some subspace capability."

"They didn't hit the yard though," Thorpe countered. "You told me that the missiles exploded on the other side of the planet in fact."

"Yes sir," Markel answered. Thorpe could see the consummate professional in her. "They both hit Deimos. But the strategos sent down a simulation showing the effects of a hit on Phobos. If you'll watch this sir," she instructed.

Thorpe looked on as a computer simulation showed the moons of Mars. "The science team used subspace sensors and determined that each missile had a yield of about ten megatons." Markel's hands flew over the touchpads. "The warheads obliterated Deimos but had they hit Phobos the results could have been quite different."

Thorpe watched as the simulation showed Mars' inner moon being blown into several large fragments. The fragments in turn tore through the orbiting shipyard. He heard a ruckus across the room but did not let that distract him. Thorpe asked about the damage that had been done. He maintained his composure and prepared for the worst. He knew that there would be deaths, but he didn't have to like it.

"We've lost two Archers and a Curran," Markel recited a list from a handheld computer. "A tender is going out to retrieve Fearless. Many of her crew was on leave. Initial reports indicate that we've lost no more than five hundred people sir."

"Five hundred too many," he answered huskily. Thorpe turned to see his security guards scrutinizing a navy crewman. "Any other losses?" he asked. "Clarissa; let the crewman go about his business!" he ordered his bodyguard brusquely.

"The seismometers recorded something in Syrtus Major, sir," the commander answered. "The local government reports that they've lost contact with Antonov City."

"How many there?" Thorpe asked.

"One point three million as of the last Mars census," Markel answered with the precision of a Vulcan. "Sir!" she exclaimed passionately. "It is possible that only the landlines were hit. Satcom is down due to the radiation from the destruction of Deimos."

"What about the moon itself?" he asked. He was steeling himself for the worse. Thorpe wondered how many millions more would have to die. How many on the Romulan side was enough to call an end to this madness?

"No personnel lost," the commander answered. "We had the old UHF emergency navigation beacons on both moons but that system hasn't been use in decades Mister President."

"Thank you President Thorpe," the harried crewman said. Thorpe was surprised to see the man bearing a tray upon which sat a carafe and some sandwiches.

"I know this isn't the best time sir but I was told you haven't eaten since your arrival," the crewman said.

"This is not the time crewman!" Merkel declared.

"It is quite alright commander," Thorpe said at last. The report about Antonov had soured his appetite. But Thorpe's couldn't help but to take in the heady aroma of a flavored coffee: It smelled like hazelnut. He realized that someone must have did some research on his tastes. "I'll have a cup of that." Thorpe invited his security team over. Neither of them chose to eat or drink anything. He was not surprised.

"I've always wanted to meet you sir," the crewman declared. Thorpe felt far from politics. He realized that this was a hand shaking, baby kissing moment, but he didn't really want to indulge in that now. Yet there was something about the crewman's manner that struck Thorpe. The crewman seemed quite sincere and more than a little star struck. Christophur extended his hand to the man.

"The pleasure is all mine," Thorpe said. "I have the greatest respect for those of you serve." He realized that it sounded clichéd but he the difference was that he meant it. Now he knew what struck him about the crewman's manner: There was a note of sadness in it. Christophur concealed a shudder. "Crewman?" he left the question hanging there.

"Crewman Daniels, sir," the man answered.

"These are dark times Daniels," Thorpe answered. "Who knows what would have happened if we had not had the navy that we did."

"Probably nothing good sir," Daniels answered. "But it'll be ok—I'm sure we'll win sir." It seemed to Christophur that the crewman wanted to say more; but Daniels did not.

"I know that we will," Thorpe said in reply. Now that Thorpe thought, was a cliché. Too many questions remained unanswered. They had apparently only narrowly missed losing Utopia Planitia. A counter attack against Romulus was not even in the works. All of the allied military leaders were concerned with the Romulan presence on Topaz. It seemed that the advantage still went to the Romulans: They were here in allied space putting Star Fleet on the defensive.

"The Mars Provincial Guard is reporting on Antonov City Mister President," Merkel said. She had been listening to a data stream in her earpiece Thorpe noticed. She gave Daniels a dismissive glance. "It is…it is not good sir."

Thorpe sighed. "It won't get any better. Let's have it," Thorpe said.

"Remember sir," Daniels said as he started to leave. "You'll realize everything you want. But it may not seem so at the time." The crewman hastily picked the tray up and headed out of the command post.

Thorpe wanted to stop the dour man and ask him for an explanation. There was nothing wrong with predictions: Politics was partially comprised of predictions. But the man had a seriousness that had taken Thorpe back a pace. But he could inquire no further as Daniels entered the lift and the commander needed his attention.

UES Daedelus, in orbit of the second planet of Ross 128, Jan 2158

The harsh smell brought Captain Michael Cromwell back to consciousness. He coughed as his eyes fluttered open. His vision cleared to see Doctor Gertrude Schultheiss bent over him. He could see the concern mirrored in her eyes. Cromwell wondered how much time had passed as the events of the last few weeks came flooding back into him. He looked up and smiled.

"I'm alright, doctor," he croaked. His throat was dry and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

"I'll be the judge of that Olly," Trudy answered. "But you have had a good sleep. I needed to wake you to get a better feel for your condition." She handed him a glass of water. "Drink this. I know that you need it."

The water tasted refreshing to him. He restrained himself from showing too much exuberance over water. Cromwell remembered more of his encounter with the alien probe. He also remembered his decision regarding the Ro'ha.

He looked around the room as he slaked his thirst. He looked cautiously at his right arm. He swore that he could feel as much with it as he could with his left. Cromwell looked at Schultheiss in confusion. She reached out and pinched the microcircuit infused plastic that passed for the skin of his artificial appendage.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed as he jerked his arm away. He looked at it and her in surprise. "I could never feel anything like that before."

Trudy looked hesitantly at him. "When I examined you the nerve fibers were connected as if you had a refusion operation. In fact the bundles were connected far better than I've ever seen—even from a pointie procedure."

Cromwell cautiously flexed his fingers. He looked shyly at her. "Am I; am I myself Trudy? Is there anything left of them—it?"

"I've conducted brain scans and compared them with your most recent." Schultheiss turned a viewer toward Cromwell's field of vision. She pushed some buttons on a remote control causing a series of wavy illuminated lines to appear. "It would appear consistent with the scans of one Captain Michael Cromwell. I bit shy and on the rigid side but otherwise quite normal."

"You can't tell my personality from one of those!" he protested. Cromwell smiled in spite of himself. "I'm not rigid! Starship captains should convey a sense of…decorum."

"It is alright Olly," Schultheiss smiled in turn. "I love you in spite of your quaint ways." Cromwell watched as her face assumed a serious look. "Are you yourself Olly?"

"I think that I am," he answered slowly and deliberately. He looked up as Doctor Omar Bashir joined them. The man blew a venomous puff of cigar smoke despite Schultheiss' prohibition on smoking in sick bay. "But if I were taken over by an alien entity I would not tell you!" He smiled in turn. "I think that I'm me." His smile faded to be replaced by a look of wonder.

"What was it like captain?" Bashir asked him.

"It was," he spoke haltingly. "It was indescribable." Even now his memory of the mental contact with the machine entity was fading as if it were a dream. He related as much of his experience as he could recall. Much of the time his speech was clumsy and fumbling as the words he chose to describe the experience fell short of the actual event.

"Taln thinks that the doctor was going to use Daedelus as a lightning rod to concentrate and organize the energy storm." Bashir said. They could have used the energy from the solar expulsion to harvest all of the Ro'ha on the surface."

Cromwell nodded. "Maltz's plan was a sound one. I could feel the…the soul, mental energy, whatever you want to call it. Most of them were very much at peace. Some of them were intensely frightened."

"But the process was stopped?" Schultheiss asked abruptly.

"I stopped it; or rather I convinced the machine entity to do so" Cromwell intoned solemnly. He sighed. "For those terrified souls; perhaps being preserved as energy is not for every Ro'ha. They have to have the freedom to choose!"

Schultheiss studied readouts presented overtop Cromwell's bed. "Except for a little low blood pressure that is probably a result of dehydration you appear to be fine. I'd prefer to do a more hands on examination."

Bashir coughed. Cromwell turned red although he knew that Trudy was referring to her distrust of the micro scanners that were apart of the new biobed system. Schultheiss had confided to him that she would rather rely upon a blood pressure and heart monitor cuff than the new beds. He smiled and inquired about being released from his surgeon's care.

"Yah," she answered. "I believe that it is safe to let you go. Lisa will be disappointed. I believe that she has become attached to your chair."

He threw back his cover and carefully sat up. Schultheiss lent him a helpful arm "Just what are you here for Doctor Bashir?" he asked his visitor.

"I've finished my psychological evaluation of the effects of public first contact with the Ro'ha." The psychiatrist drew himself up as if to start a lecture.

Cromwell extended a warning hand as he threw on his gold jersey. "I've decided to stop here doctor. We have given H'Liq advanced knowledge of metallurgy. M'Altz've can go to his people and present his choice. It may not be the best solution but we can't afford to save every race in the galaxy—nor should we."

"My analysis supports your view captain," Bashir said. He casually flicked an ash from his cigar into the cup that Michael had drained earlier. "The S'Astzu nation has already used H'Liq's specifications to test a short range ballistic missile."

"Perhaps they are on the way to building a spacecraft?" Cromwell supplied hopefully. He doubted it as the S'Astzu nation was one of the more aggressive nations on Ross 128's second world.

"Commander Somers informed me that video showed the detonation of a small warhead." Bashir shook his head sadly. "She said they tested the missile over a seven hundred kilometer distance: The exact distance that Marcel determined that their military zeppelins traveled to bomb the Kirath'za nation's capital."

"Even in the face of their own extinction?" the doctor asked in a somber tone.

"They are unconvinced," Bashir explained. "Politicians in some nations think the Setral'ka nation sponsored Doctor H'Liq's, what they are calling advanced weapons research. Others are saying that this is an attempt to take from vital social programs and give credits to research; taking the food out the mouths of the poor as it were. Then there are the religious groups. My study has been very rudimentary but they possess almost the same range of religions as does man and Andorians; that is to say they range from those who honor prayer call and little else to those who conduct the most arcane of ceremonies."

Cromwell pulled a boot over his right foot while silently cursing the uniform design board. "I don't pretend to have your knowledge of the inner working of the mind," he started. "But I have started to realize that no man—or alien that we have encountered has either the wisdom or exact knowledge of the future necessary to set these pre-warp civilizations on the right course." He remembered his parents' Anglican background. He was not a believer but he was open-minded. "Who knows; maybe there is some truth to all the theisms. Maybe it is not our role to intervene."

"H'Liq and M'Altz've are in briefing room two along with Miss Picard," Bashir informed him. "I suppose that you plan on breaking the news to them?"

He nodded. "I need a shower," he said. As much as he owed an explanation to his guests he needed to look and feel presentable. "Please tell them I'll be there in thirty minutes doctor."

Cromwell stalked out of the sick bay. The old axiom of bad news not improving with age was on his mind. Yes; he did want a shower but he also wanted time. Despite his feelings about the situation he felt dreadful about abandoning the Ro'ha to their fate. But he had resolved that the Ro'ha owned their fate; for better or worse. What would happen had mankind received assistance from the stars prior to First Contact he wondered? But it was time to leave.

Cromwell closed the door to his quarters and removed the uniform that he had just put on. Daedelus was restocked. The starship had well over six months of food for its crew of humans, Tellarites and Andorians. The warm water hit him. He felt a bit of a shock from the enhanced sensations coming from his right arm. He supposed that one good thing had come of all of this. He peered from the tiny shower at the chronometer across the room. He wished he could avoid what was coming up.

Mariel Picard leaned over the table and put her face in her hands. She suspected what Captain Cromwell would tell them all. She looked to the Ro'ha that she had become friends with. They might well be the last of their people she thought sadly. She turned the other way in her chair to see Marcel Dieulafoy looking with concern at her. She smiled a tight-lipped grin at him. She found him funny, caring and a gentle soul: Everything that Alvin Crosby had not been. But she felt that she was beyond all of that for now.

Her experience with the group mind had showed Picard her own weaknesses. She previously hadn't understood why she wanted Crosby in her life when he had treated her so badly. But her experience with the group mind had showed her a possible explanation. Picard had felt that she needed someone in her life to validate her sense of who she was. Her mother and father had always allowed her free reign. Crosby had offered a control that had felt secure at first; despite the price she had paid for that security; but no more.

"I want to thank you for all that you have done for me Marcel," she said with a smile. She reached across the table and took up his hands in hers. "You are a good friend." Picard could see his face droop. She supposed those were some of the worse words for a man to hear. "There are some things I want to do Marcel."

She had been looking at Cromwell and the rest of the command crew lately and wondering how one of those jerseys would look on her. This war would be over one day. The Star Fleet could turn to exploration; once the mission of earth's Stellar Navy. It would be a big step for her, Mariel knew. But she wanted to make that journey now. She did not know where it would end and for once that notion excited her. She released Marcel's hands when Cromwell entered the room with Schultheiss and Doctor Bashir in tow.

"Good evening," Cromwell looked around the table. He did not smile.

"You have doomed us captain," M'Altz've spoke up in English.

Picard watched as Cromwell deferred to Bashir while the starship captain took a seat at the head of the conference table. She wondered if Bashir's supply of nasty smelling cigars would ever end. "According to the data I've examined you could effectively absorb every Ro'ha on this planet prior to the beginnings of food riots."

"Not all will accept that!" the alien scientist pleaded.

"No they won't," Cromwell interjected. "They should not be compelled to do so." The captain leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. "You would deny those people choice doctor."

"You offer us no alternative Captain Cromwell," M'Altz've countered. "Do you believe that we can build ships to fly in space?" the alien's tentacle-like limbs waved around indicating its surroundings in the starship.

H'Liq burst forth in exclamation. Picard knew that the Ro'ha scientist was following the conversation via Picard's translator. She still retained her knowledge of the Ro'ha's language from her experience in the group mind. She translated:

"M'Altz've is correct captain. Our leaders cannot accept that our race faces extinction. They have only my word that I got my information from beings from another world. If you could show them some sort of a sign; leave some machines and some of your crew to help us."

"I've done all that I can," Cromwell answered. "I am sorry. But your people would be best served by helping themselves. We are not perfect. This ship must return to its base because we have information about an enemy we are engaged in a great war with. That in itself should tell you just how imperfect we are: The politicians failed. For whatever reason despite starships and faster than light drives we are at war. I don't have all of the answers for your people."

"Then we may be the last of the Ro'ha," Picard translated the doctor's words.

"Or not," Cromwell countered. "It is precisely because I can't foresee the future that I can't help you." Picard looked on as Cromwell stood up. "You have the advanced engineering specifications. I'm going to send down some more books with you. I will grant you that much. Doctor M'Altz've; you too can campaign for the Ro'ha to accept your alternative. You will not convince all but you will save some."

"The captain is right," Picard spoke up. "Some of the Ro'ha of the group mind are terrified and confused while others are content. Individuals must be free to become part of the Calamarain." Mariel fell back on the alien word that defined a group mind.

She listened while M'Altz've gave the Ro'ha equivalent of a sigh. "I agree. We too value freedom of choice. It is just hard to watch the end of my people."

"Either of you may stay aboard," Cromwell said. Mariel was quite surprised. She understood the captain's moral dilemma. She suspected that this was attempt to mitigate the circumstances.

H'Liq spoke before M'Altz've. Picard translated quickly. "I shall do what I can to help my people journey to the stars."

"I will stay with my people as well," M'Altz've announced.

"Very well," Picard listened as Cromwell finished the briefing. "I'll see you both shuttled down to the surface."

Picard stood up after Cromwell. She listened half-heartedly to the goodbyes that were exchanged. Her friends were returning to the surface. Mariel guessed that out of all of them she had come closest to understanding the Ro'ha mind; except perhaps for Cromwell who had somehow contacted the alien artifact. She wondered if the Ro'ha would still be here when she returned; for she decided then and there that she would return.

The ramp from the Supreme's residence was damp with one of the all too infrequent rainfalls of these days. H'Liq walked in the company of M'Altz've. The doctor had once seen M'Altz've as a dangerous radical. The two had become friends after their shared experiences among the star travelers. H'Liq was glad for the company after their discussion with the Supreme Leader of their nation.

"Did you expect to be believed?" M'Altz've asked, breaking the silence that the two had shared after their disappointing meeting.

H'Liq thought about it from the leader's point of view. The impending disaster wouldn't be realized for the half-life of a pouchling. Even now the being had doubts about its experiences: A ship that could fly faster than a beam of light, instruments that could look at the very structure of matter; it all seemed like a work of fiction. How could the leader see it as anything else?

"There was always a hope," H'Liq answered. The Ro'ha looked into the Grand Square. Ro'ha pouchlings splashed in the puddles, each under the scrutiny of a parent. "We are fortunate M'Altz've," H'Liq said. When its companion asked why H'Liq explained. "We are old: We will not live to see the end. Those pouchlings over there; they will see it."

"Some of us will see it," M'Altz've proclaimed.

H'Liq stopped and looked at his new found friend. "You mean to become a part of the Calamarain?"

"The journalists are looking at us," M'Altz've declared. "I shall make a public display of it for them. I know that you would rather me build rockets but that way I still believe will lead to our end."

"No," H'Liq said. "Perhaps that will soothe the fears of some. If it is a being's choice then so be it!"

"What of you my friend?" M'Altz've asked.

"The Supreme Leader wants me to head our nation's military rocket project," H'Liq answered. "Perhaps we will have the basis to build a spaceship from the work I do there."

"That is possible," M'Altz've agreed. Both Ro'ha looked up as the day suddenly grew brighter. H'Liq looked up in puzzlement.

Cutting a swath across the sky was the starship Daedelus. H'Liq understood that atmospheric entry was dangerous for the giant vessel. Yet Cromwell had chosen to do so even to an altitude that made the alien ship visible for all to see. The danger was evident to H'Liq: The starship was a brilliant flare; its features lit from the heat of entry for any Ro'ha in the capital to look up and see. A great rumbling heralded the ship's passage. Ro'ha in the square pointed up and gazed in wonder and fear at the bright flare in the sky. H'Liq watched as the ship vanished into the sky.

"We have our sign," H'Liq said. The being's companion agreed. Would it be enough? The scientist would continue the rocket research. H'Liq guessed that the journalists would take a renewed interest in the two doctors' claims.

"May fortune favor you Doctor M'Altz've," H'Liq declared as he bid his friend ado.

"And to you as well!" M'Altz've exclaimed heartily.


	29. Chapter 29

Converted Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen, in orbit of Vulcan, Jan 2158

Converted Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen, in orbit of Vulcan, Jan 2158

Lieutenant Frank McCoy reluctantly entered the Jade Queen's cargo hold. He suspected that Captain Donald Townsend's attempt to shuttle him and Micah Brack down to the surface had failed. His roommate Brack had already discussed the alternative with him. McCoy's feet were literally dragging as he cycled through the inner lock into the bay. His worst fears were realized as he saw Micah Brack and Commander Margaret Sadler standing besides two gray spheres. Each sphere could easily encompass a man. And that, McCoy gulped, was precisely what they were designed to do.

"Hullo Frank," Brack said. McCoy watched as Sadler moved away from Brack. He knew that the two were involved. Micah had called it casual sex. McCoy had little use for sex since the death of Eileen Thomas; too many unpleasant memories.

"Any luck on the cargo exchange?" he asked. McCoy wanted to put a hand behind his back so they wouldn't see him crossing his fingers.

"The pointies want are allowing only for orbital transfers," Commander Sadler answered. "I'd send you both down as a box of Denobulan sweet beans but we suspect that they are checking all ingoing cargo; if you are caught the jig is up."

"Which leaves us the option that I explained to you last week Frank," Brack interjected.

"It's three hundred kilometers straight down!" Frank exclaimed.

"It is not straight down," Brack countered. "We'll enter the thermosphere and slow to terminal velocity there." Micah patted one of the spheres. "These were built to be opaque to radar and subspace sensors. We'll start the descent and slow down in these. Once we get to sixty five thousand meters or so we'll jettison the cocoons and finish the descent just like any other parachute jump."

"It's three hundred kilometers straight down!" McCoy repeated emphatically. Frank had done many things during his naval career but suborbital skydiving had not been included in that list. He turned to Sadler. "Have we even located our," he paused in annoyance. They had been instructed to refer to Tara Gupta as their contact. "Our contact?" he asked at last. "We'll probably just land there and be arrested!" McCoy protested.

Actually he believed that Brack would land there. Franklin David McCoy would become a pulpy mess somewhere on the surface of the desert planet he believed. That was he thought after a long descent that would consist of him screaming in terror and wetting his pants. He became aware that Sadler was speaking.

"—contacted on the frequency that we were provided," she explained. "The person identifies herself as T'Les and says she represents the Syrranite movement. She has given us coordinates for your err…landing and told us that she knows the location of your contact there."

McCoy looked at her and blinked. "It is three hundred kilometers straight down!" He paused and added: "Sir."

Landing was an understatement if Frank had ever heard one. Brack had explained that after slowing, the fibrous cocoon would fall away, somewhere near Vulcan's mesosphere. It was up to them to control their descent from then on. McCoy didn't care what sphere they were up in: All he knew was that it was high up. Frank did not share Brack's confidence in the endeavor.

"I've done this before," Brack interjected. McCoy grew uncomfortable as several crewmen entered and started prepping the spheres.

"You never told me that Micah," Sadler interrupted. McCoy guessed that there was much that the long lived Brack had not told the commander.

"I wanted to try my hand at suborbital skydiving Margaret," Brack answered. "Just one of those things that we never discussed," he concluded.

Frank recalled Brack's relating to him a long list of things that he had done. McCoy got the feeling that the longer Micah had lived the more reckless he had gotten with his life. Frank supposed that not being able to be killed added an element to Brack's fascination with dangerous activities.

"I tell you what," McCoy said at last. "You go on ahead. I'll take the next car." McCoy knew that the cliché came from an ancient time. But his father had enjoyed using it and had explained to McCoy that he thought it had to do with trains.

An engineering technician rolled a large suitcase up to McCoy. The woman opened it to reveal a heavy spacesuit looking contrivance. Frank guessed from Brack's explanation that it was a suborbital diving rig. He found it hard to believe that the suit had its own built in system of braking and maneuvering thrusters. Brack had explained to him that in a proper dive he would never have to use any thrusters.

"You have your orders Frank," Brack snapped. "And I have…things to do." Both Frank and the commander gave the industrialist turned spy an appraising look. McCoy knew what it was that Brack wanted to do. He didn't want to think about that because the idea of these katra things made him question his sanity. Still, Brack could speak Vulcan with the best of them apparently. Rather it was because he had taken a course or had a dead Vulcan in his head Frank really didn't know. "Just follow my lead. I'll talk you down on the secure channel." The technician held the bulky suit out from McCoy to step into.

Frank sighed as he let the woman aide him. He supposed that his will to live had returned: Otherwise he would be anxious to get this suicidal fiasco started. He wondered what Eileen would think of him. Did his grandparents' religion really mean anything he wondered? Was Eileen in some paradise looking at him? Did she blame him for what happened?

"Please don't," he said quietly.

"All you alright sir?" the chief asked. She was about to settle his helmet on his collar piece when she had heard his muffled plea.

"Fine," he answered. "Let's get this party started." She stared blankly in return. "Put the damn helmet on me!" McCoy relented somewhat remembering his brevetted rank. "Please chief."

"Can you hear me Frank?" he heard Brack ask over his tiny helmet speakers.

"Loud and clear," McCoy answered. He allowed the chief to guide him towards the cocoon. "You better not die down there old man," McCoy warned Brack. "I can't speak a lick of pointie."

"I haven't died yet," Brack answered. McCoy knew that even if Sadler or the captain were listening in none of what he and Brack were discussing would seem abnormal. McCoy muted the channel as he heard Brack exchanging an intimate goodbye with the commander. Frank still had problems around happy couples. Too many memories of happy times with Eileen would confront him.

The chief shoved McCoy none too gently into the sphere. He was soon enclosed in total darkness. Panic started eating at him until he remembered to open his comm link. He immediately heard Brack's voice requesting his attention. Frank could hear the concern in Micah's voice. He replied; sheepishly admitting his radio mistake.

"Remember the instructions I gave you about this?" he heard Brack's voice ask.

"Some," McCoy answered. Truthfully he had guessed that they would shuttle down to the surface and that they would not have to resort to this extreme.

"Just remember the ride in the pod is going to be rough," Brack explained. McCoy closed his eyes tightly. He had the spacer's love of zero gravity but he had difficulty with random accelerations and high g forces. "Once it splits open you'll be about sixty five thousand meters up. You'll reach terminal velocity pretty quick in this atmosphere. You'll have to watch that you don't break the sound barrier on the way down. Remember what I told you: Use the wings built into the arms of your suit to control your speed. Lay off of the thrusters. I'll keep tabs on you as we descend."

Frank drew a deep breath. "Cain't say that I'm looking forward to this but if I screw anything up I won't have any worries anymore." His southern American accent became thick when things got tense.

"You'll do fine," Brack said reassuringly. Frank felt a hard jolt. He guessed that the crewmen were loading him into the airlock. He felt severe disorientation. McCoy knew that he was being rolled into the lock. He laughed when he thought that some people paid money for rides like the one he was about to go on.

"About two minutes, gentlemen," Captain Townsend's voice announced.

"What's the holovid on this flight?" Frank mumbled under his breath.

"We had a hot porno for you," the captain answered. "But we changed it to a spy thriller at the last minute." Townsend's tone was jocular but it took a serious turn. "You both need to get this right. We have the special weapons but I doubt we'll be in a position to employ them. This trip was mainly to get you two here. Make it worthwhile!" There was a short pause. "One minute twenty," the captain informed them. "Do you want a countdown?"

"That won't be necessary captain," Brack answered for both of them. "We'll do our best sir."

McCoy wondered what that might be. He was buoyed by the fact that his contact as they clandestinely referred to Gupta as was still alive. At least he hoped that was the case and it was not some Vulcan obfuscation. McCoy had serious doubts about what they could do. He wondered what Tara had accomplished. Frank tried to imagine the shy, somewhat clumsy Gupta in the role of agent provocateur. His revelries were interrupted by the feeling of sudden acceleration.

The breath was literally knocked out of McCoy. He recovered his wind seconds later only to find himself completely disoriented. His stomach lurched as the sensation of falling overtook him. Frank worried that he was going to have an embarrassing and nasty accident when acceleration hit him. The weight became awful to bear. Frank imagined that he could feel the skin of his cheeks being pulled back. Breathing was forced and painful. This seemed to go on forever. McCoy started grunting and straining; trying to force air into his lungs. Weightlessness returned.

Frank was near to panicking. He was in complete darkness gasping for his breath when his feet suddenly felt as if they dropped out from under him. McCoy gulped as weight hit him again. This time it seemed worse than before. It was brutal. Spots danced before the blackness that was the only thing that McCoy's eyes were taking in. McCoy knew that he was losing consciousness when the dreadful weight on his chest relented. He gasped waiting for the next jolt. The spots cleared before his eyes. He was weightless again. Frank guessed that the last maneuver had been shorter than the first. There was another sensation of weight. Then that faded to nothing and the world exploded before McCoy.

Where was he? Frank, experienced somewhat with weightlessness, turned slowly. The pieces of his cocoon were drifting away from him. He caught sight of the great red rim of the planet. He gasped when he looked down. Rather than the sense of terror he thought that he would feel he was astounded at his elation. He had every space explorer's sense of wonder at seeing a new world from orbit. But up until now that had always been on video or behind a pane of transparent aluminum. McCoy felt as if there was nothing between him and Vulcan. He knew that was true as his suit afforded him little protection compared to the hull of a starship.

"Watch your speed Frank," he heard Brack's warning over his helmet speakers. He glanced at the speed readout that was projected on the face plate of his helmet. His military training kicked in as Brack had told him it would. He had never skydived but he reviewed the things Micah had told him.

Frank stretched forth his arms. He didn't feel like he was falling any slower but his readout decreased in number. McCoy took in the harsh desert scene beneath him. Brack had planned for them to begin their entry on the day side then the landing along the terminator into night. Frank could actually see the darkness. It was as if he was stationary and night was a large curtain rushing toward him. McCoy stretched forth to slow and drew in his arms to speed up.

Lights of small cities were visible from the night side of the red planet. Frank looked down to see the mark of what must have been a great river. Several precise geometrical patterns were visible near the ancient river bed. Frank guessed that these were Vulcan cities as well. He shuddered when he thought that this planet had once been green and lush: Before its inhabitant's massive internecine struggle. Frank realized just how lightly earth had gotten off from man's brush with nuclear weapons. Frank stretched out again when his display told him that he was nearing the speed of sound.

Brack and Townsend had drilled him with the need for minimal communications, but he could not resist expressing his elation. "This is a blast!" he exclaimed.

He heard Brack, yet not Brack's odd high pitched laugh. He had discovered that it was an impression of a twentieth century television entertainer; one who had performed with his flamboyant red haired wife. The laughter died shortly. "Just don't enjoy it too much. Check your altimeter."

McCoy looked at the reading. He was surprised to see that he had fallen almost forty thousand meters. He grew concerned when he realized how badly his sense of time had become distorted. Still; he knew that he had time. The darkening ground seemed unreal to him. His sense of jubilation faded. Brack warned him that it was time for him to use his first parachute.

McCoy watched his helmet display. He bit into a soft mouthpiece that was built into the helmet. He reached over and touched the control pad on his left gauntlet. When Frank regained his senses from the force of the braking chute he realized that without the mouthpiece he probably would have bitten his tongue out of his head. McCoy looked up into the Vulcan twilight to see the remains of the braking chute peeling away. His readout said that he was falling at a somewhat normal speed. The ground was still visible as distinct features but the darkness was growing. Brack warned him that they had about six thousand meters to go.

"You're moving away from me," Brack added.

"I'm trying for Christ sakes!" he snapped in return. Frank recalled Brack's thorough briefing concerning free flight. He was pleased that he had accomplished this much but putting Micah's words into practice was proving to be difficult. "Can you link up with me?"

A few seconds passed. "We're coming up on the final altitude." Brack's voice was full of tension. "My guess is that we'll be two to four miles away from one another. Plan on meeting me near the Kyphir Valley pass; it's on your map. You should land north of that."

"Miles!" Frank shouted into his mic. He tried to remember the ancient system of distance measuring. The last parachute opened. Not only had Frank drifted during his fall but he was dangerously close to a small city. He was somewhat more prepared for the opening shock this time but that did not lessen what he felt.

Despite his feeling of joy that he had experienced during the jump he vowed to never take up skydiving as a hobby. McCoy noted that the image representing Brack was well away from his own. He wondered if he would find his companion. Truthfully, he was relying on Micah's store of knowledge. He recalled Brack telling him about the time he had dropped into Mexico City during the Third World War. McCoy was startled when he saw the building rushing up to meet him. He closed his eyes remembering Micah's advice that he should just fall limp and collapse upon contact with the ground.

McCoy grunted as he hit the sand. He rolled once. He sat up cautiously. Frank was sitting in the sand behind a small oddly shaped building. He cautiously removed his helmet. The air was cool and dry. Frank remembered his only trip to the red planet: He had shuttled down to the capital for a brief tour. It had been an oppressively hot day: Heat like he had never felt before nor encountered since that visit. He tried to get up; wondering why his legs did not work. He looked down to see them tangled in the mess of the parachute rigging. McCoy hit another stud on the gauntlet of his suit. The harness fell away from him. He then pulled a knife out of his belt and cut the cords that tangled around his legs.

Frank's military training kicked in: He methodically went about the business of removing his suit. He assembled his equipment; gathering the suit, helmet and parachute up; finally he stood up shakily. McCoy cinched up his vest and took his bearings. He was amazed that he had not attracted the attention of every Vulcan in the town. He started unrolling a lighted digital map when he realized that he was being watched. Frank whipped around and stood gaping.

A Vulcan child stood eyeing him. Frank was first taken by the unchild like look that the boy gave him. McCoy guessed that if it was an earth child he would be about seven or eight. He vaguely remembered that Vulcans aged about the same rate as did humans until they passed puberty. McCoy did a double take. Were there dogs on Vulcan?

No it was not a dog Frank concluded. It was a giant hamster. The animal crouched beside the Vulcan boy who was still staring impassively at him. The animal actually looked sort of appealing. Eileen would have called it cute. Now that he looked at it the boy's pet, for it was obviously so to McCoy, it looked less like a hamster and more like a stuffed bear; that was until it opened its mouth and growled at Frank. The twin fangs must have been at least ten centimeters long. McCoy gulped.

The child was speaking. McCoy remembered a few of Micah's attempts to teach him rudimentary spoken Vulcan. Frank knew that the child was asking him a question. Frank searched through the few alien words that he remembered. He finally settled upon something.

"Shhhh," he hissed as he held a finger up to his lips. Frank slinked away into the desert night.

Converted Star Fleet carrier Serendipity, in orbit of V'hAch'c, Jan 2158

The shuttle floated gracefully out of the massive carrier's shuttle bay. Augustus Kirk looked through the shuttle's transparent aluminum windows at the lush green world spread out beneath them. Doctor David Rand sat in the seat next to his. The Klingon Chang sat across from Captain Marissa Morgan who was piloting them down. Two solid looking ex Stellar Navy marines sat behind Kirk and Rand. Their red jerseys were covered by a harness of camouflage.

"I see you've both dressed for the occasion," Kirk said to the security men as he craned his neck around his seat. "From Stephen King to Edward Rice Burroughs," Kirk added.

"I hope they don't have snakes down there," one of the security troops answered. Kirk looked at the olive skinned young man; Hernandez if he remembered correctly. "I hate those things!" Hernandez exclaimed.

Kirk didn't care for them much himself. But as a farmer turned politician he understood that snakes tended to control pests. All he knew about V'hAch'c was that it was a jungle world. Chang hadn't been forthcoming about the planet's flora and fauna. The Klingon had issued a smug statement concerning the Klingon ability to adapt instead.

"Who knows," David Rand interjected. "It's a new world. That is what we used to be out here to explore."

"A snake is just another animal," Soval declared dryly. The Vulcan sat apart from them in the rear of the shuttle. "It is not logical to fear one creature over another. Once the animal's abilities are recognized it should be approached and handled with respect." Hernandez seemed unconvinced.

Kirk looked ahead to see the shuttle's transparent window glowing red along its outer edges. His stomach took a tumble when Morgan pulled the nose of the craft up. The shuttle's artificial gravity told Kirk's body that he was sitting perfectly level in the compartment. Augustus diverted his face from the window. He gulped and turned back to his friend Rand.

"What is the chance that we'll contract this thing?" he asked the doctor.

Rand sighed. "It is doubtful. But," David paused before continuing. "But I can't tell you why the Klingons got something. As I said earlier gene therapy is strictly a back alley thing on earth these days. I've served whiskey after hours but besides that I've never done anything illegal. I've been going over the database but the only thing I've discovered is how many variables that are involved."

"Five minutes until touchdown," Morgan announced from the pilot's seat. "We have clearance to a landing field outside of their main city."

"Your little black bag?" he asked the doctor, nodding to the small bag that Rand was holding between his feet.

David laughed. "I know it doesn't look professional but afford an old man his quirks. This bag has helped me save a life or two." Rand looked down.

Kirk leaned back and sipped at a tube of water. He was dressed in jeans, work boots and a light shirt. He had been thinking of meeting the Klingons in a formal suit but it occurred to him that the warriors had little use for the sharp dressed. They seemed to appreciate candor and functionality. The shuttle was quiet for the rest of the descent. Augustus sucked down another drink as Morgan cut the shuttle's artificial gravity web. The landing was so smooth that Kirk didn't realize they were on the ground until he looked out again.

Chang rose from the copilot's seat. He pulled the braided end of his long black hair so that it rested behind his back. He eyed the shuttle's occupants as he ran a hand over the haft of a short sword that sat beside a pistol holster on his belt. Kirk felt somewhat out of place as the Stellar Navy personnel and Chang prepared to go outside. Even his friend David checked through his small bag one last time. Kirk reached into the pocket of his cotton pants and put on a cap. He noticed Chang looking at him.

"Saint Louis Cardinals," he explained. Kirk guessed that Chang was curious about the logo on his cap.

"Ah," the Klingon youth replied. "I studied that game. The opposing members engage one another with large fiber bats; an honorable pursuit!"

"Right," Kirk replied slowly. The air turned into a fog where the cool air from the shuttle's interior mingled with the hot, humid air from outside. Morgan started organizing her shore party when a Klingon stepped through the fog.

"Chang," the swarthy looking being addressed their Klingon guide.

Chang peeled his lips back in a savage growl. "Kaluch, you are looking quite…human."

"What is the meaning of this?" Morgan asked.

Kirk watched as the human looking Klingon stared back at them. He quickly repeated Morgan's question in Klingon. The Klingon stared fiercely at him. Kirk repeated the question brusquely.

"You are the tools of Ma'aQ!" the Klingon spat. "You dare to come here?" Kirk watched as the Klingon turned around. The fog near the shuttle's hatch had cleared somewhat. "Bring the criminal!"

Rather than being brought into the shuttle a person was thrown bodily onto the deck of the shuttle. Kirk winced at the noise of the Klingon's impact with the metal deck. No; it was not a Klingon Kirk saw after another look. The poor unfortunate was a bloodied human male. Augustus took a deep breath. He recognized the man on the deck.

"Why," Morgan started letting the word hang in the air.

"That is Adrik Soong!" Hernandez exclaimed.

The man actually smiled through swollen bloodied lips much to Augustus' amazement. "Guilty as charged. You must be the rescue party?"

"This is the human who has inflicted this disease upon us!" Chang roared. The youth pulled a wicked looking knife out of a sheath. Morgan, the closest person to Chang kicked out at the youth's knife hand. The Klingon avoided her defensive move. Kirk heard a snapping sound and saw that the blade had two protruding spikes. Chang stabbed downward at Soong. Kaluch rushed forward and intercepted the death blow.

"I would kill him myself!" Kaluch roared. The two Klingons fought until Morgan ordered the security troops to restrain them. Kirk noticed other human looking Klingons standing outside of the shuttle's hatch watching the fight. "But he may know of a way to reverse this!" the Klingon added. He broke away from Hernandez. "You humans will work with this one," he said pointing down to Soong. "You will restore us and expose Ma'aQ's hand in this!"

"We've come to help," Kirk retorted. "We also want our people back. But I swear to you that we know nothing of what happened to you and your house."

"I'm glad someone is up on their language," Soong said as he cautiously stood up. Rand went to him and escorted him to a chair. "I don't have enough spit to make a full sentence in it."

"You are here now," Kaluch declared. "This pestilence threatens the empire. I, unlike Ma'aQ will not see the empire torn apart over this. I will have my answers human."

A beeping came from the control panel. Kirk remembered that the shuttle's communications' panel lay in that area. Morgan moved to the panel; ran her hands over the touch screen and acknowledged the call from Serendipity.

"Captain, several vessels entered orbit near our position," Major Lasuda's voice boomed out of the speaker grill. "I have followed your orders and maintained a defensive posture." It was apparent in the alien's tone just how little the Tellarite thought of a defensive position. "They have moved in and surrounded us."

"I don't understand your language," Kaluch declared. "But that is no doubt your crew informing you that we are in the superior position."

"We are here to help," Kirk protested. He now understood Morgan's earlier bravado when she had confronted the ships sent out by Ma'aQ. It seemed that these people needed a confrontation over every occasion.

"That may be Kirk," Kaluch answered. Augustus wondered how they had learned his name. The Klingon must have been able to read his facial expressions. "We know all about your ship, your crew and your supposed mission."

"The House of Kaluch is known for employing electronic devices to spy upon others," Chang informed them in English. The Klingon's voice was steeped in their version of disdain. Kirk knew that there was friction between the houses. He wondered how much of what was going on was a political ploy.

Smiley had explained Klingon honor in great detail, but the Vulcan seemed at a loss to explain to Kirk some Klingon activities. It was Kirk who had come to the conclusion that the alien warriors twisted their code much like the samurai of old Japan. Kirk supposed that any culture could rationalize any behavior. There was enough chicanery from human history to prove that.

"Very well," Morgan answered the Tellarite. "Maintain alert stations. Don't provoke anything but don't hesitate to defend my ship!"

"Let me guess," Morgan continued as she severed communications with Serendipity. "We either help them or else. This is growing tiresome." She looked at Soong. "Give me a straight answer: Did you doctor the DNA you sold these people?"

Kirk observed that the eccentric billionaire was looking a little better after Rand's ministrations. "I barely knew anything about Klingons! I was approached to obtain some augmented DNA. Apparently my reputation as a person who can get obtain things goes a long way—past earth."

Kirk thought that Soong was a little smaller than holovids had shown him. But Augustus supposed that was normal. Very few images of Soong were said to exist. But he engendered enough interest that his face and rather bulbous nose was recognized by many.

"Who approached you?" Kirk asked him directly. Morgan looked sharply at him.

"Who in the hell are you?" Soong asked. Kirk introduced himself along with the rest of the shuttle's party. Soong merely blinked at him in turn. "Like I told these turtle heads," Soong answered at last. "I was approached by a humanoid alien woman—green skinned. She made me an offer that I found…interesting."

"Green skinned?" Morgan asked.

Kirk was equally confused. He knew that some Vulcans had a slight olive cast to their skin. But he could not describe it as green. Could it be that Soong had encountered a Romulan he wondered. Kirk was about to ask that question when Soval stepped up to the group.

"An Orion," the Vulcan declared.

"I told that to these," Soong looked at the Klingons and sneered. "I got beaten for my trouble. I suppose you aren't interested in the truth either?"

"What's an Orion?" Kirk asked.

He thought that the Vulcan actually looked uncomfortable. "The High Command encountered them some time ago. As humans and Tellarites were only just starting to explore we did not see the need to share our information concerning the Orions." Kirk had come to know the Vulcan enough to tell that he was holding something back. Card games had a way of revealing the qualities of a man; or an alien in this case Kirk thought. He gave Soval an appraising look. "We were also…our crews are unfamiliar with the concept of…crime."

"What happened?" Morgan asked.

"The cruiser's crew was taken," Soval answered after awhile. "The captain managed to conceal herself and activate the self destruct mechanism. We suspect that the rest were sold into slavery. We sent a delegation under a flag of truce. The Orion delegation that boarded our cruiser turned out to be like…"

"Pirates," Morgan supplied.

"Concealed?" Chang spat. The Klingon turned to Kirk. "These are the people whose allegiance you fear? Even you pathetically weak humans should have conquered these Vulcans after you met them."

"We fear nothing," he retorted. Kirk turned to Soval. "Why would Orions want to do this; if he is telling the truth?"

"I am telling you the truth you fool!" Soong retorted. "The Orions wanted me to make the sale to these numbskulls." Soong sighed. "I guess I should have suspected something. But I thought that they had a run in with these Klingons. They aren't very friendly if you haven't taken notice. So it seemed reasonable that they wanted an intermediary."

"What was your payoff?" Morgan asked.

"They were to give me information on positrons," Soong answered.

"That's a fairy tale!" Hernandez spoke up. They all turned to the young security trooper. He looked nervously at his boots. "I mean someone besides me had to have read the Asimov stories?" he asked shyly.

They all looked around in confusion. Kirk was surprised at the voice that chimed in. "Isaac Asimov; a prolific twentieth century human writer whose tales encompassed fantastical notions of the future. The stories that I believe the crewman are referring to has to do with the creation and adventures thereof of thinking self aware machines. Their processors worked through the creative use of a fictional particle called a positron."

"Not all that fictional Mister Vulcan," Soong said. He eyed the Vulcan. "You look familiar: Weren't you a midfielder for the Vulcan soccer team?"

"I have never played soccer," Soval answered.

"What a surprise," Soong answered in a tone stepped with sarcasm. "But surely you know all about positrons."

"What does he mean Smiley?" Kirk asked.

"I do not know—," the Vulcan started.

"The Orions extracted the information before your captain blew up the ship." Soong winced as he folded his arms over his chest. "Apparently the Vulcan Science Academy has made some inroads with a new type of subatomic particle—something very much like one of Asimov's positrons."

"I am a diplomat and minister," Soval answered, "not a scientist. But it," the Vulcan paused a short time; "distresses me that you obtained information in that manner."

"The Orions did the dirty work," Soong answered. "I just happened to benefit from it."

"So you traded up augmented human DNA for this information," Kirk said impatiently.

Soong nodded. "I was the fall guy. I see that now. The experts would have told me if something like this could have happened. It had to be something instigated by the Orions."

"You'd like to prove that wouldn't you human?" Chang asked.

"Of course I would!" Soong spat. His right eye was visibly swelling shut despite Rand's ministrations. "We made the trade not far over your border." Soong was still defiant. "Besides; who are you guys to blame me? I didn't push the DNA on you. When I met your contact she was more than willing to accept what I had. I can't understand wanting to look human but the smell would be an improve--,"

The impact of Chang's closed fist sent Soong's head reeling to one side. Kirk grabbed the young Klingon's arms and stopped him from inflicting anymore harm onto the billionaire. Rand checked over his patient. Blood was dripping down Soong's mouth again. Kirk allowed the Klingon to shrug him off after he felt that the situation was calmed down. Kirk was old but he still tussled with some of the livestock on his farm. But he also knew he'd hurt later.

"You went through the Orions," Kirk said to Kaluch. He looked down and Soong and then gave Kaluch a synopsis of what Soong had said; minus the comments about Klingon body odor. "Didn't you think it possible that they had a hand in this?"

Kaluch gave Kirk a look, that had it been from a human he would have applied the word sneaky to it. "We were assured that the samples would be untouched until they got to us."

Kirk turned to Soong. He repeated what Kaluch had just told him. "Were they untouched?" he asked.

"Of course," Soong began. Kirk looked hard at him. "Well Miasa was there too to guard the containers."

"She was Orion?" Soval asked.

"Oh yes…quite," Soong leered at them for several seconds through his broken face.

"What does that mean?" Kirk asked. Given Soong's look he suspected that he already knew. But he waited nonetheless while Soval explained the sexual attraction of Orion females.

"It is quite apparent that this man could have distracted while the samples were taken," Soval concluded. "He does not appear to be a responsible steward for anyone's property."

"Speak for yourself," Soong retorted. "I," he paused visibly. "I had the samples in my sights all of the time."

"Then that makes you guilty," Chang concluded in a cold voice. "That would mean that this is an assault on the empire by you earthers and your minions."

"Could we find this Orion?" a voice asked. The group turned to Hernandez.

"What about it, Soong?" Kirk asked.

"It's over a week away," Soong answered. There was desperation in his eyes. "Miasa did say that it would be a month before she got a ride home. I was supposed to leave last week until the pirates of the Caribbean here decided to stick their ugly faces in--,"

"Kaluch will not allow you to leave," Chang interrupted. "It is time for your people to pay for what they have done."

Kirk translated the conversation for Kaluch. "If the Orions had anything to do with this maybe we can find them and discover what it is." He told Morgan what he had said.

"My house comprises over a third of the Klingon Empire," Kaluch began. "I would do as Chang has said except that if there is any chance that you humans are telling the truth…"

"What is the chance that this," Chang paused. Kirk wondered just how steeped in Shakespeare the Klingon youth was. It was apparent that he knew how to play to a human audience. "That this Orion—if she exists which I doubt; is still on this planet?"

"Isn't averting a civil war worth the risk?" Kirk asked the youth.

"Your language is strange," Kaluch said. "But I can guess what you are saying. Your ship will stay; under our guns." Kirk hid his disappointment. This mission might not only fail: It might well lead to the Romulans gaining an ally. "But this Soong will lead us to this world. You, Kirk shall go aboard one of our vessels to act as interpreter." Kaluch turned to Chang. "And you, already the retrovirus is in you. You shall go as well. If this is Ma'aQ's doing you shall die right after these others."

Kirk told Morgan what Kaluch had said. "I'm not letting you go on one of their ships. At your--,"

"At my age captain?" he asked. "Things don't look good here. I was supposed to negotiate for our people on Rura Penthe: It looks like that isn't going well. Maybe we can track down what happened to the Klingons."

"Very well," Morgan said at last. She sighed.

Kirk was a man pushing eighty. He was keenly aware of his age. But he had a job here. Ten years ago he was a farmer, happy to retire to easier chores as his children took over more of the hard work. But retirement had left him feeling sour. He had sought a role in politics but that too had left him feeling empty. He had to make a difference. This was his chance

ShirKahr City, Vulcan, the earth year Jan 2158

Valdore passed through the halls of the government building unimpeded. He had come and gone enough times that he was recognized; recognized as one of Minister V'Las' guests and private advisors. The bureaucrats had no idea of who he really was. How different for a Romulan officer he thought: He would not be allowed in the Praetor's citadel without an armed escort.

V'Las' personal attendant stood and greeted Valdore. The admiral had learned to keep emotion out of his face. Srumera checked with V'Las via an intercom. After some fussy needless Vulcan protocol Valdore soon found himself admitted to V'Las' inner sanctum. The minister was looking at a wall display of his world. Valdore noticed that several areas were highlighted. He could guess why.

"Are they back to work yet?" he asked the minister.

V'Las stood with his back to the Romulan. "No admiral," the minister said at last. "Two more provinces are reporting that utilities and commerce have been halted. My people are staying home. Syrran's philosophy is poisoning them."

"Declaring martial law was not the best choice," Valdore replied. "You have exacerbated the situation. Syrran is no where to be found. Now you have a small fleet of alien ships in orbit."

"Trade vessels," V'Las answered dismissively. "The dock workers will not report for work. We'll need some of those goods to maintain our economy. Some of the captains have indicated that they will stay in orbit until the present situation is over."

"The present situation," Valdore started; putting a particularly harsh inflection on the last word, "is not a situation at all. Your people are in revolt."

"I believe that you exaggerate--,"

"I exaggerate nothing," Valdore interrupted. "But that should change when you announce the news of the Triple Alliance's incursion into Vulcan space."

V'Las had turned to speak to him, but after mention of the battle of Dol Amur the minister turned quickly back to his map. Valdore became concerned: The sensor log of the Vulcan cruiser could cause the citizenry of this world to rethink their passive rebellion. He wondered if something had happened to the information. Too many in the High Command were proving to have reservations about what they were being ordered to do. V'Las' next words substantiated that opinion:

"The sensor data was lost." Valdore wanted nothing more than to snap the minister's neck. But he restrained his fury as V'Las explained further: "The cruiser's second in command admitted to introducing a destructive program into the ship's database. The captain resigned over questions about why the Star Fleet taskforce was there. I still plan on announcing that they crossed the border."

Valdore's fists clenched and unclenched; he took a deep breath before speaking. "Announce what; that a Romulan base in Vulcan space was destroyed? Stiles doubtless has radar recordings and images of our ships."

V'Las' assistant Srumera called the minister to inform him that another guest had arrived. Valdore was glad that he had learned the art of keeping his emotions off of his face: The assistant soon came into the chamber with Senator Vrax in tow. As far as Srumera knew, Vrax was just another advisor to V'Las. The aide departed leaving the three alone.

"The city's power grid has been shut down," Vrax declared without ceremony.

"When did this happen?" V'Las asked. "I told the High Command to keep me informed about such matters."

"I spoke to a passerby in front of the ministry. It has apparently just happened. The technicians shut down the fusion plant and returned to their homes."

"You were discussing my exaggeration concerning a planetary revolt Minister V'Las?" Valdore asked.

"How can this happen, over one Vulcan?" V'Las asked at last. "My people seem bent on turning from our great path. I fail to see how these inferiors have done so much damage."

Valdore knew that the minister was referring to Gupta and his cohorts. Of all the miscalculations that the Tal Shiar had made, the one concerning earth's security agencies had been the worst. How many terran agents were loose on Vulcan Valdore did not know: But just one had damned his legions at every turn. These operatives were obviously the equal perhaps even superior to the Tal Shiar's agents. That was unthinkable for one of his race to admit to, but Valdore had survived too many campaigns to know how over confidence could kill.

"With my people sequestered in their communities now might be the time admiral," V'Las said.

"An open landing?" the senator asked.

Valdore had been thinking much the same thing. But events had turned against him. "It will be several khaidoa'v before I can assemble a legion that could effect a landing." Stiles had destroyed Valdore's ground force in her attack. He could siphon some troops from Gozai but those legions came from the dregs of Romulan society. Their brothers would not welcome such as those. The legions that had been stationed Dol Amur had been well disciplined soldiers, trained in Vulcan language and customs.

"The empire must wait a little longer for my people to accept the inevitable," V'Las replied. "It is our destiny to form a greater empire. The Vulcan people will march alongside the Rihannsu."

"We cannot wait," Valdore answered. "We are in a fight that no amount of pride or boast can win. The empire must have Vulcan on our side!"

"I shall make a public announcement soon," V'Las said. "The populace must see the illogic of this work cessation."

"We have little time minister," Valdore countered. He looked at his companion Vrax and then back at the minister. "You must make an impression upon our people."

"I believe that you must discover who in the High Command will follow your orders." Valdore knew that Reunification might well be brought about another way. The beginnings of an idea stirred in him.

"What do you mean admiral?" V'Las asked.

"If we came not as conquerors, which we would be seen as now," Valdore explained, "but rather as liberators."

"Liberators from what?" the minister asked.

"You have been to Romulus, V'Las," Valdore answered. "You know that the empire sometimes demands great sacrifices from its people. We did not achieve greatness by being meek."

Valdore knew that V'Las had been chosen for this role because of his intellectual prowess. He had been around his brothers now long enough to read their facial expressions. Valdore watched realization dawn on the minister's expressionless face.

"I do not desire to become a tyrant, admiral," V'Las said at last. "I do not," Valdore could see the minister struggling with the proposition; "know what would happen if I were to switch from a persuasive role to an authoritarian one."

"Vulcans would question your logic," Valdore answered. "But as long as you retained a hold through the High Command and the Syrranites maintain a pacifist stance they would have no recourse."

"We don't have the weapons necessary to attack our population," V'Las countered. Valdore could see that the minister was finding the idea difficult to deal with.

"Now you surprise me V'Las," Valdore said. "Vulcans don't lie."

"I am not lying," the minister retorted.

Valdore gave Vrax a conspiratorial look. He decided that two could persuade better than one. V'Las was visibly resistant to Valdore's idea. But the admiral needed the minister alive. He waited while the senator took up the argument.

"You kept the weapons cache from the V'Lucha Mountain archeological site, minister," Vrax said at last.

"Those were only to be used if the Andorians were in a position to invade Vulcan." V'Las took a seat behind his desk. He proceeded to examine his computer screen. "I shall consider what you have asked admiral." It was a dismissive gesture.

"You ordered the High Command to transfer a nerve agent into orbit-to-ground warheads, minister," Vrax continued. Valdore observed V'Las' silence. "An Andorian landing on Vulcan implies that the High Command would have no ships or platforms left from which to launch those devices. Isn't that logical V'Las?"

"Which meant that you had other plans for them," Valdore added.

"You can be a tyrant or you can be relieved as minister, V'Las," Vrax interjected. "Even your cronies will rebuke you when they discover that you intended to use those weapons against the Andorian base on T'Lilz."

"How did you--," V'Las asked sharply. Valdore wanted to laugh when he saw the emotional mask drop; even if it was just for an instant.

"I disdain the Tal Shiar but I do not refuse their information." Valdore folded his arms over his chest.

"You attempt to trap me," V'Las replied at last. "But if you expose that information you will have no one to operate through in the ministry."

"My troops have secured the warheads," Valdore informed V'Las. "Once we expose your hand in this I'll order them launched against your most populous provinces. It will appear that you gave the orders minister. I shall then abandon you to the surviving population after my troops arrive. But there is an alternative."

"The murder of one Vulcan by another…" V'Las appeared beaten. He sat with his eyes looking at Valdore and Vrax but they appeared to Valdore to be unseeing. "You ask me to kill millions."

"One or two provinces that you choose," Vrax took up the explanation. Valdore was pleased to see that the senator had gleaned his plan. "Those where the Syrranite movement holds the most sway," Vrax continued.

"We will arrive and appear to topple your government as well as lending assistance to those who survive." Valdore spoke to the unmoving minister. "You can then go to Romulus in secret. You will live, Reunification will be a fact and I will conclude the war with the Triple Alliance."

"I'll be an exile," V'Las said. Valdore could hear the plea through the emotional control. "I'll never be able to return to Vulcan."

"You will have done your duty as Rihannsu," Vrax countered.

"There must be another way," V'Las said.

"You can choose a few million to die," Valdore answered; "or we shall kill tens of millions without discrimination." Valdore moved behind the desk to lay his hand upon V'Las' shoulder. He knew the Vulcan dislike for physical contact, but Valdore had commanded soldiers for many e'ayy'v. He knew when someone needed encouragement. "You have been to Romulus many times in your youth V'Las. I read your file. You wrote extensively about how you reasoned that the Vulcans needed the sense of Romulan duty and commitment to be whole. Now is the time for you to do your duty; for you to be whole."

"You may not even be in exile long, minister" Vrax interjected. "After Reunification when there is a new enlightenment you will be seen as the savior of your people."

"Minister?" he asked squeezing V'Las shoulder. Valdore sensed that V'Las was prepared to capitulate. He removed his hand.

"I shall need time to choose," V'Las hesitated, "to choose the targets. I suppose that you want me to declare Syrranites traitors?"

"Of course," Valdore replied. "You will challenge your people to return to their predestined path as the elder race. Many of your people believe that; even Soval harbored those sentiments."

"Perhaps with a compelling reason to be more persuasive you might even staunch the Syrranite rebellion. Use your logic minister. Ask your people why they are doing these things." Vrax looked at Valdore. The admiral could see the question in the senator's face. He bowed his head slightly in assent. "You have some time."

"Very little," Valdore added. He gave V'Las a timetable.

"I shall start planning now," V'Las answered.

"Remember Minister V'Las," Valdore said in a warning voice. "I have banished most of the Tal Shiar operatives that I could find. But I am using what they left in place. You are being watched. That too is part of being a Romulan citizen."

Valdore watched as resolved showed on the minister's face. But it was the resolve of someone forced to take a bitter medication. "I am Vulcan, admiral, but I am also Rihannsu. I will do my duty for the empire."

"I shall put the warheads back under your control then," Valdore answered. "Let me know when your trusted soldiers in the High Command are ready."

V'Las seemed somewhat relieved by that concession from Valdore. The three of them exchanged goodbyes. Valdore left with Vrax. They left the cool ministry building for the street beyond. It had been relatively empty when Valdore had arrived: Now it was deserted. The two Romulans made their way to their groundcar.

"You trust V'Las to do as you have bid?" the senator asked him after the two were seated and on their way back to the spaceport.

"Of course not," Valdore answered. "But he will do enough that blame will be assigned to him. That is why I conceded control of those weapons. Of course I have no intention of relinquishing control. But V'Las will think so; that is the important thing."

"He does not have the courage to do as you asked?" Vrax asked in reply. "His ethics will not allow him to slaughter his own people."

"Perhaps," Valdore explained. "But he harbored that gas to use on the Andorians: It is equally lethal to that race as well. He lied to his own people and broke one of their solemn edicts. It is not inconceivable that he will lie to us. But that is why I shall retain control. V'Las will be seen as the one responsible for unleashing the carnage. We will move in afterwards."

"You gave him little time to lie," Vrax said. "I know your situation: It will be difficult for you to assemble an effective occupation force in that time; especially as you are not using the legions at Gozai."

"It must be done," Valdore answered. "The time is not for V'Las: It is for our enemy. They will probe into Vulcan space again. Sooner or later there will be an encounter which will force things."

"How do you know this?" the senator asked.

Valdore sat back as the car's computer navigation system steered it efficiently through the capital's empty streets. He wondered how the empire had come to this pass. Things stood at an intersection. Valdore was fighting an effective holding action but he needed something more to win.

"Stiles will attack again," he said. "I know because I know my enemy: Forrest is more controlled. His task is to manage the Triple Alliance's military operations. But Stiles is like a thrai. She will not relent and with the time it takes messages to reach their command bases; she can be here. The Syrranites have so ingratiated themselves into this society I believe that rather than fight Stiles some High Command cruisers would actually join her."

"As unpleasant as your plan will be for these people," Vrax started. The car sped past a Vulcan family going about their business. "I believe it is for the best. But what of V'Las; he could denounce us rather than go into exile."

"Do you really think that I shall allow the minister to go into exile? Once V'Las has served his purpose I shall kill him." Valdore looked at his companion. Old habits died hard. He finally said what was on his mind. "It is for the best, you are right my friend. That was the plan all along."

"What?" the senator was clearly astonished.

"I managed to decipher Talex's files," Valdore answered. "The Tal Shiar's hold is weakening at home. A defeat here may well redefine our society. Talex was under orders to exterminate our brothers here if we were defeated. The Tal Shiar would then blame the act on the Triple Alliance; as a last impetus so that our people will fight on."

"The V'Lucha Mountain site was discovered through them?" the senator asked. Valdore was impressed with his shrewdness.

"Our brothers and sisters are of course interested in their past," Valdore explained. "But their only interest in weapons is to find them and destroy them. The Tal Shiar was only too delighted to convince V'Las, without his knowledge of course, that the gas could be used against the Andorians."

"There is little time," Vrax said thoughtfully.

Valdore fell silent. He agreed. The instincts that had guided him through many battles were active. He knew that things were approaching a climax of sorts here. Valdore cursed the Tal Shiar. But it was individual Romulans who had looked the other way that had allowed them to be in this position of power. For too long too many concessions had been made to them. Now the empire stood upon the brink that the Tal Shiar had pushed it too. Valdore suddenly old: He felt that he was the only Romulan pushing his people back from the abyss.

Imperial Guard cruiser Kumari, on the Andorian-Vulcan border, earth year Jan 2158

"Is the trail still strong?" Captain Gordon Albright asked the only other human on the bridge of the Andorian cruiser.

"Still there," Chief Ezra Crowder announced. Kumari was following the thin trail of radioactive plasma from a damaged ship. He pulled his head back from his screen. Despite being adjusted for human eyes Albright knew that looking at the alien screen gave Crowder headaches. "It leads into that system," Crowder added; nodding at the tactical plot on the main viewscreen.

"Right on the border," Albright's Andorian first officer Saln declared. His tone was dark.

"Any notion on whose disaster beacon that was?" he asked the Andorian.

"It was a brief repetitive beacon," Saln explained. "Anyone could be using it; especially during a time of war."

"It could be pirates!" the gunnery officer Zenna declared. The Andorian woman had taken a liking to Gordon much to his chagrin. He was not uninterested himself, but Albright held human values concerning the role of a commander. Albright did not want to known as the human captain who had boffed all of his Andorian crewmen. Andorian values were another thing however. He knew that they wondered why he had not taken the lieutenant up on her offers.

"The soulless ones have never tried to lure our ships in using distress signals," Saln said. Albright chuckled at the Andorian slang for a Vulcan. He studied the Andorian plot. He converted the time in his head: The Kumari would be in the system for about one hour; that did not include time for a rescue. "But the pirates used that tactic against your people sir."

"Yes they did," Albright agreed. "They have not done that in awhile." Romulan ships regularly entered Vulcan space. This was so close as to make little difference. So far no allied ship had ever given chase. "Any ships on radar?" he asked.

"Nothing captain," Crowder answered. Albright ordered a brief sensor look. The team on Mars had funneled out some tips that allowed allied ships to use sensors for limited periods of time. The tactical picture changed.

"There," the navigator Graz announced. They all looked at the screen which displayed two energy readings indicative of a warp driven ships. One was deep in the gravity well of one of the outer planets. Sensor readings revealed the world to be a gas giant. Another stronger reading was near to the first one.

Albright looked at Crowder. "It could be another ship in the atmosphere." The Alaskan native studied the readings before they winked out. "If it is then its power plant, be it fusion or mam, is deader than a door knell." This last in English caused puzzled looks and raised antennae.

"The Romulans might be up to their old habits," Albright stroked his chin while he considered the possibilities. "It might be interesting to turn their tactics back upon them." He came to a decision. "Alter course for that system; specifically the third moon you've identified by subspace sensors. Make your approach from a positive z-axis. We'll use that giant's other moons to screen our arrival." Albright gave the orders that set the Andorian craft on a new heading. He relaxed somewhat as his first officer approached his chair.

"This does not look Jewish," Saln told him in a soft tone. For some reason that Albright could not fathom his Andorian first had decided to learn terran English. Gordon thought that Saln was doing good, most of the time.

Gordon worked through his English idioms. "I believe you mean kosher," he corrected after some thought. His first officer did seem to find Gordon's native language useful for private conferences. "You're right of course," he answered in the same language. "But I believe that we need to investigate this. Our ships were caught because they didn't suspect what was happening." Albright was referring to the initial Romulan ambushes of the war. "We'll go in, but with the knowledge of what we might be up against. Who knows; this might be a birdie with a broken wing."

"That would change things if we knew the face of our enemy," Saln said, switching back to Andorian. The bridge crew looked around and then returned to their tasks. They all seemed satisfied that the issue had been resolved.

Albright studied the tactical display. A little less than an hour they would all know if Albright's instincts paid off. The other thing that was weighing on him was that the signal might well be from an unknown race. Humans and their allies had all set out to discover new worlds and new races. That had fallen by the wayside since the Romulans had shown up. But they were still explorers; Gordon no less of one. His monkey curiosity must be satisfied he supposed. He smiled slightly.

"It may be a new race," Saln said. Gordon sensed that he and the Andorian were thinking alike.

"We'll soon find out," Albright replied.

The Kumari's human captain rose and removed his jacket. Albright made it a point to inspect each and every crew station. The alien cruiser was in tip top shape. He was not surprised: Andorians tended to be sticklers for detail. Mistakes made upon the surface of their frigid world usually proved fatal. Albright supposed that carelessness had been weeded out over the long generations.

He gave only a cursory glance to Lieutenant Zenna's station. Albright knew that the Kumari's stock of missiles and anti-missile missiles was full. She gave him a longing gaze as he passed by. Despite the bridge's coolness and the fact that Gordon had removed his jacket he still felt a flush of heat. She was quite striking. Albright wondered if the humans of Zephram Cochrane's day could have foreseen not only cooperation among the races but more personal relations. Albright turned back to the tactical plot.

"Incoming communication," Decurion Hahn announced. Albright felt a chill return to him: They had undoubtedly been discovered. He nodded at the Andorian officer. The tactical picture on the viewscreen was replaced with a video transmission from a ship.

They all recognized the captain of what Albright guessed was one of the ships that he had made out to intercept. "Captain Albright," Captain Vanik started, "I do not believe that your fictional photon missiles will be needed this time. This is a purely Vulcan matter and this system is in dispute by both sides. I suggest that you withdraw."

Albright was angered by what he saw as the Vulcan's imperious manner. But although it was somewhat more advanced than a Stellar Navy vessel the Kumari could not stand long against a Vulcan cruiser. Gordon thought that he should consider himself lucky that Vanik had chosen not to engage them. He was about to respond when he saw that Hahn had printed out a document from his station. The communications' officer indicated that the video was only one way.

Albright took the paper and read it. He sighed inwardly. This situation had just gone from unknown, to dangerous. He stared at Vanik's image. Albright wondered how the peaceful Vulcans had come to this. An instructor at Albright's Canadian Forces Officer Training School had once told him that; like an iceberg there was probably much more to the Vulcans beneath their stern demeanors.

Albright tried to recall everything he knew about the Sh'Raan class of cruisers. "Captain Vanik, you can solve your internal strife; that much is true. But the L'Nira has taken on Denobulan refugees. I cannot allow you to destroy that ship."

He wondered why the T'Mir had even fired on the Surak class L'Nira. That did not seem logical for a logical Vulcan Albright thought. Rumors were rampant that the pointies were near to some sort of a civil war. Albright could not imagine that. But then again the desert planet had once been a verdant heavily forested paradise: Before the Vulcans last internal struggle. He had heard the dark whispers about how savage Vulcans had been. Could they return to that he wondered? That might make them as bad as Romulans.

"Once again, this is a Vulcan matter Captain Albright," Vanik answered calmly. "Major Hesada has acted most illogically. The Denobulans that you mentioned forfeited any neutrality when they stepped aboard L'Nira. It is most unfortunate."

Hahn handed Albright another text from Hesada. He read through it quickly. The news was not good. "Captain Vanik; it seems that your ship passed by a Romulan convoy. Yet you chose to proceed along your way."

"The High Command has ordered me to not interfere in the war between your peoples," Vanik answered calmly. Albright noted that the Vulcan had cut the visual part of his transmission. He could barely read the stoic Vulcan but now he had no visual clues whatsoever to act upon.

"Your government has forbidden Star Fleet any basing privileges in your space," Albright replied. The distance between Kumari and the moon had shrunk. Radar also showed that the T'Mir was leaving orbit; on an intercept course for Kumari. "I suppose you have no problem with Romulans using your space." There was an uncomfortable silence.

Albright put a hand over his mouth; the Andorian body language used for silence. The human slash across the throat had quite another meaning he had discovered. He was sure that is why Zenna had such an interest in him. Hahn dutifully severed voice communications with Vanik.

"It's a small galaxy after all," Albright said wistfully. He turned to his first. "Any recommendations?" he asked.

The Guard normally used groups of two or three heavy cruisers against single Vulcan warships," Saln explained.

"Odd that he is using subspace sensors," Chief Crowder declared. "That could be the only way he seen us this far out."

"Apparently our Vulcan friends don't have the same dangers we face using our sensors," Albright concluded. He resumed his seat. "Load missiles and starbursts," he ordered as he pulled the Andorian restraining net over him.

Saln relayed the orders to Zenna who then confirmed that the action was complete. Albright studied the tactical display hoping for some sort of a miracle in this match. The T'Mir would see his missiles and pick off the sublight devices with their particle weapons. His only hope was to move in and--what he asked? T'Mir's energy shields were far superior to allied hull plating. If he got close enough for a hit, the detonation of a nuclear warhead might wound the Vulcan ship: It would also be so close as too envelope Kumari.

He knew that the Sh'Raan class of cruisers tended to be ungainly around a gravity well. Otherwise L'Nira would be a heap of radioactive rubble. Albright needed to take advantage of what he had.

"Direct our first salvo at T'Mir," he instructed. "What do we have on the moon that we are approaching?" Albright reckoned that they had three minutes before they came within range of T'Mir's particle weapons. He listened while his first recited a litany of facts concerning the moon. The information had been gotten over forty earth years ago. He listened with half an ear until something Saln was saying got his attention.

"What was that?" he piped up and asked.

"Our researchers conjectured that the body had started its existence in the inner system," the Andorian primus replied. "Its geology includes tall mountain ranges and evidence of ice of some sort in the valleys. It was theorized that it started its life as a potentially habital planet for humanoids--,"

"Tall mountain ranges, eh?" he interrupted. "We have to get T'Mir down there with us." Albright knew that he was clutching at straws. Kumari was unique in that it was constructed to actually land on a planet; something most Stellar Navy starships could not do. "Chief Crowder, show me a representation of this moon in three dimensional relief."

"T'Mir is attempting to communicate with us again sir," Hahn interjected as Albright studied the computer generated images of the dead moon.

"Open a channel," Albright answered. Perhaps he could still talk his way out of this.

"Captain Albright, you were invited to withdraw," Vanik's voice announced out of the overhead speaker.

"The Denobulans are our allies, sir," Gordon answered. "I would be satisfied if you spared L'Nira long enough to allow those refugees to disembark." It pained Albright to have to offer that compromise. But Vanik was right: The matter, except for the presence of the Denobulans was a purely Vulcan affair. He had no more right to interfere than would a Vulcan ship to engage a Stellar Navy craft. Albright guessed that L'Nira's crew was sympathetic to the Syrranite cause.

"Your allies made their choices when they boarded a Syrranite held vessel," Vanik answered, confirming Albright's suspicions. Still there was the matter of the Vulcans seeming footsy with the Romulans. Had L'Nira got a peek at more than what they were letting on, he wondered. "This action of yours is illogical Captain Albright. All that will happen is that I shall order your vessel destroyed then return to the Syrranites."

"I think you'll find that a more difficult proposition then you suppose," Albright countered. It was all bravado, and he knew it. The Andorian data concerning the moon sped by on the lower section of the main viewer. Albright motioned for Crowder to stop that data stream. He took for granted that he was reading Andorian as if he had antennae of his own.

"Then we have nothing more to speak on human," Vanik responded. Hahn informed him that the channel had been cut on the Vulcan's end.

"Set missiles for proximity blasts and fire when ready," Albright instructed. "Graz; slow to one quarter impulse and steer toward the surface of the moon at these coordinates. Wait for my command." Albright pointed to a moving display on the navigator's control panel.

"Those detonations won't even be close to T'Mir," Saln said.

Albright nodded. "We don't have much time, first. Load an Azev missile in the tubes. Set it for a delayed explosion. I want it fired into the ice on that moon." Gordon pointed to the viewer as he gave his crew the timetable that he expected them to follow.

"Missiles away," Zenna stated calmly.

Albright watched the tactical display. First one missile track vanished followed by another. Gordon guessed that one of his weapons had been caught by Vulcan particle gun fire. Both the missiles and Kumari were now in the outermost range of T'Mir's guns. His guess was confirmed when Kumari's artificial gravity gave out briefly followed by a cascade of exploding panels and lights.

Albright checked the small computer screen next to his command chair. He knew that Kumari had suffered a direct hit. "Alter course now!" he exclaimed. Gordon could see that the hull plating had been about as effective as a piece of tissue.

"Headed for the surface, captain," Optio Graz reported.

"They're using subspace sensors let's do the same Chief Crowder," Albright said. He turned to Zenna. "Launch a spread of starbursts behind us. Continue firing at T'Mir."

Albright watched another salvo depart only to fall short of the Vulcan ship. Crowder's news was not good as the chief reported that T'Mir was operating at full power. Gordon looked at the innocuous reading that represented the Sh'Raan class ship. That glowing data presentation could well be his death he knew. The subspace sensors resolved some of what was happening. Albright watched as an energy spike contacted the shrapnel from a starburst. The spike continued on. Kumari shuttered. Desperate Andorian voices filled the comm system with a litany of damage reports. Gordon realized that he might have led this crew to their deaths. He felt no personal fear but rather a dreadful sense of failure.

"Descending into the valley," Graz reported.

"Fire Azev," Albright ordered. He felt nothing as the continent destroying super nuke left Kumari's tube.

"T'Mir is over us but is receding beneath the horizon sir!" Crowder exclaimed happily.

Albright was jarred as if from a physical blow as another particle beam hit the Andorian ship; his ship. "Don't celebrate just yet." He turned to his navigator. "Reduce to thrusters," Albright instructed. He gave Graz a speed. He knew that it was dangerous for the huge ship in the deep canyons of the airless moon. But the alternative was a blasted ship.

"Detonation," Saln reported. Gordon watched the subspace sensor display. The energy reading went off scale for a split second; then it obscured, as if a video presentation were out of focus.

"Switch to radar," he ordered quickly. "Start climbout and make for the extrapolated position of T'Mir."

"Damage control teams are reporting that the port flight pod is severely damaged," Saln reported. "It has been sealed off."

"Emerging over the horizon sir," Graz reported.

"Contact thirty degrees off the port bow!" Crowder roared out.

Albright had ordered the Azev detonated near what the Andorian probe data had showed to be a large meteor strike; a nickel iron meteor that was highly magnetic. Kumari's sensors had been blinded. He hoped that the sudden expulsion of magnetized iron ore particles and radioactivity had blinded the Vulcan. So far it appeared that he had been successful. Now what to do with that triumph he asked.

"Ready missiles," he started.

"Captain!" the gunnery officer exclaimed. "Primary and secondary tubes are damaged! The targeting computer is resetting."

"If they have those shields a missile hit would be ineffective," Saln advised. "They could also extrapolate our position sir."

"What about a slow moving impact?" Albright asked.

"The Imperial Guard analyzed such strategies," the Andorian answered. "The trouble is that their particle weapons destroyed any incoming mass before it could do any damage."

"Incoming mass?" he asked in reply. "You mean like an Imperial Guard heavy cruiser?" Albright looked around. All of the Andorians' antennae were standing erect. He realized what he sounded like, but he was out of ideas.

"I don't believe so sir," Primus Saln answered. A somewhat human looking grin appeared on his blue face.

"Graz, can you maneuver us to ram the port pod into that ship?" he asked the navigator. The Andorian replied grimly that he could. "Then set a course and engage." He turned back to Saln. "Issue small arms to everyone in a pressure suit. Have the engineering crews standing by with laser torches." Graz intruded with an expected contact time. Albright released his restraining netting and pulled his space suit out from the command chair's base. They had less than three minutes; that was unless Vanik picked them up and fired on them.

"You don't plan on boarding it yourself sir?" Saln asked. The Andorian had gleaned his plan.

"You'll be in command," Albright answered. His navy training kicked in. He went through the motions of climbing into the bulky suit, sealing up the major openings and checking its ancillary functions. The collision alert sounded. Gordon threw himself into the chair and cinched up the netting just in time. He felt as if a giant was squeezing his chest. As painful as the impact was Gordon was thankful: He knew that it delayed Saln's questioning of his decision. Artificial gravity resumed at a tolerable level. Gordon's advisory panel was blinking from a litany of damaged systems.

"I don't plan on being out of the fun, first," Albright declared as he released the netting. Besides he thought, if this harebrained idea failed he wanted to die in the attempt; not waiting expectantly on the bridge.

Saln seemed to be about to protest. Gordon watched as he relented. "The soulless ones will initiate a self destruct sequence. We've seen this before but the Guard has only tried boarding from shuttles. You may have time captain." He stood and issued an Andorian salute to Albright. "I've ordered the teams to start cutting into the T'Mir. Good hunting!"

The only thing missing was a cutlass, Albright thought. He swarmed aboard the Vulcan cruiser alongside his Andorian crew. A few of the humans assigned to Kumari were among the boarding party. Gordon wondered how far they would get before Vanik decided to activate T'Mir's self destruct. Kumari's pod was embedded just aft of the vessel's drive ring.

They had boarded through an airless, zero gravity space where the two ships were pushed together. From there Albright led part of his boarders as well as he could toward the Sh'Raan's bow. He knew that somewhere in that direction was T'Mir's command center. He had dispatched a second group towards engineering. It helped that a few of the Andorians were versed in Vulcan. He crept slowly through a broad corridor.

An Andorian slid up beside him and handed him a wicked looking blade. The woman called it an ushann-tor. Albright nodded toward her and gripped the haft of the curved blade in his left hand. He held a short barreled assault weapon in his right. Albright had limited practice with the gun. He hoped that he would not get any better with the weapon here.

"Access forward," an engineering technician informed him after looking at a placard.

"They build these things for room," Albright said.

The Andorian didn't get a chance to answer. A bright flash filled the gangway. The Andorian fell back: His head and right arm slipped from his body. Nausea hit Gordon briefly after he heard the body parts hit the metal deck. He threw himself down, firing the rifle as hit the deck. Albright's ears rang as the weapon spit out a hail of small shot.

Albright rolled around a corner. He briefly saw some sort of a fluid leak before he ducked around the corridor. He assumed that he had hit some piping until he replayed the scene in his mind. He shot a quick glance around the corner. The carcass lay in a heap, a green splash that Albright had at first taken for some sort of hydraulic fluid was spattered on the wall behind the dead Vulcan. There seemed to be no other activity. Albright rose to a crouch, crept around the corner, and satisfied that it was clear motioned for his crew to follow.

Gordon lost all notion of how much further they had to go. Vulcan had not shared explicit schematics of their cruisers with the Stellar Navy. He thought that they had gone about fifty meters. He drew close to a large hatch: It was almost three meters across. Albright peered through a pane of transparent aluminum. Rows of boxy Vulcan shuttles were parked neatly on the huge deck beyond the hatchway. Gordon spied a similar lock across the deck of the shuttle bay.

"Captain," a human crewman said after emerging through the thong. "We can't move past what looks like a primary bulkhead. Thalix," he nodded at his Andorian companion, "has keyed in every pointie code that he knows. The engineers are trying to burn through but it's gonna be awhile."

"We don't have awhile," Albright answered in a rare lapse into English. He turned to an engineer and resumed in Andorian: "Is the shuttle bay hatch functional?"

"I believe so sir," the engineer's antennae were bent forward under his space helmet. Albright wondered why the Andorians had not built them with more headroom. He nodded toward the technician who then keyed in an opening sequence. The hatch slid open soundlessly. Albright had allowed them to swing their visors after it was determined that atmosphere was present.

Albright slid along the wall of the hatchway trying to present as small a silhouette as a man wearing a bulky space suit could do. He was regretting his decision to allow them to breathe the cruiser's air: It was oppressively hot. The bay seemed to be empty. Gordon stepped lively to the cover of a shuttle. It looked as if the adjacent hatchway that he had spied would take them to the next section; at least he hoped so.

He saw the shooter as a movement of shadow. Gordon threw himself down. He heard the low whine of the particle weapon. Albright crawled to the end of the shuttle's landing skid. A streak moved from one shuttle to the cover of another: Too late the speeding figure was cut in half. Gordon recognized the red Andorian laser fire. It struck Gordon how the burned Vulcan had not even cried out. Gordon got up and sprinted.

A uniformed Vulcan stepped out of the cover of a maintenance cart. Albright blazed away. The soldier exploded into green gore. He could hear the cheering and savage hoots of his Andorian crew. A particle beam hit his rifle causing it to explode in a shower of molten metal and fire. Gordon cried out and threw the broken, hot gun to the deck. The Vulcan was less than two meters from him. The soldier leveled his rifle at Albright. He vaguely realized that Vulcans were swarming out of hiding places everywhere around him.

He rushed forward, ushann-tor in hand. He swung hard knocking the shot aside. The Vulcan grunted slightly as the ice blade cut into his shoulder. The Vulcan brought the rifle up, too little room to shoot he seized it in both hands and deflected Gordon's next thrust. Albright stepped past the Vulcan. He heard rather than felt the sickening wet crunch from his rib cage. He swung wildly. The Vulcan dropped the rifle and spun away. The wounded soldier clasped at his neck as his green life blood spurted from between his fingers. Albright tried to suck some air in: He felt like a knife was imbedded in his side. He kicked the dying Vulcan aside and stooped to take his particle rifle.

The fight had gone from particle weapons and lasers to desperate hand to hand. Albright turned to see one of his Andorian boarding party members spun around by his Vulcan opponent. The Vulcan seized the Andorian's head and twisted. Gordon could hear the snap. Did Vulcans feel any sense of fulfillment that came with winning, Gordon wondered; if so the woman had little time to enjoy it as one of the few other humans from Kumari shot a hole through her midsection with a plasma pistol.

"Follow me!" he bellowed as he exited the opposite hatch. A Vulcan stepped into his sights at the end of the long corridor that Gordon was plunging down. The shot went past Albright. He heard someone scream behind him. Albright shot from the hip. The Vulcan's right side burst into flame as the soldier fell to the deck. Albright sprinted despite the agony from his ribs.

He burst into what he recognized as T'Mir's bridge. Vanik sat calmly, the Vulcan captain's fingers racing across a control panel. Albright fired without hesitation. The panel burst into flames. Vanik soundlessly staunched the flames that consumed the right arm of his uniform tunic. Gordon could hear his crew filtering in. An engineer slid past him.

"Callin, did he trigger the self destruct?" he asked the Andorian engineer.

Albright watched in apprehension as the alien fumbled over the Vulcan instruments. Finally he looked directly at Gordon. "Major damage where we skewered them sir, but he was unable to start the scuttling sequence." The communication rig in Albright's suit emitted the peculiar alien chime made for smaller ears than Gordon's. He was informed in short order that T'Mir's engineering spaces were in the hands' of his boarders. He ordered those milling about to sweep the rest of the cruiser.

Albright noticed an Andorian medic pushing threw the throng. "Ton'la, see to Captain Vanik's wounds." He listened as reports filtered in that seemed to indicate that he and his crew had won the day.

Another tone sounded. Gordon pressed the stud that initiated contact with his ship. "Captain," Saln's voice filled his helmet. "Repairs are in progress. L'Nira has climbed out of the gas giant's atmosphere. Major Hesada has informed me that his ship's warp core is nearing critical. He is abandoning ship."

"We seem to be in control here, first," Albright answered. "Disengage the flight pod when you can and prepare to take on L'Nira's survivors. Go through the crew roster and see if you can find enough of our people to crew this ship." Gordon watched as Vanik finally seemed to become unsettled as the Vulcan realized that he was going to lose his ship. He hoped that he had enough Andorians and humans, schooled in Vulcan to take T'Mir.

"This vessel is property of the High Command," Vanik said. "Seizing it would constitute an act of war."

"Killing innocent refugees could also be an act of war Captain Vanik." Albright countered. "I could not allow that to happen. I don't pretend to understand what is happening on your world, but I believe that Vulcan signed onto the Emergency Rescue and Relief Protocols; unless your people have backed out of that agreement as well." Gordon's rage got the best of him as he recalled Vulcan's abandonment of their mutual defense treaty with earth. "You may not fire upon noncombatants and you certainly may not fire upon distressed spaceship crewmen. You violated the terms of that agreement. This vessel is now property of Star Fleet and you are under arrest." He watched as Vanik's control slipped, if only for a few seconds. The anger directed at Gordon seemed as dangerous as a laser beam.


	30. Chapter 30

Savannah, Georgia, earth, Jan 2158

Savannah, Georgia, earth, Jan 2158

Christophur Thorpe was pleased with the change of surroundings. A high pressure system was dominating the weather for this part of North America. The air was cool and crisp. A rare snowfall recalled a sense of nostalgia in Thorpe for his native Victoria. He took another drink of coffee before proceeding. Kendra Stiles sat opposite him and Maggie Thorpe. Thorpe needed a feminine touch for what he wanted to accomplish here.

"Politics didn't seem so important around here Mister President," Stiles said. "When you think about it, after the last war the people writin' the rules made it so hard for a government to do much of anything."

"They made their choices then," Thorpe answered. "I'd like you to make one now."

"I ain't no politician sir," Stiles answered. It occurred to Christophur that the woman's hair had gotten grayer.

"You're no country doctor either," Maggie interjected. "I understand that the people around here look up to you. You helped pull the community together after the bombing."

"Henry did a lot of that Missus Thorpe," the woman answered sadly. "The people here sort of banded together. They missed him; not as much as I did, not the same way."

"You've picked up where he left off Miss Stiles," Thorpe said. "Do you really think that your husband would have approved of Mark Hawkins?"

Stiles guffawed. "He thought that he was a bum. I never paid him any mind; I figured that type of person belongs in politics." She looked at her guests, realized her mistake and tried backpedaling. "I didn't mean…"

"No," Thorpe interrupted her apology. "You're absolutely right. Most of us are bumblers and fools. We hope to do a little good; mostly we just get in the way of people who accomplish things. Sometimes we stumble into doing the right thing, but there is another class of politician; the ones who seek power and control over others. They are the ones who do real damage. I could give you a list of historical figures but you know them as well as me."

"I cain't see Mark holding power over anything except a plate of barbecued ribs," Stiles answered. "In fact, I'm surprised he's lasted this long as a councilman. They must serve some good meals in San Francisco."

"It's quite good," Maggie Thorpe supplied. "You could run against Hawkins in a recall and find out for yourself."

"I can get a ticket on a westbound shuttle and have dinner there too," Stiles countered.

Thorpe suspected that he would have a hard time recruiting the woman into politics. Despite the criticisms of his profession, Christophur knew what a tough job it was. Every foible, every flaw in character accorded the average man or woman was inspected and magnified for public consumption. Why anybody in their right mind would seek public office was a question that was beyond Thorpe. He sometimes wondered why he had chosen to do so. He remembered his parents' admonishing him for a reckless attitude. Had that attitude refined itself as he matured?

"I remember Jo-jo telling me how her father had not been content to sit upon his laurels," Thorpe said. "How he," he looked away from her as he recalled the younger Stiles' words to him, "liked to stick his nose in everything." Kendra laughed. Thorpe could detect a little sorrow behind the humor. He wondered how he would feel if Maggie were taken from him suddenly.

"Henry did that," Stiles said with a grin on her lips. The grin appeared to Thorpe to change from one of fond remembrance to a cagier smile. "Speaking of Henry and Jo-jo; you wouldn't be thinkin' of capitalizing on the Stiles name."

"He would," Maggie Thorpe admitted. "But there is this to consider, Kendra: We know you and your family. Albeit through unpleasant circumstances but regardless we've discovered that both you and Henry were and are respected members of the community. People usually earn that respect because they are first rate. The type of people voters would respect."

"There might not be too much respect for my name with what I hear is going on out there anyway," Kendra said.

Maggie looked knowingly at him. He had held nothing back from her. Thorpe sighed. "The rumor is that Jo-jo's taskforce strayed into Vulcan space. There is a lot to substantiate that but nothing concrete. The truth," he hesitated while he weighed the import of what he had to tell her. Finally he conceded that he would not be here if he could not trust this woman. "The truth is that the Vulcans appear increasingly hostile. This V'Las…"

"I've read articles off the network," Stiles filled the empty void in conversation. "This V'Las seems to want a fight. I guessed it would come down to that; after they went back on the treaty." He watched as the elder Stiles closed her eyes briefly. "I remember my grandmother tellin' us how everything changed for the good after they landed. She told us that is how come First Contact was so important. It was when we grew up; looks like we were wrong."

"Never forget Kendra," Thorpe answered gently, "we never started this fight. I still believe we have a chance at peace with the Vulcans. We get sketchy reports that V'Las is having troubles on his world. But the chance is slim. It is looking more likely that we will be at war with the Vulcans before next year; if V'Las has his way." He shook his head mournfully. "I don't know why."

Maggie Thorpe continued for him before Stiles had a chance to respond: "But you saw that the breaking of the treaty was wrong and where it could lead. You see further than others. That is the kind of people we need in government; not the people who were so short sighted that they left us unprepared for this war."

Stiles snorted. "That doesn't mean I have some kinda political acumen. Folks probably sat around sayin' I told you so after the first caveman was made chief of his tribe."

"But you've done much for your community since your husband's death, Kendra," Maggie Thorpe continued. "We need people who want to do good things for the community; a larger community."

"If Vulcan sides with the Romulans we could find ourselves in a worse situation than when this thing started," Thorpe said. He looked around as if Stiles' kitchen might have ears. He had been in politics long enough to watch what he said, and more importantly where he said it at. "The reports about Jo-jo's taskforce have been censored." He licked his lips nervously as he continued. Censorship had always been something that he had turned his face against. "There is a strong possibility that she destroyed a Romulan base in Vulcan space."

Stiles stared aghast at him. He thought that anyone could understand the import of that statement. Then again the anti-war movement and the Sons' of Terra would probably have some pat answer explaining away the base's presence in the supposedly neutral Vulcans' space. Thorpe sometimes wondered how good, thoughtful people could subscribe to notions that were easily proven false. But even when Panama City was still uninhabitable some still persisted in their peace loving Romulan rants.

"I didn't know it was that bad sir," Stiles said at last. "I still don't see how a widowed veterinarian could help."

"Hawkins is the Sons' most vocal proponent," Thorpe explained. "They are losing in every poll that is taken. If an election was held today most of them would be defeated. I can't call for a general election but a person can start a recall in his—or her district." He leaned across the table to her. "Be that person Kendra; don't let power mad fools like the Sons' dominate the day. For all those who've died on our colonies and our children who have died in battle; campaign for a recall against Hawkins, please."

He could see that she was thinking over his proposition. He wondered how someone with Hawkins' dubious credentials had gotten this far. Thorpe suspected that someone was behind the councilman. He had gone from being a relative bumpkin to being the center of the Sons' of Terra mass in the council. Thorpe knew that he needed a friendly council if his fledgling federation went against the Vulcans. How could there even be a federation he asked when he couldn't even unite his own people? Perhaps this was not the time he thought. The Ferengi had never given a timeline for the birth of this federation. The destruction of Antonov City had not helped things.

Hawkins and his supporters were crowing loudly about the unnecessary loss of life and the need to ask the Romulans for a truce. Rather than seeing Antonov as a rallying cry the Sons' of Terra had instead turned the horrible event into a theatre where Thorpe's supposed failures were highlighted. Christophur for his part would have liked nothing better than to open a dialogue with the Romulan praetor. He had no intention of surrendering but he did want to understand what this had all been for. Thorpe realized that Stiles was speaking.

"I'm probably being a fool," Stiles said at last. "I got a funny feeling that Henry is somewhere laughing at me right now." She sighed. "Okay Mister President; I'll run for office."

Norfolk, Virginia, earth, Jan 2158

Malcolm Reed hated the weather here. Cool and rainy; the ocean brought with it a cloying dampness that penetrated to his bones. He was glad to be at the entranceway of Erica Soames small, recently purchased seaside cottage. He skidded a little across her walkway: Ice from last week's ice and snow storm covered Soames' walk.

"Tsk, tsk, Erica," he said under his breath. "You have become quite the sloppy housekeeper of late."

Reed wondered exactly what had happened to Soames. She had been strangely quiet since her return from the moon. She had only spoken to him long enough to explain that their Romulan problem on earth had been eliminated. That was too bad that it was not true. But that is why Malcolm had intruded upon Soames' little operation: She was in over her head. He paused at the stoop and wiped his shoes. Reed rapped his knuckles against the door. He heard nothing. Reed pounded on the door: Silence. He knew that Erica should be there: She was expected at SN Intelligence in the morning.

He kicked open the door. A bare-chested man was jumping on one foot while he tried putting his free leg into his pants. "This isn't what it looks like," the man protested. He was an older portly man: Not Soames type at all, Reed thought. He smiled. Reed chuckled as he saw the growing wet spot in the man's underwear.

This is your lucky day bloke, he thought. "Quite alright; I'm used to her doing this. You're the third one I've caught her with this month." The frightened lothario hastily threw his shirt on and headed out of the door. Malcolm bent down to retrieve the man's shoes. "Don't run off without these: It is a little chilly out there chum." Reed smiled again eliciting a squeak from the man. The man took his shoes, ran headfirst into the door, jerked at it until the door opened and then ran out into the cold Virginia evening.

He closed the door after a few seconds. The pungent smell of vomit hit his sinuses. Malcolm wrinkled his nose. It grew stronger as Malcolm walked toward where he guessed Soames' bedroom lay. He kicked at an empty bottle. Malcolm stooped and picked it up. A pang of regret went through him as he considered the loss of a good gin to what he figured was a bout of binge drinking. The bedroom door was open.

Reed saw Soames' tangle of brown hair hanging over the bed. She was covered; face down, except for her head and bare feet. A puddle of last night's indulgence, the source of the foul odor, was on the floor near her head. He bent over her and yanked the blanket off of her nude body.

"Wakey, wakey," Malcolm said. He rudely shoved on her bare back. She was alive. Despite his vigorous efforts the best he got was a low moan. "Time for a wake up shower my dear," he said. He scooped her up and with some effort pulled her limp body off of the bed, depositing her roughly onto the floor in something close to a sitting position. He moved around her and pulled her to her feet. The blur of movement was barely perceptible. Reed dropped Erica and reached for his plasma pistol.

"So you are Reed," the young woman stood in the bedroom's doorframe. "The admiral has mentioned you." Reed noted that she was without fear. Few people could make that boast. He kept the pistol leveled at her. This was an augment of whose ancestors he had heard and read so much about.

"I am not here to harm you," she told him.

He gave her his most shark-like smile: The one that had just made Soames' recent male caller wet himself. "I have the gun—,"

He felt the pain race from his fingers and up his arm. He had not seen her move. When he pulled back he realized that she was meter from where she had been and was in possession of his plasma pistol. The surge of anger washed out of him. Nayyar took a step back. Reed brought it under control. So she could be frightened? He smiled again and shelved that thought. He noted that the augment seemed to have recovered.

"Bloody good parlor trick," he said. "I bet you get on well at parties with that."

She stared, oblivious of his comments. "I can hear you breath and see the tendons move in your hands and fingers."

"Well, okay," Reed answered. Rather he liked it or not this woman was an ally. At least that is what she was selling herself as. Malcolm was skeptical, but Malcolm was always skeptical. He looked down at the naked form of Soames. "You can use some of that superior strength to help me get her into a cold shower."

"I shall do that," she answered, "without your help." She pushed past him stopping to take up a sheet and cover the unconscious admiral. The augment easily lifted Soames and made her way towards the bath.

"Very well," Reed answered. "It's not anything that I've not seen before. But, have it your way." He followed the two women to the bathroom door and stopped. He stood outside

After a few minutes the water started running. Seconds later he heard Erica emit a low moan. "I killed them all." There it was Malcolm realized. Something had happened to exact this pitiful display from Soames. He wanted very much to know what that was.

He pretended to not have heard what Soames had babbled. "What was that?" he asked innocently.

"Nothing," the augment shot back. He could hear Erica's protests as the cold water washed over her. She murmured something about blood; that it was all over her. Reed had wondered about the miraculous Romulan miss against the Martian satellite. He wondered how a race that had been assessed at being nearly on a par with earth could have missed such a target. Soames had quickly denied having anything to do with preventing the destruction of Utopia Planitia. Reed had thought the denial came rather too handily to Erica's lips. But he had taken her at her word; until now.

He reached in his jacket and retrieved a small envelope there. Reed went into the bathroom. Nayyar was toweling the disheveled admiral's hair dry. She shot him a look of open hostility. He gave her the small packet. "Just a little herbal concoction from the root of a plant from Alpha Eridani," Reed explained. "It will help her rehydrate and clear the poisons from her liver." The augment hastily covered Soames semiconscious form. Reed turned to leave. "It is not like I was planning on raping her."

The stab of fear from the augment; he turned and looked at her. So that was her particular weakness. He drank the brief taste before he left the women. Reed explored the small cottage until he found the kitchen. He rifled through Soames pantry until he found some old bread and some meat. Malcolm figured that he should eat. His legitimate work seldom left him with a regular schedule: This covert activity was even costlier in time to the naval agent.

Malcolm mechanically munched on the sandwich he had fixed himself. He found a cold beer in Soames' refrigerator that helped wash down the rather tasteless meal. Reed looked at the label and wondered if it was a beer preferred by Admiral Forrest. He knew that Forrest and Soames had been involved. But the commander of Star Fleet was far off. Who knew if he were even still alive; as fast as news traveled from the distant reaches that man had placed himself? He finished the last bite, chewing carefully when Soames paced slowly into the room dressed only in a bathrobe and some slippers.

She sat down, looked at Reed's beer bottle and turned away abruptly. The augment took a seat between the two normal humans. He turned to Nayyar. "So it seems that you have not been straightforward with us."

"What do you mean?" she spat out in return.

Erica had gotten up and was drawing a cup of coffee from an instamaker. "Yes, Kanya has been helpful. What do you mean, major?"

Reed sipped at his beer before answering. "You said that our little problem here was taken care of. It is not." Soames had returned to the table. The color was returning to her face.

Both women stared at him with open mouthed expressions. Soames, despite her hangover was the first to respond. "We took care of Perrin. We foiled his last operation. The body is atoms in space now."

"Yes," Nayyar supplied, "Perex was the last Rom…individual here. There were no others; I know."

"Do you now?" he asked sharply. His voice dripped with skepticism.

"Spare us the game," Soames declared angrily. "What do you know Reed?"

"Our dear Councilman Hawkins is becoming quite the annoyance. It occurred to me that a man like that, a heavy eater and all, might be susceptible to a heart attack." He shook his head sadly. "Really people should take better care of their bodies." Reed chuckled softly.

"You can't assassinate a councilman!" the admiral blurted out. "There has…there has been enough killing." Reed could see her choking back tears.

Nayyar seemed to be taking a protective role over Soames. "I had thought that we had only to drive the Tal Shiar off of this world and support Fr—Lieutenant McCoy in his endeavors off world?"

"You really don't understand this, do you?" he asked. He shook his head and sighed. Reed guessed that this augment was a mixture of child, woman and killer. He sensed that something had happened to her. He couldn't dredge it up, at least not here before Soames. "We must maintain our vigilance. The admiral started this to put the damper on the antiwar movement. Somehow Hawkins has become the embodiment of that movement."

"Surely your—our people realize the seriousness of this war?" the augment asked. "The Romulans won't stop; especially if you turn your back on them. That was what they gambled on all along. General Talex spoke to the Romulan people from the praetor's court: He insured a swift victory against what he said were weak, decadent aliens."

"We aren't weak," Soames said. Reed noticed that she had put herself back together. "But some of us will use any excuse to come out on top; even at the risk of the freedom and lives of others." She sipped at her coffee. She looked at the unused bread that Reed had left out on the table top. He shoved the plate over to her. He watched as she turned to the augment before biting into her bread. "Was there another team Kanya?"

"I don't see how that could have been," the augment answered. Reed sensed that she was genuinely distressed to learn that there might be more Romulans on earth. "Despite earth's free border policy obtaining a Vulcan ship and coming here was quite difficult. I believe that only a few Vulcans know about Reunification. But even among those they seem reticent to hand over their technology, including ships, to the Romulans."

"That seems likely," Malcolm agreed. "Had the Vulcans armed their brothers, this war would have been over for us in short order." He sat up and took another pull on the beer. "This Tal Shiar is quite an espionage organization. Isn't it possible that they sent another cell to earth; unbeknownst to your little band?"

"Someone would have known," Nayyar protested weakly. Reed could see that she was actively considering the possibility. "Perex was well connected; still the Imperial Court is a dangerous place. Something could have been done without Loch's knowledge—or Perrin's."

"Before we continue; I take it you have proof of this and it is not one of your little games, Reed," Soames was recovering very quickly. She looked harshly at him through bloodshot eyes.

"The Americans and the Eacos were engaged in targeted assassinations before the last war." Reed finished the beer, recalled that another one was in Erica's icebox, got up and got the bottle out and opened it.

"Help yourself," Soames declared in a mocking tone as he returned to his seat.

"I always do," he answered with a smile on his lips. His smile dropped as he continued: "Genetic samples of a potential target were obtained and a tailor made virus was made just for that person. I found a geneticist who was facing some legal trouble for dealing in augmented DNA. She was only more than happy to help me; especially as I promised to make the evidence against her vanish." Actually he had made the geneticist vanish after some play with her. But she had been sufficiently frightened and naïve enough to believe his cover story as a naval investigator wanting to test for a genetically altered virus for a case that he was working. He waited a few seconds before continuing. Both women looked expectantly at him. "Imagine my surprise when a sample that I obtained from a soiled bed sheet turned out to be from a Vulcan; with some abnormalities."

He sipped at his beer as the women looked at one another and then back at him. "Romulan DNA?" the admiral asked at last.

"I don't know," Reed answered. "Do you think that the pointies left one of their own here and that she is sleeping with a councilman—the DNA also indicated that Hawkins bed companion was female?"

"Another cell," Nayyar whispered.

"Yes, another cell," Reed responded. "Hawkins seems to have been put forward as their puppet here. There have not been any acts of sabotage that I can attribute to Romulans; nothing as a matter of fact; not even an accident. Perhaps they were waiting for the results of their attack on Utopia." He saw the look of pain briefly cross Soames' face. Nayyar looked down at the table top for a few seconds.

"It is back to work for you ladies," he declared cheerfully. He took several gulps from the bottle. "I had planned to just kill Hawkins, but it seems that we must discover just what his involvement is and how many birds we might have to deal with."

A Romulan female; he wondered what fun he could have with one of the aliens. Reed had always shunned Vulcans. Their mental discipline had always deflected his particular charms. These emotional cousins might be different he thought. He became aware that Soames was speaking.

"We can't just," he saw the naked pain and trepidation in her face, "kill a councilman, or anyone else for that matter; except Romulans. That is never what I--,"

"You bloody well knew where this could go," he spat out. "It is time to face up to that. We have work to do. Rumors abound that Commodore Stiles crossed the Vulcan border and destroyed a Romulan taskforce. If that is true then there is a strong chance that the lid will soon be off of this whole thing. The Vulcans, for whatever reason their pointie logic compels them will be forced off of the fence."

"That also was among the Romulans' plans," Nayyar explained. "They had hoped for peaceful Reunification. It was rumored that other plans were in motion though."

He watched as Soames buried her face in her hands. "I have to prepare a briefing for Strategos Antor and whoever the Tellarite general is this week." She sighed and pulled her hair back with both hands. She looked at Nayyar. "I suppose that you had better plan on working with…" she nodded towards Reed.

"Hawkins' estate is well guarded," Reed explained. "I believe that our best hope of finding out who he is," he laughed, "contacting, is to follow him during his speaking engagements. I have duties as well—naval business if you must know." He eyed the augment. "I hope that Erica's faith in you is justified." He wanted to add that despite her reflexes and strength that he would kill her if she broke that faith. He finished his beer and stood up.

"We're back in business!" he exclaimed happily. He put the empty bottle down. "I do believe that the local community here is putting on a to-do for the Antonov disaster; pity that. I think that I shall attend; maybe wring my hands along with the rest of the blokes."

He could see the downcast look on the faces of the women. Reed determined that he would have to do a thorough review of sensor and radar logs for the day of the Romulan attack. It might pay him to have some information about his partners for later use. He bid the two a good evening and headed out into the night.

The third planet of the Beta Hydri system, Feb 2158

The fur cape that covered Augustus Kirk probably reeked as bad as had everything else on the cruiser Molar's Revenge. But he wrapped it tighter against his body nonetheless. The smell really hadn't registered with Kirk after his second day on the Klingon ship. He had become accustomed it; unlike the metal shelves that Klingons slept in. His muscles still ached from that particular experience.

Kirk's group consisting of himself, Chang, Kaluch, two of the Asian looking Klingon's personal guards and Adrik Soong had landed their shuttle outside of the small settlement. He supposed that he should thank God that the road from the barebones shuttle port to the town was cleared of snow. They had trudged along for a little less than two kilometers when Kirk made out the outline of the small settlement. Kirk could almost believe that he was strolling through Glacier National Park; that was until the town's buildings resolved into a collection of alien architecture and un-human color schemes.

"This place was set up by the Orions as an outpost," Soong explained in passable Klingon. They had been surprised that the eccentric billionaire and robotics specialist also seemed to have mastered basic Klingon. But Kirk got the feeling that Soong played his cards close. "There are a few Orions around, a race called Nausicaan that you really want to avoid." Kirk watched as Soong turned to Kaluch. "I think they are almost as hostile as you fellows are." Kaluch stopped, turned and shoved Soong into a snow bank. "Maybe not," Soong corrected.

"In other words this is some sort of a frontier town?" Kirk asked. Soong, standing once again and brushing snow off of the fur cloak that the Klingons had allowed him nodded.

"You should have taken the captain's advice and taken the plasma weapon, Kirk," Soong said as he caught up with the rest of the group, "instead of that antique." He nodded at Kirk's 30-30 lever action rifle.

"I didn't want to come down here with any kind of a weapon," he responded. That comment drew a severe look from Chang. Morgan had insisted from the very beginning of the mission that Kirk use Serendipity's computer simulated range to learn how to use a plasma weapon. But he had resisted her suggestion. She had relented when he agreed to bring a gun from his home along. He had used the trusty Marlin to kill many a varmint. Right now he regarded it as little more than a nuisance.

"Well," Soong chuckled. Kirk was beginning to hate that laugh. He had been wishing that Smiley had come along. Soong continued: "You are too old to be a useful slave. You don't have any valuables." Soong looked around at the Klingons. "And you have these wonderful escorts. So maybe you won't need a gun after all."

"What about this Miasa?" Kirk asked. "Will she be easy to find?"

"She had a room over the local dive," Soong answered. "If, if, she is here; then she should be easy to find. There is a dilithium mine about two hundred klicks south of here but that is nothing more than some dorms for the slaves and quarters for their overseers. Other than that you are at the party capital of this world right now Kirk old boy. Can I call you Augy?"

"No," Augustus replied flatly.

"Really?" the robotics expert asked. "I thought you were taking a liking to me Kirk." Soong had lapsed into English. His tone was jocular.

"If we don't find this Miasa you will most likely die," Kirk retorted. "Doesn't that concern you?"

"I had my particle," Soong said. Kirk noted that for once he had dropped his wise cracking attitude. "I don't expect I'd see any results in my lifetime but that I would leave a legacy for robotics and artificial intelligence researchers to follow. You know that I have a son and daughter Kirk?" Rather than wait for a reply Soong plunged ahead. "I don't see them much since the divorce. I wanted to leave something for them, for all of mankind; something wonderful."

"And prolong your own life in the process?" he asked.

"Immortality is appealing Kirk," Soong answered. "But even if I had my positronic brain tomorrow there is no way to known to transfer human consciousness. But my name would be remembered for creating something new. Who is going to know the name Kirk in a hundred years?"

"My great-great grandchildren," Kirk answered with a grin. He had long since reconciled his ephemeral existence.

"The Kirks could all be swept away by disease," Soong countered; "or a Romulan attack. An android could live forever. They could be given our emotions, but without the bad ones. Think of a whole race of Gandhi's or Keeler's; the souls of charity combined with the minds of Einstein and Cochrane." Soong pointed to a large bright green building. "There is the local version of a hotel. This is where Miasa took me; this is where Charlie Chan here," Soong hitched a thumb at Kaluch; "grabbed me."

They were approaching the building's entrance; a large set of manual double doors that stood at least half as high again as Kirk. Kaluch's Klingon guards pushed ahead. Augustus steeled himself for some sort of strange alien display. He had mental image of green bulbous aliens sitting around a pulsating giant brain; their heads wired into the brain through organic tubing like giant nerve bundles. Augustus reminded himself to not eat anymore skull stew the night before doing something like this. His belly burned ominously.

"Too damn many Stephen King novels," he mumbled; than stopped.

Rather than some scene that Kirk would find so alien that his mind would revolt he instead found himself staring at something he had seen before: The colors and smells were different and certainly the clientele was, but he easily recognized a bar. Kirk stepped into the facility behind Kaluch's warriors.

A circular bar lay in the center of the large smoke filled room. Several green-skinned humanoids sat around the bar nursing beverages. There was also another group of aliens present: Kirk guessed that these were the Nausicaans that Soong had warned them about. Each stood just over two meters tall and very broad. Their faces looked like some horrible skull mask out of a Robert Howard novel. Kirk gulped. Two of them came out of the bar's wings bearing menacing looking pistols.

"I won't have that here again!" a voice called out clearly in Klingon. "I'm still repairing the damage from your last visit." The Nausicaans swept over Kirk's party with wands. The wands emitted shrill beeps when they passed over the Klingons laser pistols and rifles. Kirk quickly dropped his Marlin to his side; holding it as if it were a walking stick. One of Kaluch's guards tried to push back against one of the probing Nausicaans.

"M'Leet!" Kaluch called out to the warrior in a warning tone. "Let these hA'B'da's have our lasers. We are Klingons. We do not need technology to prevail."

"Or brains," Soong added; "or good hygiene."

"We'll take those bow blades too," the voice declared; "those bacrac things." Kirk looked as the source of the voice emerged from behind the bar. The alien was short; rather he was short for his species or they all were Kirk could not say. The creature had a large bulbous head with the largest ear canals, or so Kirk thought they were that he had ever seen. The alien wore what Kirk thought was a rather sharp looking type of suit. A veil with some sort of a design on it adorned the backside of the alien's head. The alien walked up to Kirk.

"What are you?" it asked him without ceremony.

"I am Augustus Kirk," he replied; "representing the Federation of Planets. I am from the planet earth."

The creature hissed. "You are a human." Kirk's ears heard it as 'hew-man'. "Your people are fighting with the unseen ones."

"Yes that is--,"

"I don't like fighting," the small bartender interrupted. "It is bad for business." He looked at Kaluch. "You may keep your small knives." He eyed Kirk's rifle.

"You wouldn't deny an old man his stick?" Kirk asked. He smiled at the alien. The Nausicaans scanned his rifle. It did not elicit a peep.

"What could you do with that thing?" the alien asked after some time, "it would probably blow up in your hands." The bartended eyed the patchwork group. "My name is Zan. This is my establishment."

"I don't know your race," Kirk said.

The alien laughed a very human laugh. "No you wouldn't. I was marooned here. The Ferengi nation of Tolus was testing a space drive. I guess they had a few problems with it." Zan laughed again. "But here I am; alive and making a profit. Are you here to make a profit Kirk?"

"We are looking for someone," Augustus answered.

"Aren't we all," Zan said. "Let me guess; this tall," he raised his hand to a height just over his head. "Extremely arousing dark hair, green skinned and gives oomachs like…" Kirk got a feeling that oomachs were intensely pleasurable to say the least. "She's at the mining camp. It seems that the director had his eye on her."

"We have to get to this camp," Kirk told Chang, switching to English.

Chang was about to answer when Zan interrupted in Klingon: "We are all friends here. I imagine you are going to shuttle to the mine? Well forget that: I'm sure the sensors of the great Klingon Empire ships showed that there is a storm system up there? The mountain wave turbulence would spin a shuttle like a bottle of slug cola. Go ahead and call your ship if you don't believe me." The look he gave Kirk could only come across as sly. Augustus noticed that the being had rows of needle like teeth. He gulped at the sight. "In the meantime have a drink—the first one is free."

"On the house?" he responded.

Zan cocked his large head at Augustus. Realization came upon the alien. "Odd way to put it but," he paused, unfamiliar with the idiom, "on the house then. But for the second," Zan's grin positively dripped with avarice, "I shall see if you have anything of value to trade."

Kirk wondered what that might be as he followed the odd alien over to his bar. The Nausicaans laughed at them garnering them baleful looks from the Klingons. The warriors followed more cautiously. Kirk noticed Soong's casual look. He had a bad feeling about this whole thing.

"Et tu, Brute?" Chang asked in English. Kirk didn't know much of the bard's plays but he recognized that passage. Chang was suspicious. Kirk merely nodded. He doubted that anyone who understood English, except for Soong knew what the young warrior meant.

Zan moved behind the bar. He started mixing the contents of several bottles. Kirk wondered what the alien was mixing. Was it even something he could drink? For all he knew it might be like the bleach that he used to scrub down stalls. Where was Zan from? Was his world called tolus or the other word that he had mentioned; Fereni or something? Kirk laughed inwardly: He supposed that an ambassador of sorts should keep details like that in mind. Zan handed him the drink. He tapped the edge of the glass with a painted nail. The drink swirled. Kirk gasped as it burst into color.

"I don't know what I'll call it yet," Zan explained. "It seems to attract beings such as yourself, Kirk; drink it hew-man. I have never poisoned a customer," Kirk swore that the look was mischievous. "Yet," the alien bartended added.

Kirk sipped hesitantly at first, and then he drank with gusto. Whatever it was it was quite good. He could feel it warming his stomach. Augustus cautioned himself not to drink too fast. Chang had introduced Kirk to the Klingon version of whiskey. Augustus' stomach rebelled as he recalled the day after.

"I hope I'm not a first," Kirk answered.

"Don't worry Kirk," Soong supplied. "I was disguised when I got here so Zan doesn't recognize me. I drank his concoction. I'm still--,"

"I know who you are," Zan interrupted. "You may all look alike in this dismal section of the galaxy but I have been in business long enough to differentiate. I thought you were one of the Orions? Miasa has been a bad girl you know?"

Kirk watched Soong's eyes roll back in his head. "Yes I imagine so," he crooned. "Did she ask about me?" Zan replied that she had. Soong seemed to swell visibly.

"Don't get too excited," Kirk said. "As much as you might want to," Kirk stopped. He preferred not to discuss Soong's sex life. "As much as you might be looking forward to being with her; remember she is about the only one who can save your life."

"You would be well to remember that!" Chang exclaimed.

"Thanks Hamlet," Soong answered. "Don't you have a skull to bash or something?"

A clamor arose across the bar. Two Nausicaans were in a heated discussion with Kaluch's Klingons. The trouble, Augustus thought, was that neither group could understand the other. He grabbed the barrel of the Marlin tightly. What would he do if things turned ugly? He looked at the Nausicaans' fright mask of a face and thought that things were already at the ugly stage. Zan shouted a warning to the two groups. Kirk noted that the language was something he didn't understand; Nausicaan he guessed.

Kirk heard rather than saw the first fist fall. Not long after he heard the metallic sound of blades being drawn. The Klingons were cursing and issuing challenges. The fight started with one of Kaluch's warriors going down after a Nausicaan hit him. The Klingon's partner caught the Nausicaan's arm. Kirk saw the Klingon bend the arm at an odd angle. The Nausicaan bellowed as Kirk heard a wet crunching noise. Another Nausicaan swung a large blade at one of the Klingons. Kirk watched as Chang sprang up; knife in hand. He turned around and just barely ducked out of the way of a green-skinned alien with a knife. Kirk had been in a few barroom fights in his youth. He was satisfied to see that Orions were equipped like human males. Kirk had used the butt of the Marlin and hit the alien squarely between his legs.

The creature rolled away breathless. Kirk turned, satisfied that the Orion was no longer a threat. He looked on and realized that the smaller Klingons were gaining the upper hand. Kaluch pulled his dagger out of a Nausicaan that Kirk swore stood half as tall again as did the Klingon. Chang spun wildly spilling a Nausicaan's brackish looking blood with a firm swipe of his knife. Chang could not have seen the Orion moving up behind him. The alien leveled a gun of some sort at the warrior.

"Chang!" he yelled. Kirk leveled the 30-30 moving the hammer back from the half-cocked position. Kirk fired. The first shot seemed to surprise the Orion. The second caused him to jerk back, falling to the floor. Chang turned and looked at the dead Orion then back at Kirk.

"Well played," Chang said. He looked at the Orion that Kirk had killed. "Alas, poor Yorick; I knew him well." The Klingon looked past Kirk. "Where is Soong?"

Kirk spun around. He was sweating despite the fact that he had taken off his fur cape. He hobbled past the bar. His age was betraying him at last. Soong was no where to be seen.

"Lose something?" the bartender asked. Kaluch sprang over the bar and seized Zan putting his dagger to the little alien's throat. "Stupid," he croaked out to Kaluch. "I don't know who got your friend! The Nausicaans take dilithium from me and play their stupid dom-jat. In return they act as security for the bar."

"Kaluch!" he yelled out. "I think he is telling the truth." The alien appeared terrified to Kirk. He knew that he should not anthropomorphize but Zan was shuddering and starting to utter some kind of a high pitched wail.

"Tell us what you know barkeep!" the Klingon said as he shoved Zan away. He waved the knife in his face. "Tell me what you know or I shall cut you into pieces…slowly."

"Antie'oc and Mytos just came to my employ," Zan said between breaths. "They weren't much different from the last Nausicaans. They did their jobs when the mine bosses got here." He took a deep breath and seemed to recover. "My guess is they took Soong to the mining complex."

"You said it was impossible to get to in this weather," Kirk snapped.

"For an aircraft yes," Zan answered. "But a ground vehicle…,"

"We shall wait for the storm to clear," Chang declared.

"You fool!" Kaluch shot back. "It will be quite some time before the weather clears. I had my surface sciences officer give me an analysis before we left."

"I suppose that you have access to a ground vehicle?" Kirk asked; "for a price of course."

"We will take this barkeeps'--," Chang began.

"We are Klingons!" Kaluch roared. "We shall not steal even from a deceptive creature such as this. Name your price barkeep."

"Those laser rifles are impressive," Zan answered. "But I don't deal in everyday weapons. Now those daggers; I've heard that there is a market for Klingon ceremonial daggers."

Kaluch growled under his breath. He looked at Chang: "Your d'k tahg, Chang."

"I will not!" the youth bellowed in return. Kaluch's guards had recovered their lasers. They pointed them at Chang. The Klingon looked back at them. "This was the unkindest cut of all," he recited. He wiped the Nausicaan blood off on one of the alien's garments. He pushed past one of Kaluch's guards to present the knife to the bartender. "Keep it well trader; for if you don't I shall find you and cut your tongue out with it."

"You people really like cutting," Zan said. "I think it is in your genetic makeup. But rest assured boy; it is going to a collector who will cherish it."

"Now your part of this deal," Kirk said. The alien beckoned for them to follow him. Kirk gathered his cape and threw it on when he realized that Zan was going outside. He threw down the last of the delicious drink and shuffled out after the Klingons. He realized that for all of their bad habits they were the closest to friends that he had.

The cold hit Kirk like a solid wall. He shivered despite the warm liquor in him. They followed Zan around to the back of the building. A rusted, tracked vehicle that had once been black sat among some other junk. Kirk, who had fixed a few tractors and other utility vehicles in his life, wondered if the vehicle would even start. Kaluch expressed a similar sentiment to Zan. The creature responded by getting into the crawler and starting it up. Much to Kirk's surprise it was obviously a chemically fueled vehicle.

"There you are!" Zan exclaimed happily. "It is a rental of course. I expect it back."

After dubiously accepting Zan's claim that it would make the journey the Klingons reluctantly accepted it. Kirk climbed aboard. The interior was spacious for which he was grateful. He was also thankful that the tractor had interior heat. Kaluch familiarized himself with the controls while Chang reviewed charts showing where they would go. Kirk reloaded his rifle.

Some special ambassador he had turned out he thought bitterly. He had murdered a sentient being. True that being would have disemboweled Chang had Kirk not intervened. Despite his racial kinship to Soong, Kirk felt somewhat closer to the Klingon; so much like his son Sam, willful and headstrong. Kirk suspected that one day humans and Klingons would become allies. He took a seat behind Kaluch as the Klingon steered the vehicle along the route that they had picked. Kirk saw the tracks of a similar vehicle in the snow before him.

Taskforce 17, UES Agincourt, operating near the Vulcan border, Feb 2158

"Here we are," Commodore Leonard Zimmermann declared. He remembered Grizzly Oulette wriggling about in his command chair; now he understood why. Zimmermann's rear was sore. He understood his former commander's frequent inspections of Fearless' bridge alcoves. Leonard wondered how his old friend and commander was fairing. Fearless was from all reports a burned out hulk. Of course Oulette had been blessed to find something more than the command of a ship. Still; he knew that the commodore was grieving over the loss of his crew. Zimmermann looked around at his bridge crew.

Commander Tristan Conway looked more like an old man one would find feeding pigeons in the park on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Ensign Thomas Bateson was sporting an attempt at a beard. But despite his new facial growth Zimmermann could see the innocent youth beneath. Chief Tanya Lindstrom reminded Leonard of his wife's sister; older and strong by virtue of her years. Lieutenant Thaddeus Matijko had lost some of his iron fisted disciplined. Leonard thought it about time that the lieutenant had loosened up. Despite his wife and children on earth these were Leonard's charges; his family.

"It looks bad for us sir," Conway had sidled up next to Zimmermann's chair. He knew that his first officer was referring to the increasing tension between the alliance and Vulcan.

Leonard nodded. Three or four Vulcan Sh'Raans could reduce his taskforce to debris. He had heard the rumors about Stiles' impetuous run into Vulcan space. He knew the politics of the situation. He knew the dangers but secretly he applauded her actions. It was time to force the pointies out; for good or ill.

Was this trap meant to lend provocation to Vulcan's entry into the war? Leonard wished that he had paid more attention to politics and history at West Point. Astronomy and physics were what had held that younger Zimmermann's interest in those days. Len understood why Oulette was pushing for a broader curriculum at the Star Fleet Academy. Sooner or later their ships would go faster and captains would be called upon to make heady decisions. But first, Leonard thought that they needed to win this war.

Zimmermann started issuing orders putting his taskforce on a fighting plane. These next few minutes might be marked as disastrous in terms of human history for all he knew. Leonard hated history. He saw Conway eying him. For a brief few seconds he knew that his mind lay exposed to that of the older man's; the weight of the decision that Zimmermann must make.

Conway nodded at him. "There are no fitting words, sir. That could well be a trap; or it may mark a turning point in this conflict."

"L'Nira's disaster bacon has been activated," Bateson informed him. "They are reporting major damage to all systems; warp drive is down, energy shielding is fading, environmental is on standby."

"She still has some teeth commodore," Lindstrom stated. "One of the bogeys just disappeared off of radar. The remainder is reforming."

"Sir," Lieutenant Matijko chimed in, "Even a Sh'Raan class won't be able to stand up to the collective fire of eleven plasma cannons." Zimmermann could see a strange look on his gunnery officer's face.

"Out with it Thad!" he exclaimed.

"Sir," Matijko looked around the bridge. Zimmermann watched as the younger man nervously licked his lips before proceeding. "Sir, with all due respect; they left us—earth when we needed them. If they are mixing it up with the birdies then let the two have at it. Maybe if they get one of their cities nuked…"

"There is also the makings of a civil war lieutenant," Leonard could see his gunnery officer's embarrassment and concern. "Don't worry: You know that I approve of feedback from my bridge staff." In a sense he knew that Thad was right: If the birdies provoked the Vulcans it would not only be payback but it might also force the Vulcans over to their side. Leonard seriously considered that, but only briefly.

"Divert to Eridani Indi," Zimmermann said at last. "Order the carriers to launch, Tristan; then have them warp to the safe holding zones. Send the fighters out in a screen ahead of us." Leonard rose out of his chair. He toggled the PA to ship wide. "On my personal authority I am ordering the taskforce over the border into Vulcan space." He turned to Bateson and Matijko. "Send a coded dispatch to Star Fleet and launch a surveillance drone with all of our current data." He continued addressing his crew. "We might spark a war," he turned to his gunnery officer. "But in the end all of us, human, Andorian, and Tellarite have established rules about coming to the aide of allies. The Vulcans, for whatever reason chose to renege on the treaty. It is up to us to demonstrate that we will not. That cruiser is under attack by our enemies. The Vulcans have shown some odd behavior but they've never been deceitful." He walked up behind the navigator Chief Kelso: "Accelerate to maximum; battle stations."

Zimmermann checked his taskforce's ETA: If the Nefiir was nearing defeat whatever he did here would prove to be moot. Quite likely the cruiser would be so much scrap by the time they arrived. It appeared that the Vulcans were making a last stand about the outermost planet of Eridani. Thirteen minutes until they arrived at the border and fourteen minutes after that before they would be in weapons range; Zimmermann was beginning to doubt himself. They would cross the border in vain. Leonard hated to appear indecisive before his crew but there seemed to point in going further.

He was about to reverse himself when Lindstrom spoke up: "Radar reports another contact; moving at warp seven, the maximum speed of a Vulcan vessel. It is on an almost reciprocal heading to us from the other side of Eridani."

Zimmermann decided to pursue his present course. Lindstrom reported that Nefiir had dodged around the small body that was the system's outermost world. The tactical display showed Leonard that the Vulcan captain had gained himself a little time. The Romulan formation had been broken by the bulk of the small planet. Leonard took some time to pull up information on the small world: It was nothing but rock and ice. There was nothing that he could use except the bulk of the tiny world.

"Several more unknowns have appeared on radar, sir," Lindstrom announced. "They are warping out from the farthermost inner planet of the system. They are converging on the attack coordinates."

"Romulans, I'm guessing," Zimmermann said. He folded his arms over his chest. The speeds being displayed were consistent with what they had observed for their vessels. The taskforce had crossed the points that defined the Vulcan border.

"Message from Nefiir sir," Bateson stated. "They have switched to text." Zimmermann watched as his communications' officer recited what he was reading off of his screen. "They advise us that they are operating in direct opposition to High Command directives in defending their territory."

"Those images we got of their ships shooting at each other after that surface bombardment," Conway started; "some of those vessels warped away after the fray."

"Intelligence surmised that they were Syrranites and that they were lying low," Zimmermann said; "being good pacifists and all. I suppose it never occurred to them that pacifists rarely shoot at people. I've always suspected that there was another group in the High Command who didn't like the way their government was going but didn't want to start an outright insurrection." Zimmermann returned to his seat. He went about the business of strapping himself in as reports came in that his fighters were engaging their Romulan counterparts.

"Have the 'Marle and Bowen slow to warp 2.5," Zimmermann ordered. "We'll drop out first. Plan to enter normal space five thousand kilometers from the lead birdie wing."

"The second Vulcan cruiser is squawking friendly IFF, commodore," Lindstrom reported. "They should enter weapons range in five minutes."

"That means we'll have to slug it out with the Romulans on our own," Conway said.

Zimmermann nodded. His fighters would balance things out but the Romulan reinforcements were at taskforce strength. It occurred to him that the allies hadn't won an evenly matched battle since this thing had begun. A chill ran through Leonard; if the Romulans had been their technological match he suspected that this war would be going far different. Nothing like a challenge, he thought.

"Three minutes until warp exit," Kelso reported.

"Load Narwhals and Spiders," Zimmermann ordered. "Lay down a spread of Narwhals at the lead cabbages; program Spiders for a corkscrew course."

Zimmermann had sat down with Matijko and Conway and between the three of them they had devised a plan where the antimissile Spiders would fly along a heading between Agincourt and a potential adversary. The Spiders would maneuver along a spiraling path and explode when they detected an energy buildup. Leonard knew they could have held on against a dozen or so Romulans but not twice that number. He hoped that the Minotaurs made short work of their Aeon counterparts.

"One minute to go," Chief Kelso stated.

"You know Mister Kelso you really must stop fleecing Mister Barclay at the poker table," Zimmermann remarked. The silence on Agincourt's bridge was deafening.

"I think he's been hustling us sir," Kelso replied. "He cleaned us out last night. I think that shyness is just an act!"

"I doubt that," Zimmermann retorted. He was secretly happy that Barclay had got one up on his command staff. His psych profile had revealed a sharp mind behind a mask of minor socialization problems. Leonard thought that those profiles had as much validity as did stories of alien abduction and frozen augments.

"Nefiir is moving to a position just aft of where we are planning on exiting into normal space," Lindstrom said.

"Thoughtful of them," Leonard said. He hoped that his strategy was not as visible to the Romulans as it was to the Vulcans.

"Drop out of warp," Zimmermann ordered as his ship approached the point he had wanted it to be at. "Target on the fly, and fire Spiders as soon as we are in normal space!" he exclaimed.

The rocky planet took up a small portion of the sky that Agincourt jumped into. No sooner had it snapped back into normal than missiles departed from the Tannhauser's forward tubes. Larger missiles appeared the first group. The small cylinders sped away from the cruiser. Three of them created small suns in this dark region of the Eridani system. They intercepted incoming Romulan plasma cannon fire. Agincourt maneuvered slowly barely avoiding a shaft of the glowing white plasma. Incoming Romulan Moolahs were picked off by lasers from the cruiser's high speed turrets. Agincourt's missiles were all intercepted. The Romulan taskforce pressed forward as another wave of missiles departed Agincourt.

The force of fifteen greenish, triple-nacelle Sabinus class and eight Veronus class swarmed out to encompass the earth cruiser. Finally one of Agincourt's Narwhals scored rendering a Veronus into it atoms. Nefiir joined the fray blasting away at incoming Moolah and Misfit missiles. The earth ship held its own as yet another Romulan, this time a Sabinus class, vanished in a nuclear fireball. The spear shaped Vulcan ship moved slowly. A plasma beam lanced out to hit the cruiser's drive ring. The ring exploded.

A fiery plasma stream encircled the stricken Vulcan ship where its warp drive had been. The cruiser sailed through the molten mass of glowing metal, plasma and debris. Its impulse engines still functioning, the ship fired another burst of particle beams. A Romulan Sabinus barely diverting a Narwhal attack was caught by the Vulcan's weapons. Two of the cabbage's nacelles were neatly sliced off. The Sabinus rolled slightly, started to correct its flight path, and then was hit directly by another Narwhal from Agincourt. The fireball of its death reflected off of some of the other Romulans' hulls.

The Romulans continued forward, wrapping the earth and Vulcan cruiser's in an inescapable globe. Nefiir maneuvered for protective coverage beneath the great bulk of Agincourt. A plasma beam narrowly missed finishing the Vulcan. Another such beam did hit Agincourt. Its hull plating held. A scorch mark was the only evidence of the Romulan weapon's impact. It did, however recover in time when a Moolah detonated near the earth ship.

Agincourt reeled but continued maneuvering. Escaping atmosphere was evident along several points on the cruiser's hull. Parts of the craft glowed red from the nuclear explosion. More Narwhals left its tubes followed by a flight of Spiders. Agincourt was still fighting. The Romulans had the advantage until several small craft warped into the fight. Marauding Minotaurs flew through the Romulan taskforce. Space became full of Mambo and Amazon missiles.

Burning rents appeared in the hulls of Romulan cruisers as laser fire from the Minotaurs found target after target. The Romulans, rather than continuing toward Agincourt, slowed and started a concentrated against the Minotaurs. One of the earth fighters was destroyed while a second was cut into two, the fighters two halves spun wildly through space. Agincourt and Nefiir held their own as their enemies turned their attention to the Minotaurs. Two more Romulan cruisers fell to the cruisers' firepower.

Another Sh'Raan warped into the battle. Several more Minotaurs appeared to support their mates. The Romulans split their attentions between the newly arrived Vulcan and the Minotaurs. Several plasma cannon hits sparked along the hull of the Vulcan cruiser. Many more missed it. The cruiser fired its particle weapons dispatching a Sabinus. The fortunes of battle appeared to be reversing. The rest of Zimmermann's capital ships arrived. But things turned once more as a force of ten more Romulan ships warped into existence.

The Star Fleet taskforce formed a hasty formation alongside the Vulcan cruisers. But it was evident that things were turning against them. The fresh Romulan forces dispatched flight after flight of Aeons; tying up the small Minotaurs. The rocky planet beneath the opposing forces was free of darkness for the first time since its creation. Small, short-lived nuclear explosions bathed the surface in light. But then the planet itself blazed forth. Fully one-third of the conquering Romulan force was consumed by the fireball of an explosion originating from the surface of the planet.

UES Agincourt, near the outer planet of Eridani Indi, Feb 2158

"Decks seven through nine are open to space near sections fourteen and fifteen," Conway recited. Zimmermann could hear the man's breathing through his earpieces. He lifted his breath mask as clean, filtered atmosphere returned to his bridge. He nodded toward Conway who was similarly adorned.

"Matter anti matter reactor cooling lines are damaged," Conway continued, this time without his mask. "The engineer has taken the mam offline until it is repaired. The primary missile room has been evacuated but the fuel leak is under control: The gunnery crews are back up."

"Sir," Bateson chimed in, "Druzm'za is reporting major damage to their impulse drive and warp core." That was the name of the Vulcan cruiser that had showed up to rescue Nefiir. Now it seemed to Zimmermann that the Sh'Raan had arrived just in time to be blown to bits along with Zimmermann's taskforce.

"Bowen's hull plating has failed completely on the port side," Conway reported. "Albermarle is maneuvering and is undamaged so far. Minotaur squadr—,"

"Stop!" he exclaimed. "Order the Marle to fall back. Tell them to be prepared to take on survivors and warp out as soon as they can." Zimmermann looked around his scorched bridge. Soot trails ran up the bulkheads from the instrument panels that had burst into flame. They were losing here. "Tristan," he started. "Order all nonessential personnel to shuttles. Prepare to abandon--,"

"What the hell," Zimmermann heard Lindstrom's murmur of amazement. "Six enemy returns just disappeared. There is some kind of debris—possibly, rising up from the planet's surface." Leonard waited while she cycled through several of Agincourt's sensing devices. He missed subspace sensors though he had spent the greater part of his naval career without them.

"Nefiir requests permission to offload survivors to Albermarle commodore," Bateson interjected.

The Vulcans must have guessed what he was doing. "Permission granted," he answered. "Reform the taskforce into a wedge with the apex at our present position," he ordered. Leonard saw an opening with the loss of the flanking Romulan section. He turned to Bateson. "Permission granted. We'll hold off as many as we can here."

"Shall I order an evacuation?" his first officer asked.

"Radiological readings point to a large nuclear detonation on the surface of the planet sir," Lindstrom supplied. "Birdie forces are backing away from the planet."

"Continue with the evacuation Commander," Zimmermann answered. Despite the unexpected explosion they were still badly overmatched here. Leonard suspected that the Romulans had used this system to hide a large strike force.

"Friendly IFF's!" the sensor chief exclaimed. "It is Taskforce 18!" she declared after a few seconds.

"Incoming message commodore," Bateson added; "scrambled voice over video."

"Put it on," he answered.

The tactical plot vanished to be replaced by a darkened picture of the bridge of Beagle. Jocelyn Stiles sat strapped into her command chair. "Looks like you've smoked them out commodore," she said. Zimmermann thought that she looked like a very regal and very deadly queen.

Realization hit him. "That was your device that went off," Zimmermann replied. She nodded.

"These are the bastards who have been jumping the supply convoys going into Deneva," Stiles answered. "It's time for a stop to this hit and hide behind the Vulcan border garbage. We don't have much time: I followed them with radar as far as he border. It seemed logical that they were using this system; from what little the pointies have told us. We moved in using the planets as shields. I snuck a shuttle in with a Grand Slam and sit it out near one of the gas giants. Look; we can roll up their edges if we get moving now."

"Acknowledged," Zimmermann answered.

The Romulan force suddenly found itself between the two forces. The ships of Taskforce 18 emerged from near the surface of the dead world. A deadly hail of missiles came before them. Three Romulan cabbages and two jellyfish were destroyed outright. Romulan Aeons turned to defend their carriers.

Two squadrons of Minotaurs from the carriers Truman and Potemkin engaged the Aeons. A spherical Romulan fighter turning on a Minotaur was cut neatly in two by laser fire from the Kretchet Bowen. Two more Aeons were obliterated by particle weapons fired from Druzm'za. The Minotaurs soon turned the tide leaving nothing but scattered radioactive debris where the Romulan fighters had been. The Romulan capital ships were not fairing any better.

Panther and Seawolf engaged and destroyed two Veronus class cruisers. Beagle followed suit destroying a Sabinus. Agincourt added to the carnage putting up a screen of Narwhals that claimed a Sabinus. Victorious Star Fleet ships were soon in the majority. Two surviving Romulan cruisers were dispatched as they attempted in vain to ram Agincourt. Space cleared of explosions. The allied taskforce formed into a loose formation.

T'Naren Province, Vulcan, the earth year Feb 2158

Lieutenant Tarang Gupta recalled the old classic "_Around the World in Eighty Days_."

Phileus Fogg had taken various forms of transport to circumnavigate nineteenth century earth. Gupta could relate to that: After their narrow escape in the ground tug they had managed to get a ride in an ancient groundcar. From there a sympathetic Syrranite had allowed them to ride in an air ambulance; one of the few vehicles not under High Command control. In between flights and rides on the ground they had spent many nights on foot in the desert.

They were the trio that he had become a member of: Syrran, T'Pol and himself. Now that they had reached their goal Gupta had no idea on earth or on Vulcan of how they might proceed. The uplink station lay near the outskirts of a small city. They were instantly recognized as strangers there but Taurik, Gupta's Vulcan doppelganger, had convinced an innkeeper that they were a survey team under contract from the High Command. They had spent almost three days discreetly surveying the uplink facility. It was not unguarded.

"There are at least two platoons," Gupta said. He studied a chart that he had been carefully sketching. "They patrol regularly, but it is evident that they don't consider that there is a threat here." Tarang had been immersed in Vulcan society. He recognized boredom even in a race that betrayed very little.

T'Pol came into the room of the small suite that the three of them were sharing. She carried some food in a small box. Gupta recognized the malt-like smell of plomeek. His appetite suddenly went away. Despite his cultural immersion he was desperately craving chicken curry; anything with meat in it.

"They will do their duty nonetheless," Syrran stated.

"Perhaps not," T'Pol said. "They are disturbing rumors from the capitol over some orders that were sent out by the ministry. Three ministers have called for V'Las to resign and at least five provinces have withdrawn from the Covenant."

"These troops haven't changed their routine," Gupta said, "but I would not have expected them to do so." Gupta had become accustomed to the routine of military life. He guessed that these Vulcans were no different in that respect. His curiosity was piqued. "How did you come by all of this information?"

"The proprietor of the café was very forthcoming. Several of the High Command soldiers dine there." He looked at her. Gupta had developed a knack for arching a single eyebrow. "I took your advice: I hid in plain sight," she explained. "Besides; Shontel said that the legation issued a bulletin reporting that we had been seen in H'Lil Province. They seem to be concentrating their efforts to find us, there for now." She took on a strangely shy look Tarang thought. "We are described as an aged radical," she looked at Syrran, "in the company of a dangerous terran agent and V'tosh ka'tur female; possibly the terran's mate."

Gupta laughed. If the description had said hapless terran agent he would have felt it nearer the mark. "Anything else?" he asked. Gupta was glad for any news: It took his mind off of the seemingly insurmountable task before them.

He could see her reluctance. She continued after several seconds. "A Star Fleet cruiser supposedly seized one of our vessels in the disputed zone along our border with Andoria. Speculation is rampant that Minister V'Las will use this incident—if true, to call for war with the federation."

"The federation," he answered, mouthing the word in Vulcan. Gupta realized just how long it had been since he had news of earth. So; President Thorpe had gotten his wish. When Gupta had left the United Earth Government was a single entity allied with Andoria and Tellar. That alliance must have grown closer."

As if reading his thought T'Pol continued: "The formal documents have yet to be signed creating this federation. But it is a convenient label for V'Las to use."

Tarang sighed; something he had not done in several weeks in an attempt to maintain his masquerade as an unemotional Vulcan. He looked at Syrran. "If we get you to the uplink, get a signal through the orbital network; just what will happen? What message does the Kir'Shara carry?"

Syrran carefully spooned a mouthful of plomeek soup into his mouth before answering. He swallowed while Gupta started on a spicy bread that T'Pol had gotten him. "After the Awakening, logic was presented as a way for Vulcans to control their passions. The first teachings of Surak spoke at length on the need for self control and the use of meditation. He taught us to use our psionic talents as a base from which to start. He spoke of our animal passions and the destruction that was wrought because of them. But that was the extent of it. Where does one go after total logic has been obtained?"

Syrran looked at him and T'Pol. "There was no direction past that point. Those like Ministers V'Las and Soval see us as a great elder race. But Surak warned about that very thing: Turning from barbaric conquerors to cold, calculating ones. His writings speak of diversity; of reaching out for other ideas. We must retain our logic as the focal point but we need to become greater through exposure to an infinite number of concepts."

"Continual growth," Gupta murmured.

"Perhaps you will earn those surgical alterations Gupta," Syrran answered. Tarang had long since taken his pointed ears and complexion for granted. "You are correct. We must never stop learning, developing; that is Surak's message."

"There is no denying that a change is sweeping over this world." Gupta sat back on the low, uncomfortable sofa. He munched at his bread.

"There may not be any change if V'Las has his way," T'Pol said. "There are still many who will not question the logic of his decisions. No Vulcan leader has acted thus in recorded memory."

"We need to get to the uplink station," Syrran added.

"Or not," Gupta said. He looked out of the window of their villa at a tall, graceful spire that rose out of the desert. "Syrran you mentioned that the facility was abandoned; how long ago was that?" He did some mental arithmetic and converted Syrran's answer to human terms. He pointed to the building. "That is the primary Satcom transmission station for this province?" The question was rhetorical: He knew that it was. "If that were cut off how would communications' traffic get in and out of here?"

"The High Command has mobile units," T'Pol answered.

"But they are military only traffic," Syrran added. "V'Las is still allowing the civilian emergency network to remain open: That can still be controlled from orbit. I believe that I understand what Tarang is proposing."

"That building is not being patrolled." Gupta returned to his chart. "We can destroy the network; forcing them to switch over to the old emergency uplink."

"I have some knowledge of communications' equipment," Syrran declared, "but it is doubtless antiquated. But if you succeed all that would happen is that the soldiers would secure the emergency facility and lock out the uplink."

"Syrran is correct," T'Pol said. "I have knowledge that may be useful; from my service at the Vulcan embassy on earth. I also have access codes that Minister Soval gave to me. But they would be useless. The facility would be surrounded."

"I'm hoping that it will be," Gupta said. He plied T'Pol with questions concerning what she thought they would see in the transmission center. Syrran proved to be quite helpful despite the time he had been away from the military.

He offered his plan to the Vulcans. Gupta could see the incredulousness on their faces. He was now as good as reading Vulcan non-expressions as he was at reading human ones. They agreed reluctantly. Tarang could see that the only alternative was to stay in their villa until someone in the quiet community mentioned the presence of the three strangers to a legate or High Command soldier.

"This has been the easiest so far," Gupta whispered. The facility, like most on Vulcan, had been open. Tarang remembered Chief McCoy telling him that locks were only for honest people. Here was a whole planet of honest people, he thought.

"Remember Tarang," T'Pol answered. "This equipment will be somewhat different from that which I was trained on for embassy duty. This plan of yours may not go far."

Despite her assertion Gupta watched as she seemed to flawlessly remove circuit cards; in some cases rerouting them to different slots, for others crushing them with the heel of her boot. Gupta held a hand torch to help her see; wishing that he could do more. When she finished beneath that console she made some inputs into the touchpad controls and moved to another. Gupta felt a little odd that Syrran was not with them. But he was relatively safe.

"This should effectively put the network's computer augmentation into a loop," T'Pol explained. "Without the circuit cards they will not immediately be able to reroute."

"What about spares?" he asked.

"I believe that we passed the storage area for those on the way up here," she answered. She made some inputs to the console that she was working on then turned and looked at him. "I believe that you'll have an opportunity to blow something up."

"I wouldn't miss that for the world," he answered with a very human grin. He was surprised to see her lips curl up slightly. "That was a smile; you smiled!" he exclaimed in a normal volume.

"You," she retorted without expression, "are mistaken. You should lower your voice."

"I suppose you are right," he answered in a whisper. He wondered why; when the building was mostly empty. Here on Vulcan, like earth, much was automated. "I still think that it was a smile."

"Perhaps," T'Pol answered. He was surprised at her candor. "That is not an expression that comes easy to Vulcans. We spend our entire lives controlling our emotions. But it pleases me to see you do that: I wondered why that is. It does not come naturally to me."

They looked at a monitor as T'Pol finished her work. The planetary network had, since the declaration of martial law, switched from news and informational broadcasts to displaying a series of Vulcan mosaics while somber harp like music played in the background. It changed suddenly to an image of the ministerial seal. The music stopped. The couple paused as the image was replaced by a ministerial spokesperson.

"It may be something important," Gupta said of the broadcast.

"Syrran will have something of import to say," T'Pol said. She touched a control on the screen. The image of the stern faced Vulcan announcer vanished. "Let us go."

He followed her to a lift. The couple descended through several levels before stopping. She led Gupta to a room that, as promised, was labeled as the stores room. Tarang pushed a stud causing the door to slide open. He looked at containers full of electronic components and chemical solvents. He was not surprised at seeing the former; he was pleased at the latter. Tarang recognized the Vulcan symbol denoting a flammable substance. He removed the flash grenade from a pocket of his cloak. It was a signaling device more than a weapon, but it would generate enough heat to ignite the chemicals in the room.

"I'll start the timer," he said. T'Pol gave him an estimate for when the results of her work would happen. Tarang sat the timer for a little later. The couple left the room and boarded the lift again. "Ready for the next part?" he asked after a deep breath.

She reached out. They touched their fingers together in the Vulcan way. "We will never be apart now Tarang; no matter what happens." He leaned into her and kissed her. The lift stopped. The door slid open.

The two exited the building and went out into the cool desert night. Gupta checked his chronometer as they made their way to the edge of the small town. Off in the distance he could hear the low growl of a sehlat. The desert was not far from the populated areas of this city. Syrran had told him that the town's inhabitants kept their doors locked at night: That was a most un-Vulcan thing he knew.

The street lights, built into the permacrete of the town's thoroughfares, became fewer and fewer as they left the city center. An armored groundcar swept past them. The soldier in the top turret gave him and T'Pol a cursory glance. The vehicle drove past them. The permacrete ended. Gupta saw lights blazing away not less than a hundred meters before them. He took his glasses off and put them away. He could just make out the shape of armored cars and patrolling soldiers. They paused and surveyed the sight.

"The uplink facility," he said without ceremony.

"Yes," she answered without emotion. He looked at her. She looked at him. "Are you ready Agent Gupta?"

"Yes my V'tosh ka'tur mate," he answered with a grin pasted on his lips.

Her lips visibly curled up; if only for a few seconds. "Odd facial gesture; I do not believe that I shall ever master it. Shall we?"

They walked in silence until they neared a sentry post. The High Command trooper motioned for them to halt. He did not raise his weapon. The soldier walked over and eyed the couple.

"You are near to a restricted area," the trooper declared; "more than that it is dangerous to walk this close to the desert. If you wait, I believe that I can provide safe transport for you back to your home."

"Do you not know who we are?" T'Pol asked the soldier. He stared back at them. Gupta was amazed when he realized that beneath that stony veneer there was recognition.

The soldier looked around, obviously uncomfortable. "I am aware of who you are. I have studied the bulletins. I am a Syrranite. You should leave before you are apprehended."

Of all the luck, Gupta thought. He saw two more figures approaching the post. "Look, I am a deadly terran agitator," he declared in a loud voice. The soldier's emotional control dropped for just a second. It revealed his confusion at Gupta's actions. The figures broke into a trot.

"You should take us into custody," T'Pol told the trooper.

The soldier hefted his particle rifle at them uncertainly. "This is not logical," he hissed in a low voice.

The trooper's commander paced up to the group. Batel, their unwilling Syrranite captor informed his commander as to their identity. After a quick scan and physical search they were conducted into the uplink facility at gun point. There they confronted the High Command officer in charge of this deployed unit. There was much hustle and confusion in the communications' center.

"Your sabotage of the province's communications' network was ineffectual," Sub Lieutenant Gamur told them. He swept his hand around at an image of Minister V'Las presented on a monitor. "We have used this facility to route communications out of here." Gupta watched as the sub lieutenant turned to a technician. "Srevar, ensure that the uplink signal is coded and locked out. There is still one of these fugitives on the loose." The technician responded in the affirmative. Gupta turned and flashed a quick smile at T'Pol.

"The transgressions of the earthers," they listened to V'Las' presentation, "the unlawful attack on T'Mir; these are events which have compelled dire consequences upon these aliens. We extended the hand of wisdom to these lesser species; now we see the fruits of our efforts. They chip away at us, provoke us needlessly. It is time for us Vulcans to pursue a different course--,"

V'Las image vanished to be replaced by the serene face of Syrran. "I am Syrran son of G'Tah of M'Henga Province. Some of you know me."

"What is the meaning of this?" Gamur asked calmly.

"I do not know sir," the technician replied. "The signal…it is…"

"Do not speak to me as a child would," Gamur declared. Gupta could see the emotional control dropping.

"The signal is going out planetwide sub lieutenant," the technician answered.

Troopers in the large chamber were assembling around the monitor listening to Syrran's message. "The Kir'Shara," a collective murmur went through the room.

"Override the lockout!" Gamur snapped. The control was gone.

Gupta smiled slightly as the technician keyed in command after command onto his touchpad. "The lockout; somehow we are locked out sub lieutenant."

"Trouble with your viddy?" he asked the hapless officer.

"We are indeed a great people," Syrran's voice droned on. "Our world, once a burned out cinder, but we saved ourselves despite our savage passions. Surak knew that there would come a time when we might falter and seek a return to barbarism."

"We must destroy this facility!" the sub lieutenant nearly bellowed. He started to rise.

A soldier laid a restraining hand upon Gamur's shoulder. "We are Vulcans sir. We do not fear ideas."

"Arrest S'Mir!" the officer exclaimed. He looked around at his troops. The troopers looked away from the monitor. Some stood, obviously unsure of what to do while others returned to Syrran's broadcast.

"It is time for all of us to make the pilgrimage to Mount Selaya," Syrran continued. "We stand upon the precipice but our logic can save us. Logic can guide us to the next stage of our development."

Gamur reached for his sidearm. An older trooper's hand shot out, finding the base of the sub lieutenant's neck; he squeezed. Gamur looked surprised then collapsed onto the floor. "There have been enough arrests." The soldier declared.

"No one moves!" a voice rang out in Vulcan. Gupta heard another voice, harsh, alien. The words were strange.

"U-aw put ur h'aindsup!"

Lieutenant Frank McCoy was glad to be here in spite of the apparent danger. The journey to this province had been an eye-opener for Frank. He had nearly been torn to pieces by one of those hamsters. Micah Brack had called it a seelot. Frank didn't care what it was called. He just knew that he would never look at hamsters the same way again.

This was the uplink station that the T'Pau woman had told them of. So young looking and yet so regal in bearing McCoy thought of her. This city was where she had said that the religious leader Syrran would be. Brack had admonished him for calling logic a religion, but that was how Frank saw it. McCoy peered around the room wondering who was on whose side here.

Most of the Vulcans in the room were adorned in the light brown cloaks of their military. Frank had labeled them as dangerous and kept his plasma pistol leveled on those soldiers. There were also two civilians in the room; one was a striking Vulcan woman while the other was a short, thin Vulcan male with a straggly growth of beard. The young male was eyeing Frank, making him feel uncomfortable. That discomfort grew when the youth's face burst forth into a very human grin. Frank had gotten used to the stony, impassive faces of the Vulcans. He pointed the pistol at the Vulcan when he made a move toward him.

"Whoa there hoss," he warned the Vulcan.

"Frank?" the slim Vulcan asked. McCoy blinked as recognition overcame him. "Chief Frank McCoy?"

"Tara?" he asked in return. Frank looked at Gupta's ears, but in spite of those it was indeed McCoy's old friend Tarang Gupta. McCoy was a little taken aback when Gupta crossed the room and embraced him. Frank hesitantly returned the gesture. He looked at Gupta's very pointed ears. "Are those for real?" he asked.

Taskforce 17, UES Agincourt, the outermost planet of Eridani Indi, Feb 2158

"You heard the distress call and yet you sat back and waited," Zimmermann told Commodore Jocelyn Stiles. She was standing behind a chair in one of Agincourt's conference rooms. He sat back and waited for her to answer.

"You really trust the pointies after all that has happened?" she asked in reply.

"Not really," Zimmermann answered. "But they helped us out here. I'll keep an open mind. Nefiir's captain will be over here in a few minutes." He stared at Stiles and her first officer. He wondered if Jean Baptiste Jospin was still indulging. He hadn't smelled the man's breath, and he looked alright. Zimmermann had been surprised that the navy had even kept the commander, despite the need for trained officers.

"The Vulcans are rattling their swords Commodore Zimmermann," Stiles said. "You've gotten the war warning bulletin; I'm sure."

"One of many warnings commodore," he retorted. "The fact is that no one knows what goes on at ShirKahr City. This V'Las seems to issue a statement every time he changes his socks." He was about to argue further when Commander Tristan Conway entered the room leading two Vulcans dressed in the somber colors of the High Command.

Zimmermann rose from his chair. "Sub Commander Z'Tel and this is Major Lasuda," Conway said indicating a short well built Vulcan. His uniform was a light ruddy brown that Leonard knew represented the Vulcan ground force component of the High Command.

"Sub commander," Zimmermann said in greeting. He bowed his head slightly. He looked at his first officer. "I'd like to have you here but…"

"I'll see to the repairs commodore," Conway answered. He winked at Zimmermann. "Let me know how the conference comes out sir." Leonard knew that his first officer would rather be on the bridge than here chairing a meeting. The hatched rolled shut after Conway's exit.

"Commodore we are grateful for your help," Z'Tel declared in what, to Zimmermann's surprise sounded like an Australian accent. The Vulcan must have saw Zimmermann's surprise mirrored on his brow. "I studied in Brisbane over thirty of years ago sir."

"I see," Zimmermann answered. He had expected the oddly non-accented English that all Vulcans he had ever heard used. "I suppose your friend here studied at New Delhi?"

"The major speaks only marginal English," Z'Tel answered. "He was acting third officer of Druzm'za. But I brought him here for another reason." The Vulcan looked around the room before continuing.

"First I would offer my apologies: Although it was not my decision many of us believe that the minister's policy toward earth is wrong. We treated with your people and then betrayed your trust; that was wrong."

"You have taken awhile to have a change of heart," Jospin spoke up. He was sitting comfortably. Zimmermann had allowed him to smoke. The commander blew a puff of smoke toward Z'Tel causing the sub commander's face to wrinkle as the Vulcan smelled the cigarette.

"Do sit down," Zimmermann said invitingly. He stood up and opened up the conference room's small storage cabinet. "Do you wish water?" he asked his guests.

"Something stronger, as you humans say, might be in order commodore," Z'Tel said. Zimmermann was surprised.

He poured everyone in the room a small glass of something called Saurian brandy. The free traders had started acquiring the beverage from the outer edges of explored space. The few bottles that had found their way into the fleet had become prized. This was Leonard's first time sampling the liquor. He had been saving it for a special occasion. Something told him that this was that event.

Z'Tel and Lasuda thanked him for their drinks. They took seats as did Zimmerman. "I must explain that logic failed us commodore," Z'Tel said without ceremony. "We saw the decisions of our government but we in the military reasoned that they were made for logical reasons."

"Betrayal is always logical," Jospin spat out.

"I'll leave that go for the nonce," Zimmermann said. He turned back to the Vulcan: "Something changed?" The drink danced through his mouth. Zimmermann thought that the brandy's reputation was well deserved.

"The bombing of the T'Karath Sanctuary," Z'Tel replied. Zimmermann was surprised when the Vulcan tossed back his entire drink. Z'Tel remained expressionless. It was as if he was relating news about a piece of broken machinery. Z'Tel poured another brandy.

"Captain Zembatta made the decision to fire on our own ships that day," Z'Tel explained. "We found ourselves killing Vulcans to prevent other Vulcans from being killed—it was madness; like a thing from the ancient days."

"I suppose that it is a fortunate thing that your people chose to just stab us in the back then," Jospin interjected; "far less painful than orbital bombardment." The Frenchman blew out a cloud of noxious smoke.

"That will be enough Jean," Zimmermann admonished. He wondered why Stiles did not restrain her first officer. It occurred to him then that Stiles might just harbor those same feelings.

The brandy glass shattered in the Vulcan's hand. "We are here now," Z'Tel said as he calmly mopped up his green blood with his sleeve. "I cannot apologize for the actions of Minister V'Las. They were not logical; but we did not see that then." The Vulcan looked at him. "I believe that I need another glass Commodore Zimmermann." Zimmermann got another glass after inquiring as to rather the Vulcan would need a physician. He refilled Z'Tel's glass after the Vulcan told him that he would be fine.

"Are you offering us an alliance?" he asked directly.

"I cannot do that," Z'Tel answered after a long pause. It occurred to Leonard that this was as emotional as he had ever seen a Vulcan get.

"Syrranites I take it?" Stiles asked. So far she had seemed to be satisfied to be an observer only.

"There are some among us who are that," Z'Tel answered. "But we are not dominated by that movement. We are military officers who have decided that it is time to effect a change in our government. There needs to be no more killing."

"You want our help," Stiles said before Zimmermann could speak. She was right and he knew it.

"We have a common foe," Z'Tel answered. "Your people say: The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"Helping you would be a hard sell with my people," Zimmermann said at last. "I don't recall any of your ships around earth when the Romulans attacked in force."

"You have already helped us," Z'Tel said. He turned to the major and started a conversation in their common tongue.

The humans listened as Z'Tel related the major's tale about a Stellar Navy agent and a thwarted invasion of Vulcan. Zimmermann would have called the story a lie if were told by someone from another race, but he doubted that a Vulcan could come up with something so fantastical.

"Did you see these Romulans?" Stiles asked impetuously. She had only just beat Zimmermann to the question.

"Only some Orions and others whom I believe were surgically altered to pass as Vulcans," M'Viar stated slowly in unaccented English.

"It seems to me that V'Las has been actively aiding these Romulans," Zimmermann said. He shot a look at Stiles who he guessed wanted to go on the attack here. How else could landing clearances have been obtained without the help of someone high up in their government? Zimmermann recalled trying to get Vulcan clearance for a ship's boat; that had been hard enough. That had been during the peaceful times prior to the war.

Z'Tel, as far as Leonard was concerned, actually looked embarrassed. "That may be." The Vulcan looked at Stiles and Jospin. "I understand your hostility. We were warned to stay clear of certain systems: This one being among their number. It was not until news of your attack that we began to become curious about why the ministry saw fit to prohibit routine patrols."

"Who is we?" Zimmermann asked.

"Fourteen Vulcan cruisers that are not under Syrranite control," Z'Tel stated: "five Sh'Raan class warships and nine Surak class vessels. We were, like our Syrranite companions, content to hide in uninhabited systems; until rumors of Commodore Stiles raid clearly showed a Romulan presence in our space."

They all turned to Major M'Viar who spoke in precise clipped tones. He obviously was quite adamant about what he wanted to say despite his calm Vulcan delivery. Zimmermann waited while the two aliens conferred in their language while wishing that he had included Lieutenant Haex in the meeting: The Tellarite had served some time on Vulcan and was quite fluent in their language.

"My apologies," Z'Tel declared in English. "There is…a troubling development. The ministry sent out a dispatch to the loyalist forces of the High Command. Our communications' officer only just managed to decipher the text: Minister V'Las has declared two provinces lost to what he is calling the Syrranite insurrection. He plans on making an announcement ordering the civilians back to work and compelling them to produce Syrran. If they do not comply he is going to use poison gas against the civilians in those provinces."

"That seems unthinkable for a Vulcan," Zimmermann said quietly. "Surely someone in your government opposes that?"

"Minister Soval was the most outspoken critic of V'Las," Z'Tel answered; "now he is a fugitive. Those that the minister has surrounded himself with," the Vulcan paused. Zimmermann was surprised to see that he was struggling for words.

"Yes men," Jospin supplied. He drained his glass and poured another shot of the brandy. Zimmermann could see the Vulcans' displeasure when the captain retrieved another cigarette and lit it.

"That term seems…logical," Z'Tel said at last.

"So what are you asking for?" Stiles asked.

"Captain Zembatta had committed to joining our forces together and going home to…"

"Start a military coup?" he asked.

"Once our people are safe we would return control to the rightful civilian authorities," Z'Tel said.

"So you had fourteen ships," Stiles said; "Nefiir isn't going anywhere. That makes thirteen by my reckoning."

"Three Sh'Raan's defected after the minister's announcement," Z'Tel answered. "I calculate our chances at one in ninety eight."

Zimmerman nodded; now he knew. "How would the addition of two Star Fleet taskforces help the odds?"

"The odds improve," Z'Tel started. Zimmermann could see that he was calculating them as he spoke.

Leonard held up his hand. "Don't tell me the odds." He looked at Stiles. "Without the sublight repeater network it would take a message at least two weeks to get to Star Fleet Command."

"If it gets there at all, commodore," Stiles retorted.

Zimmermann drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Agincourt's crest was emblazoned proudly under a thin pane of crystalline plastic composite. "What are you facing if your forces return to Vulcan?" he asked Z'Tel.

"Thirty-four known loyalist vessels," the Vulcan answered calmly; "twenty-one Sh'Raan's; the remainder Suraks. There are also some tender vessels and system patrol craft but they are no threat."

"And the Vulcan system defense platforms," Stiles added. "Sounds to me like a quick way to die."

"Captain Zembatta obtained the codes for our defense network," Z'Tel answered. "It was his hope that we would delay the loyalist while your ships make for our world." Z'Tel looked at M'Viar. "The major tells me that there are enough in our ground forces to overthrow the government; with some assistance."

Zimmermann looked at Stiles. Sometimes he thought that command consisted of a dreadfully perverted form of musical chairs: In this variation a four hundred kilogram gorilla circled around a group of sitting captains. When the music stopped the gorilla sat down on an unfortunate commander. Today that gorilla was sitting squarely upon Zimmermann's lap.

"If we do this," he started. Zimmermann sighed. He would come across as a Yankee trader of old.

"We will not supply you with our technology," Z'Tel interrupted. "The ministry of science is administered much like a sacred trust. It is our firmest belief that supplying a civilization with advanced technology is ultimately destructive. Even the first minister is prohibited from information concerning weapons and our warp drive capability."

"I cannot promise you anything commodore. But I believe that a Syrranite government would replace the present one. It is my estimate that at the very least our stance would change from adversarial to a neutral one. Of course weapon designs are out of the question. But consider the time necessary to retool your ship yards even if we did provide those." Z'Tel paused. "But sensor upgrades as well as access to Vulcan ports for repairs would not be viewed as supplying you with advanced technology."

"But you cannot guarantee that?" Stiles asked. Zimmermann took the time to contemplate what Z'Tel had told him.

"I cannot Commodore Stiles," Z'Tel answered. "I ask you to do this based on the trust and companionship that has happened between our races. I beg you to disregard the action of a callous and illogical few."

"We would be slaughtered for an uncertain outcome," Stiles said. "You know that anything that would kill birdies is something I'd support. But this seems like suicide."

Zimmermann looked at Agincourt's crest again. The seal of Henry V of England overlaid by the Stellar Navy's white oak leaves and representation of the earth. "They were outnumbered there," he murmured, referring to the ancient battle. "I'm going." He turned to Stiles. "You can file a complaint with Star Fleet; if I live then I'll have that to look forward to."

"Me and you together Commodore Zimmermann," Stiles answered.

They group planned what would come next. They would be in the Vulcan system is a little less than two weeks. Z'Tel said that V'Las intended to execute his threat not long after that. Zimmermann agreed to take on some of the Vulcan survivors from Nefiir as advisers. Stiles declined that same offer. Zimmermann stood and bid everyone ado. The room cleared finally, save for himself and Jospin.

"You've done well Len," the Frenchman declared. He hoisted his glass to empty it. Zimmermann seized his arm gently but firmly, stopping him from drinking.

"And you are still here," Zimmermann answered. "I'm surprised the navy kept you."

"My help was needed," Jospin answered, shaking off Leonard's restraining hand. Some of the brandy spilled in the process. "And anyway, it is not what everyone else does anyway. I am not the only drinker in the Stellar Navy, Leonard."

"No you are not," Zimmermann replied. "The trouble is you just don't know when to quit. The reactor accident aboard Pioneer; how many died that day?"

"If someone else had been watch officer that day Len, would they be sitting here?" the captain asked in reply. "I performed all the necessary checklist items. I ordered the engineering crews out. Yes; I had a drink that day in the mess. But I did everything right!"

Zimmermann squeezed his old friend's shoulder. He had known Jospin for almost twenty years; most of his naval career. "Do everything right with Stiles and her people Jean. Too much is riding on what happens out here." Zimmermann turned and left his old friend. He knew that he should sleep. There would be little of that in the days to come he surmised.

The town of Wexford, Leinster Province, Ireland, earth, Feb 2158

Commander Bill Walters walked next to his friend Chief Edmund O'Brien. Walters had visited his parents briefly but had felt too crowded in his old home. He had decided to take the chief up on his invitation to visit O'Brien's home. The two were bundled up against the cold damp February weather. Walters looked at the stones in the ancient street. Bill's nation of America was almost four hundred years old. Yet parts of this street had been laid down hundreds of years prior to the formation of his country.

Òrla O'Brien had opened her home for Walters. Walters had felt somewhat awkward at first but Ed's wife had gone to great lengths to make him feel at home; including making sure that Walters did his share of chores for the O'Brien household. His last household detail had been to help the chief make repairs to a battered old storage cupboard. He and O'Brien had completed the task save for staining the old wood. Ed had excused them to go to the local hardware store to buy some stain.

"Isn't that it, chief?" he said, pointing to an ancient looking storefront.

"We'll stop on the way back," O'Brien answered. "And for the thousandth time call me Ed. We aren't aboard ship ya know."

"Old habits and all, sorry," Walters answered. A sheepish grin was pasted on his lips. He saw the pub off in the distance. "Won't Òrla be able to smell that on your breath?"

O'Brien chuckled. "She knew where we were going this morning. She has the stain underneath the sink. She knew I'd need a reason to get out."

Walters smiled. "I figured after so long in space that you would want to spend all of your time together."

"We did," O'Brien answered. "Òrla got a sitter for Delores and Colm was anxious to go off with his cousins. We spent a weekend by ourselves. But we discovered early on that we were smothering each other when I got back. You'll find out."

"I don't know," Walters answered. He felt more comfortable spilling his personal life with O'Brien than he did his parents. "I figured Sharon for her own ship. But the last subspace letter I got…"

"Did you really think Guido wants to command a starship?" his friend asked.

"Why sure," Walters answered. "I mean she went to the academy. What else would she want?" He caught O'Brien's eye. "Why; what do you know?"

"Sometimes people tell their secrets to the most unlikely of people." O'Brien held the door open for Walters. Bill took a look back as the last shafts of the winter sunlight illuminated the cobble stoned street. Inside the darkened room was dominated by a burning fireplace. The smell of tobacco with an undercurrent of sourness wafted up Bill's nostrils.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Kieran!" the chief shouted in greeting to an aged, heavyset bartender. "How are ya?" he asked. He reached across the bar and sized Kieran's shoulder.

"Every day above ground is a good one Ed," the bartender answered. "You've been gone so long this time I figured you left Òrla for one of those blue-skinned trollops; moved out to one of those other planets."

"She'd track me down and skin me Kieran," O'Brien answered. He hitched a thumb at Walters. "This here is my chum, Bill Walters. He's a navy man too." Walters watched as O'Brien winked at the bartender. "How about a pint their commander?" he asked Walters.

"That sounds good to me," Bill agreed. "Now about Shar—Guido; what do you know?"

O'Brien shot him a mischievous grin. "Pour two whiskies along with those pints Kieran." O'Brien looked like he had decided to ignore Walters while he and the bartender fell to discussing the small doings of the city. The beverages were soon before them.

"That Colm of yours is hell on the field," Kieran said. Walters had to agree: At sixteen Chief O'Brien's son could easily knock Bill on his ass. "Not like you Ed. I remember you couldn't put two before each other. It's a wonder the navy even let you in." Kieran snorted and headed off to tend to another customer.

"Now what did Sharon tell you?" he asked again.

"First things first," O'Brien countered. He lifted the shot of whiskey and nodded for Bill to do the same. "The old ways are the best ways, the things we remember most. They will be gone but never forgotten." The two men's' glasses clinked together.

Bill swallowed the delicious drink. "I didn't think you had something like that in you chief."

"Something my granddad used to say," Ed answered in a quiet voice. Some singers had taken up position on a low stage at the end of the pub. The lead singer, a dark haired woman started wailing away in a soft melodious voice.

"So you think that your woman wants to be a captain, command a great ship and go out exploring?" O'Brien asked. "I think that she sees those things in you and is telling you what you want to hear."

"What I want…"

"Figure it this way," O'Brien explained. "What if she told you that she was done with the navy when the war ends; that she wanted to settle down, marry a moon shuttle pilot and manage a parcel of kids?"

Walters thought about it, first from her point of view. She was a good officer. Wasn't it reasonable to expect that she wanted a command? But what if what Ed was saying was true? When it came down to it Bill knew that the last thing he wanted was to return to an earthbound life. Somehow the experiences of the last few years had changed Walters: He was no longer a young man looking for something he did know what. He had found it.

"Something she said to me," O'Brien explained further; "one of those get-togethers on Terra Nova. Things change. This war has changed us all. I think for some it'll leave a bad taste in their mouths when it comes to exploration. I think Guido realized how much family counts for in life."

Could Walters live that life? When he thought about it, it was not his family. Bill loved them; he just didn't want to live their life. Brooklyn wouldn't be much different for Bill than Kansas. He looked at Ed. Could he live that life; come home once or twice a year for a month or two, rekindle his love with Sharon and then leave? He didn't even see how Ed and Òrla managed it. Could he ever be satisfied flying a shuttle run while he watched the starships departing for new places?

Walters looked at his beer. O'Brien called to Kieran and ordered another round of whiskies. "Life is tough, Bill. You two will have to decide one way or another." As if he had read Bill's mind O'Brien continued: "What me and Òrla have is not bad." He smiled and laughed; "get to fall in love all over again every time."

"Uh oh," O'Brien murmured. He looked over his shoulder back at the door; "looks like my honeymoon may be over; yours too." Walters followed his gaze. Captain Jonathan Archer had walked into the pub. Dressed in civilian clothes, Walters had no doubt that Archer was there on official business.

The captain made quick eye contact with Bill and O'Brien then walked over to the bar. "I stopped by and spoke to Mrs. O'Brien chief. She told me that you would be here." Bill caught the roll of O'Brien's eyes.

"I wish we could use Òrla as sensors," he answered.

"Good work with that chief," Archer said; "you too Bill; good to see you again."

"You too sir," Walters answered. Bill supposed that their leave would have ended sooner or later anyway. O'Brien had come up with a workable solution for the Romulan sensor jamming. It would be a few months before all of Star Fleet's ships could be modified; but the important thing was that they would. Walters hoped it would stem the tide.

Something occurred to Bill: "Say, Ed, you never mentioned that you knew Captain Archer."

O'Brien looked guiltily from Walters back to Archer. The captain nodded at the Irishman. "Major Archer interviewed me for a special project that he was working on."

O'Brien left it at that. The chief's reference to Archer's pre-Star Fleet rank and his attitude led Bill to understand that whatever the chief and Archer had discussed: It was hush hush. Bill just nodded and smiled. He waited for the captain to explain further.

"You gentleman have accomplished a miracle with the sensors," Archer began; "now we need you to accomplish another miracle." The captain looked around the pub's interior. Discussing top secret military matters didn't seem to be a problem as the crowd did not notice the three for the most part. The exception was when one of O'Brien's old classmates recognized him.

Walters listened as archer discussed his proposal. O'Brien spoke up first. "I have a few friends at the Utopia docks. I'm familiar with what you are talking about captain. Trials could begin in four months: Frankly; I think that the dock crews have begun draggin' their feet; six months is time and then some."

"I was thinking more like seventy two hours," Archer said. The chief was looking at the captain as if he had just told him to disassemble this pub a brick at a time, move it to America, and then reassemble it just as it had been.

"That section of the shipyard was hit in the Romulan attack," Walters interjected. "The prototype was damaged. I heard the whole project was pushed back until next year."

"One of the vehicles scheduled for launch right after the first of the line was in use," Archer explained. "It was decided to use that ship as a test bed for new systems. That ship was out beyond Saturn during the Romulan attack."

"So she's mostly intact?" O'Brien asked.

Archer nodded. "The typhoon B2 warp nacelles were only just powered on; up until last Tuesday the ship was using its fusion reactor and impulse drive only. The hull is also reinforced by a single solid force field; that helps support the cruiser's mass."

O'Brien whistled. Walters was surprised by the chief's answer: "I'll get it out there for ya captain. Who is the chief engineer?"

Archer looked hard at O'Brien. "Take a look in the mirror next time you hit the head."

"Wait a bloody minute," O'Brien protested; "I'm not going to be a bloody officer."

"Not even temporarily?" Archer asked. "Not for anyone?" the captain asked.

"Hell no!" the chief exclaimed. "Have to fill out all those bloody papers and reports; Jesus Christ it'd take all goddamned day just to write out the requisitions. That would leave me no time to make the bloody ship go."

"You are still in charge of engineering chief," Archer declared. "If you don't want to be an officer fine: I'll call you major domo of engineering or whatever but you are still running the show, chief. Your reputation precedes you."

Walters would be glad to help O'Brien. Despite a few correspondence courses and some tutelage from O'Brien he still had a long way to go before he would be a full fledged engineer. That was what he expected his role would be; assistant and gofer. He discovered that was not to be.

"And you commander," Archer told him; "will be assigned as first officer. You did a good job with that on Deep Space One. I'll need that sort of ability to get this ship there."

"Where is there, sir?" the chief beat Walters to the question.

"I really can't say," Archer explained. "Be ready to leave as soon as you can."

Walters was looking forward to getting back into space. His nightmares had eased somewhat. He had a sense of boredom at the moment; or more like a sense of missing something. O'Brien's questions about his personal life came back to him. Thinking about that made his head, already feeling a little woozy from the whiskey, reel a bit more. He felt light, as he had not since his return to earth. He had no idea what the future would bring, but he would be out there being a part of it.


	31. Chapter 31

The third planet of the Beta Hydri system, earth year, Feb 2158

The third planet of the Beta Hydri system, earth year, Feb 2158

"What is the hold up?" Chang asked Augustus Kirk.

Kirk's fingers were beyond numb. The clamp that had secured the crawler's flexible fuel line had been designed for appendages far smaller than those of Kirk's. He twisted; thinking that he had it secured. He exhaled a blast of steamy breath as he stood up from the engine compartment.

"Okay try the fuel pump again," he shouted at one of Kaluch's guards.

He was satisfied that no fuel was shooting out of his repair work. He twirled his finger indicating that the Klingon should start the engine. He realized that the alien probably had no idea what that gesture meant. He yelled to Chang for M'Vecq to start the tractor's motor. Kirk stepped back as the vehicle uttered an uncomfortable lugging sound. He was beginning to lose heart when fumes belched forth from the tractor's dubious excuse for an exhaust system.

"It was fortunate that you got it started Kirk," Chang said. "An old one like you should not be out in this cold."

Clearly meant as a barb, Kirk laughed. He clapped the Klingon youth on his shoulder. "Not really; I was just wishing that I had brought my skis." Augustus had ascertained that Klingons did not seem to like the cold. Chang had become buried in his fur cloak. Kirk had felt the weather penetrate to his very bones but since they had acclimated somewhat he was recovering.

"How much further to this mine?" he turned and asked Kaluch. The human looking Klingon was standing near a snow bank studying a chart.

"Approximately fifty kalicams," Kaluch answered. Kirk did some mental gymnastics. The Klingons tended to treat everything like a military secret unless, as any good politician knew, their egos were stroked: Information fairly bubbled out of them then. Kirk had pressed one of Molar's Revenge crewmen to tell him about the Klingon system of weights and measures. The Klingon had remained tightlipped until Kirk speculated that it had something to do with the great Kahless: He had gotten more information than he cared for. Augustus came up with about forty kilometers or so.

"At least we won't have to walk," Kirk said softly.

"Yes, it is fortunate that you got the vehicle running," Kaluch, who must have heard Kirk, replied. "That bartender Zan obviously knew that this tractor was in disrepair. We should kill him before we leave."

"We did that on earth," Kirk answered. "They were called used car salesmen; killed every last one of them. We just haven't had the same luck with lawyers."

Kaluch laughed uproariously. "You humans," he started, "so timid seeming at times; then at others just as lustful of adventure and conquest as we Klingons. I know somewhat of your history, Kirk." He followed Kaluch as they boarded the tractor.

"Your Colonel Green was most dishonorable," the Klingon continued. "Yet human warriors from your western nations fought gloriously to defeat the tyrant. But then they turned rule over to civilians; that is why we find you puzzling."

"You wanted our DNA though," Kirk retorted.

"Those things that we saw as the best within you," Kaluch answered. "We sought to become better warriors."

"We already are their betters, Kaluch," Chang declared. "You were a fool to indulge in some fruitless attempt at improvement. Your house always was weak."

"We kept our honor," Kaluch answered. Kirk was surprised that the two Klingons had not come to blows. Kaluch struck Augustus as being in a downright pensive mood; for a Klingon. "More than I can say for Ma'aQ. He has turned the High Council into a place where honor is traded away for favor."

"You are the ones who indulged in this genetic augmentation," Chang said. "You are the ones who caused this."

"Fully a third of Klingons are affected, Chang," Kaluch retorted. "It is strange that it is my house and Duras'. We left Qo'noS to seek greater opportunity—and because we were pushed away by the policies of the council. We achieved greatness. Now that our houses have grown we are a force to be reckoned with in the council, we find ourselves suddenly stricken with this disease."

Snow had started to fall along with the coming of night. An unnaturally large moon cast a bright silver sheen across the frozen landscape. To Kirk it could be an Iowa night except for the large moon that dominated the sky. He wondered what sort of snow drift had piled up in a cube shape. Kirk tapped Chang on the arm. There was a flash from the drift.

"Turn quick--," Chang blurted out.

The blast knocked the wind out of Kirk. The crawler turned sickly in one direction. Augustus intuitively understood that one of the treads was damaged. Kaluch was the first out. A blindingly bright blue laser beam seared the cold landscape. Kirk saw sparks erupt where the laser had hit. He leapt out of the crawler and jumped into a soft pile of snow by the road. He realized that he would be sore tomorrow; if he lived. He cocked the lever of his rifle.

Kirk sighted down the barrel at a form scampering towards them in the darkness. He coughed as he breathed in the acrid smell of burnt metal and plastic. The night lit up in a freakish display of blinding light. The figure continued toward them. Kirk fired: The figure stopped, seemed to pause and then fell forward. There was a confusion of alien voices: The guttural shouts of Klingons and the faraway cries of the unknowns. The unknowns outnumbered Kirk and the Klingons. Chang yelled for him to fall back across the road.

Kirk got up and scrambled as fast as his age allowed. Their crawler was a smoking ruin now teetering on the edge of a large boulder. Laser fire burned across the tractor's passenger compartment forcing Kirk to pull himself into the vehicle's open door. The crawler was the only screen between the attackers and Kirk and his Klingon allies. The marauders moved forward. Kirk did not know the military term but he understood that they were in the process of being outflanked by these strangers. Kirk cocked his rifle and fired again. The humanoid outline clutched at its arm. Several attackers started across the road.

Kirk engaged the tractor's remaining tread and gunned the engine. He held on to his seat in vain. The crawler moved further up onto the boulder until it slowly rolled over. Kirk slid to the far wall. The vehicle stopped: Kirk had rolled it onto several of the attackers. He kicked at the crawler's windscreen hoping that its alien designers had created that with escape in mind. The glass kicked out. Cold air flooded in. Kirk gasped, but not from the blast of cold air. One of the unknowns, pinned beneath the tractor seemed to bend away, extracting an unnaturally thin arm out from under the odious weight of the crawler. Kirk watched in the crawlers one remaining headlight as the green skinned alien's arm returned to humanoid form.

"That is enough of that," a voice declared in English. Kirk stared at the bell shaped end of a laser rifle.

"I see your point," he answered as he pushed the Marlin aside.

"Augy you really should be more careful," another voice declared. There was an exchange between the rifle holder and another voice in a language that Kirk was unfamiliar with. He rolled away from the gunman and looked up to see Adrik Soong's face. Kirk noted the quick motion of Soong's eyes: Something was up he thought. "They know that you have the rest of the genetic code."

"I don't know what you--,"

"You had better not be lying to me Soong." This was the gun toting figure that revealed itself as a green skinned alien: The same one that Kirk had seen pulling its arm from beneath the crawler. Kirk recalled an informative chat that he had held with Smiley about Orions. The Vulcan hadn't informed him about any ability like the one he had seen. Augustus could, however, see Smiley telling him that Kirk had not asked about that.

Kirk rolled out of the tractor and stood up with some effort. "Who is your friend?" he asked Soong. Kirk soon forgot about Soong's new found ally when a parka covered woman joined the billionaire. She pulled her hood back to reveal a mane of jet black hair and a very green face.

"I am Ciada," the green skinned male informed Kirk, "but that is not important. What is important is the doctor's delivery of the rest of the genetic code."

"Doctor?" he asked. Kirk's voice dripped with doubt as he eyed Soong; "doctor of what; being annoying?"

"I'll have you know that I hold advanced degrees in robotics and computer science," Soong retorted. It was the first time Kirk had seen anger from Soong. "Ciada wants the rest of what I promised him. I'm sorry to involve you in this Kirk; but you knew when I gave you the rest of the code what was up."

"I don't have any code," Kirk responded.

Ciada looked at him and then at Soong. "One of you is lying. I don't like liars. The Orion syndicate has a way of dealing with liars."

"Let's not be hasty with our new friend, Ciada," the woman crooned in English. She stroked Kirk's face along the line of his chin. "Everything need not be about slow roasting a person's tongue while it is still in their mouth." She looked into Kirk's eyes. He felt stirrings that he had not felt in a long time; even with Debra. He gulped. His mouth had become quite dry. He guessed that this was Miasa.

"Of course I want to help," he answered slowly. He had recovered his wits somewhat. He had no code that he knew of but he guessed that Soong was up to something. "Let's negotiate something here, but not in this cold. You are bad guys; surely you have an underground lair to take me to?"

"Be careful you old fart!" Soong hissed.

"We can conclude our business out here," Ciada declared. Kirk watched as the Orion slung his laser rifle. He motioned to one of his followers who handed Ciada a device that reminded Kirk of a chemical sprayer that he used on the farm. The Orion depressed the trigger of the sprayer producing a flame. Ciada dialed some adjustments into the flame thrower making the flame very small and direct.

"The information is at Zan's bar," Kirk declared; transfixed by the torch like flame. "I hid it there after the fight."

The Orions conferred in their language. Kirk hoped that Zan was not in with them. Ciada looked at him and Soong. "You shall go back to the mine with us. Your Klingon friends are gone. I shall send a party to Zan's when the weather clears. Remember what I told you about lying, Kirk." Ciada pressed a stud sending out two jets of hot flame. Augustus gulped. He was feeling quite warm and it was not from Miasa's presence.

Catoctin Mountain Retreat, the state of Maryland, the old United States, earth, Feb 2158

Mark Hawkins climbed out of the warm bed. He walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. "A lot less of you old boy," he said to the naked reflection.

Hawkins had always struggled with his weight. He was winning that struggle after a lifetime of defeat; ever since a few months ago; ever since he had met Dominique Catères. Mark wetted his finger from a spigot and absently ran the digit over his teeth. He sensed the door open behind him.

"Trouble sleeping?" Catères asked. She was half a head shorter than Hawkins. He looked at her tousled mop of long, curly black hair. She wore a short sleeveless button top and nothing else. It was open to her midriff revealing to Hawkins the swell of her breasts. She positioned herself directly before him.

"Nerves," he confessed. He sighed. "That warmonger Thorpe; he always covers his ass. I just don't have the confidence that this will work."

President Glenn was dead. Sheibani had committed suicide. Loch and Perrin were no where to be seen. Leclerc had been recalled by the European Hegemony voters. There were still the legions of antiwar supporters. Loch and Glenn in their discussions had often called them useful idiots, while they seemed to dismiss Hawkins who was in the same room listening. Here he was though; they were gone and Hawkins was now the figurehead for the Sons' of Terra. He was scared to death. Not since his youth and a terrifying scare during a camping trip had he been so afraid.

Her hands reached up to stroke his face. "Let me restore your confidence," Dominique told him. Her hands settled on the sides of his head. She seemed to be speaking to him but her lips were not moving. He must be mistaken. She leaned in and kissed his mouth.

Resolve filled him. Confidence flowed into him. Hawkins saw himself not as a child scared by a boyhood prank but as the man who was standing alone in the light. He understood the complicated issues that his fellow men could not. He alone was anointed to lead his people. The simple minded solutions of Thorpe and his cronies were to be dismissed. He could see that the Romulans were the victims here: Man's wayward expansion into space had come home in a bitter reprisal.

It was time for a leader to take care of the men and woman on this planet: Those that were helpless and could not do for themselves. Hawkins knew that such people were his charges. He had almost counted himself in their number: Until he had found his destiny in politics. He should be world president; not that Canadian hayseed Thorpe.

The stirring moved to another part of his body. He opened her top and slid it off of her. Dominique laughed and pushed his hands away, but she did not cover herself. "There will be time Mark." She led him into the suite's work area.

"Have you considered your speech?" she asked him as she led him to the sofa.

"Raj Modi is President Pro Tempore," he answered. "She is almost as bad as Thorpe; in league with him anyway."

"Still; is it not time to make your move?" she asked him. She was standing behind him massaging his shoulders.

The plan was uncertain. The World Government had not been created with star travel in mind. Thorpe had come on the vidcaster to tell everyone that he was going to Vulcan on a diplomatic mission. Citing historical figures like Nixon, Sadat and Thompson, Thorpe had explained the importance of breaking the wall of silence that had gone up between the once friendly worlds. The journey would last for weeks.

The senior councilor, regardless of party affiliation assumed the role of president during the actual president's absence. This effectively reduced that councilor's voting block. Hawkins was counting on that; or had it been Dominique's idea? His mind grew fuzzy on that. Regardless it allowed for an unprecedented option: A no-confidence vote for the President Pro Tempore. Hawkins had sat down and read the law with an antiwar lawyer. The attorney had figured that there just might be latitude to commit that sort of an action. That would hand power over to Hawkins; at least until Thorpe's return. Dominique had assured Hawkins that was more than enough time.

"He leaves for Vulcan soon enough." Hawkins laughed. The confidence that he had been feeling these past few pasts had indeed returned. "Hell; maybe the pointies will shoot him out of space." He laughed again. "Wouldn't it be a hoot if the birdies actually answered me when I'm sittin' in Frisco?"

"Who knows," Dominique answered. Her hands moved lower. He felt their supple strength through his chest. He wondered how strong she was physically. "But the important thing is that you can shut down the shipyard. What a gesture that will be."

"Sure it will," he said. He guided her hands lower. She was stooped over his back. He could feel her breath on his neck. He suddenly stopped. "You really think I'm a target?" She straightened up.

"One of our colleagues was murdered in Georgia," Dominique answered. "Then there was the death of that turncoat's father—MacAvoy."

"McCoy," he corrected. He stood up and faced her. He reached across the chair and threw her short night shirt back over her shoulders. He led her back to the suite's bedroom. "I assumed that some of your…that someone in the Sons'."

"Killed McCoy?" she asked bluntly. "I don't believe that the Sons' had anything to do with that." She smiled at him. "You must move quickly after Thorpe leaves; before Stiles' call for another election is heeded." Hawkins was surprised at her change of tack.

He should not have been: He knew that she was politically savvy; more so than he, Mark knew. "You think that black witch has a chance?" he asked, already knowing the answer: His mail both official and private was pretty much negative. The kindest of the critical mails suggested that he should resign; while the worst of the letters discussed where his head was in relation to his posterior.

"I believe that a real leader knows when to strike," Dominique answered. She let her top fall to the floor. "Be that leader Mark," she said as she pulled him to her.

United Earth Naval Investigative Service, London office, earth, Feb 2158

"I was glad to see him go," Lieutenant David Cavendish told Fred Watson. It was early evening in London and it was apparent to Fred that Cavendish wanted to be elsewhere. The lieutenant carried a stack of data wafers to his desk as he and Watson spoke. Don't get me wrong Agent Watson," Cavendish continued, "Reed is an able investigator. He is just a little," the lieutenant paused while he deposited the wafers onto his desk. "Scary," he concluded.

"Was that why he was picked to go to Terra Nova?" Watson asked.

Cavendish's face clouded over. Fred thought it had gone positively blank when the officer finally answered him: "That was the reason I suppose. Yes, yes, that was it."

Watson removed the packet from his pocket. The holophoto unfolded in his hands. He handed it to Cavendish who seemed to have forgotten about his American guest. "Then can you explain who is in the picture here," he said. Watson pointed at the posed assemblage of naval investigators. Watson had circled one of the faces.

"Chap looks familiar," Cavendish said after he perused the photo. He gave Watson a tired, frustrated look. "Look Agent Watson, we see a lot of investigators through here on temporary assignment. Before this war the most we ever did was to investigate a case of missing stem bolts here and there. The really exciting stuff was some officer or noncom running an illegal betting pool; that's it. Now we do security work and have to wear these." He shook the sleeve of his red jersey at Watson.

Watson looked blankly at him. "Star Fleet security," Cavendish explained. "We are being integrated," the Brit explained putting a nasty emphasis on the last word. "We'll really be bloody stealthy investigators wearing these red rugby jerseys. But we all follow orders what?"

"Is Dave giving you the gozies over the uniform?" a young lady wearing a variety of the red uniform remarked. Watson saw a girl half a head shorter than he with head full of honey blonde hair cut severely short. He guessed that she was not long out of whatever military academy that she had graduated from. A broken gold stripe adorned the sleeve of her tight fitting red uniform. The skirt revealed a great deal of leg. Watson wondered just who had designed uniforms for this Star Fleet.

He shoved the photo across his desk top toward the woman. "This chap was inquiring about--,"

"Dolph!" the woman exclaimed. She collected herself after a self conscious glance at the men. "It is Adolph Rademacher, Lieutenant Rademacher that is." Her face reddened. "We had dated a few times," she explained.

"You said that you don't date--," Cavendish started.

"Please," Watson interrupted. "There is plenty of time for personal drama. May I speak with this Rademacher; miss?"

"Ensign Cassandra Olson, sir," the officer answered. She grew sad. "No, you may not speak to Dolph. I received a communiqué from his mother in October. He passed away in some sort of skiing accident."

"Sorry to hear that," Watson had the policeman's knack for conveying sympathy. What he really was sorry about was that he would not have a live subject to interview; more work. He asked Olson to fill him in on what she knew about Rademacher.

Watson removed an archaic notepad from his trench coat and jotted notes as she spoke. He knew that handhelds were more efficient but the scribbling allowed him to listen during an interview without betraying emotion. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary here. Olson and Rademacher had dated casually and like many young couples had separated, each to go their own way. Rademacher had been excited about his trip to Wolf. He had joined the navy to explore and was rather disappointed at being assigned as a policeman. Watson stopped.

"What happened with his pay?" he asked the ensign.

"His space duty pay never came," Olson explained. "Dolph wondered why his deep space duty pay wasn't being paid out."

"Uh-huh," Watson remarked; determined to investigate further. He looked at Olson and Cavendish. "So do either of you know where Major Reed was during all of this?"

Cavendish seemed to have gotten over Olson's rejection. "It appears that Rademacher went to Wolf while Reed went…where?" the officer asked.

"They both worked out of this office," Watson countered. "Don't you have records of assignments; casework and such?"

"Not as easy as you think agent," Cavendish answered. "Rademacher was on loan from the Berlin detachment, Reed could have been assigned off-world. Then again he could just as easily have been assigned to McMurdo City investigating a pilfering supply officer. There is obviously an error in the records."

Watson followed Cavendish back to his desk. The officer sat down and began a computer search. He shook his head after a few minutes. "It shows that Reed went to Terra Nova and Rademacher was in Berlin working miscellaneous files. No wonder the poor bugger never collected space pay." Cavendish looked uncertainly at him. "I could give you cases. Maybe you can make a match up and trace Reed that way. I can't find any docs that Reed signed."

Watson was dismayed when Cavendish handed him not one, but two data wafers. Fred had been in police work long enough to know that many discs meant three or four hard days of data mining. He sighed and thanked the lieutenant and the ensign. Watson bid the two a good evening and departed. Night was settling over London. Watson emerged out into the dusk as an air taxi roared by overhead. A familiar figure stood at the bottom of steps.

"Do you still think I'm off my rocker?" Karl Ebenstark asked. The presidential aide was dressed similarly to Watson.

Fred shook his head as he descended to the sidewalk and greeted his friend. "I still think that you need to steer clear of this Willy." He fell into step with his old friend.

"There is a nice pub around the corner," Ebenstark said; "serves a great shepherd's pie."

"This is England Willy," Fred answered with a smile. "There is a great pub around nearly every corner. But I'd rather have a suicide pizza with the works. Shepherd's pie always reminds me of the stuff I feed Millie's beagle." He sighed. "Okay; hopefully they have good fish and chips."

Watson looked into the night sky. London's lights overwhelmed all but the brightest stars. He knew that for all that he had done in his life that his destiny; all humanity's destiny was being decided out on those points of light. Was this Reed issue really important in the scheme of things? The only thing that Fred had determined is that the major was a rogue of some sort. Rather he was out operating his own espionage agency or just lining his pockets or both; did it really matter? Fred hated these philosophical moods.

"Just so they are pouring something stiff," he said. He looked around cautiously. "Okay Willy; this is looking mighty suspicious. I haven't gotten anything yet but between the guarantees in the World Charter and bureaucratic nonsense this guy has covered his tracks pretty well."

"A perfect candidate for a rogue intelligence agency," Ebenstark declared.

The German led him across a busy street. Groundcars sped by the two. "I'm surprised you aren't on your way to pointie central Willy."

"The president ordered me to stay here," Ebenstark answered. "I am acting as advisor to the president pro tempore until President Thorpe gets back."

"If he gets back Karl," Fred said. He instantly regretted the comment. But many had their doubts about the trip. The Vulcans were after all alien. Would they indiscriminately kill the president?

Watson was surprised by Willy's answer. The German chuckled. "The president will change V'Las' mind. You don't know Christophur Thorpe like I do Fred. If anyone can bring an end to this impasse it'll be him."

Watson looked up one last time before they went in the pub. He hoped that Ebenstark's optimism was warranted. The sky was looking awful unfriendly tonight.

The third planet of the Beta Hydri system, earth year Feb 2158

"Tell me Soong," Augustus Kirk began, "is this Miasa…err…flexible in any special way?"

Soong leered at Kirk. "I never took you for a dirty old man Augy." The robotics expert grinned at him until he saw the consternation in Kirk's face. "Nothing that I hadn't seen a few human women do," he said quietly; "but until you've experienced an Orion woman…"

Kirk did not want to hear about Soong's sexual exploits. The two were alone in a small storage room. Augustus had a feeling that their captors were hashing out their fate. He hated this feeling of helplessness and being dependent upon the judgment of another. The room contained several tanks of the fuel that Kirk assumed was heating the complex's large greenhouse. He had seen the primitive combustion heaters on their way into the mining complex.

"I hope you hid the wafer well," Soong said. Kirk realized that Soong suspected the presence of listening devices; so did Kirk. The billionaire turned his back to Augustus. Kirk casually reached down and opened the valve on one of the tanks. He hoped that the gas was not something instantly fatal to humans.

"Sure thing," Kirk said agreeably. He had realized early on that there was no disk. He guessed that Soong had double crossed the Orions. He opened another tank of gas while Soong looked away.

"Smells sort of odd in here," Soong said as he turned around. Kirk could see desperation on the man's face.

"I'm sure it is nothing," Kirk said. He stifled down a cough as he breathed in the flammable gas. He had no idea what he was doing; only that he did not plan on dying on this snow covered world. Augustus wondered if the Klingons were still alive. Could he count on a rescue from them as Soong had counted on being saved by Kirk?

The door of their makeshift cell slid open. Kirk stepped up to the entrance. Ciada was framed against it. He motioned for them to follow him. Kirk fell in step behind the Orion while Soong followed Kirk. Two nondescript strongly built green skinned males, armed with laser rifles brought up the rear.

"Miasa has persuaded me to trust you Kirk," Ciada explained. Augustus looked at the alien's back as they walked. "But that only works to a point."

"You have excellent command of English," Kirk said. "I'm surprised that an intergalactic crime organization is interested in a little world like earth."

"The Syndicate sees opportunities in many markets," Ciada answered. "Some of your narcotics show promise. Your research into genetics is also quite interesting to us. Many alien civilizations will pay a price to enhance certain characteristics in themselves."

"I reckon so," Kirk said. "I thought that Soong had given his Klingon contacts all of the information that he had."

"Doctor Soong also promised us some additional information," Ciada answered. He stopped and faced Kirk. "That is why the Syndicate risked six starships to capture a single Vulcan cruiser. We provided the doctor with his particle; at least the information he needs to develop it. Now it is up to him to complete our bargain."

"All you have to do is to wait to the weather clears; right?" he asked the alien.

"We have a team going there now," Miasa answered from ahead. Kirk saw her beyond the frame of the door to the room where Ciada was leading them.

"So you brokered the DNA to the Klingons only you wanted more information from Soong?" Kirk asked. They were escorted to what he guessed was a security room of some sort. Rows of monitors showed various scenes from tunnels and different chambers. Kirk saw several Andorians, Tellarites, Klingons and even a few humans busy mining. All of the miners shared a beaten down look.

"That was our agreement Augustus," Miasa said. She led Kirk to a comfortable chair before one of the monitors. "It saddens me that Adrik did not fulfill his part of the bargain." She positively cooed at Kirk. "But I understand that he was frightened and distrustful of us." The mask of seduction dropped for just a second: "He has reason to be fearful of us."

"Why did you alter the Klingon's samples?" Kirk asked without ceremony.

He swiveled in the chair and watched as Miasa and Ciada exchanged looks. "We did no such thing," Ciada declared. "We bargained with the Klingons in good faith."

Kirk felt a shock go through him. He had a panicked moment as he wondered if the Orions were not starting a torture session. A blast like thunder rocked through the complex. Kirk realized that the feeling and sound were not of the Orions' doing. Dust filtered down from the ceiling after another blow rattled the room. Molar's Revenge was hammering away at the complex. Some of the Klingons must have lived Kirk realized.

"Your Klingon friends are persistent," Ciada said. The alien was looking at a monitor that showed a picture of the night sky. Kirk watched as a sinister black shape blotted out the large moon. Eruptions of light came from the wings of the jet black ship. The compound shook again. "This mine is protected by antiship missiles. Let's see how the Klingons deal with those." He pointed the flame thrower at Augustus. "Come along…Augy," he said putting a cruel emphasis on Kirk's name. "This mine is full of subterranean passages. You'll get you wish to see," Ciada paused: "How did you describe it; an underground lair?"

Kirk got up and stepped out into the corridor. Ciada indicated that he should go the way that he had come in. Kirk noticed that one of the burly Orion had his rifle tucked into the side pocket of his fluorescent green coveralls. Alien eyes were different Kirk knew, but sometimes the colors were downright outlandish to his human brain. The Marlin looked like a toy in the large alien's pocket.

They drew near to the door where the gas storage tanks were. Kirk knew that were he to break away he would probably be caught; maybe killed. What if he did get away? He had nothing to ignite the gas and if he did he guessed that he would die doing that deed.

Another blast rumbled through the passageway. Kirk could see that he was being led off to the left and then down. The lights flickered and then blackness enveloped him; for a split second. A greater rumbling sounded. Kirk looked back to see a wall of flame heading his way. He scrambled down the side tunnel as he heard the harsh, heavy but muffled sound of large stones hitting dirt. The ceiling was collapsing. The sound of stone hitting stone filled his ears. He put his arms over his head in a vain attempt to fend off any falling rocks.

One of his guards ran past him screaming, his head and much of his clothes enveloped in flame. The alien staggered to the floor and fell silent. The tunnel had gone from a clean white, electrically illuminated chamber to something lit by random fires. It looked medieval to Augustus. He cautiously lowered his arms.

Kirk pulled his rifle from the pocket of the dead, burnt Orion. He cocked the lever and was rewarded by the sound of a round going into the chamber. Kirk crept around the corner. The security room was buried beneath rubble while the exit was relatively clear. He spun quickly at some movement. Soong dragged himself up from some rubble. His face was bloodied and his arm was cocked at an unnatural angle. He was clearly, Kirk observed, in the early stages of shock. A husky Orion guard came out of the shadows, obviously bent on reestablishing control over the prisoners.

Kirk did not believe that he was a killer. He reminded himself that Ciada had threatened him with torture to obtain the information he sought. Still; when Kirk fired it was with a profound sense of remorse. He wondered if the big Orion had some sort of a family. Was there an alien mate who would wait in vain for this Orion to come through the door? The Orion twisted around, leaned to one side and then collapsed in a boneless heap.

"Augy!" the doctor yelled. Kirk spun around. Soong had recovered somewhat and was kneeling over a pile of rocks. On second glance Augustus realized that the pile was Miasa. "You have to help me get her out!" Soong cried out as he grabbed at a fallen stone. Kirk winced when he saw the bloodied nail hanging off of the man's finger. He started toward the beleaguered scientist when he heard a stirring from behind.

Kirk returned to see Ciada struggling beneath a large section of the wall. His entire chest cavity contorted. Kirk spied the flame thrower, still functional beside the buried Orion. He stooped, placed the Marlin carefully on the ground and took up the flame thrower. He briefly experimented with the controls. Ciada saw him and struggled even more.

"Now it's your turn to stop that," Kirk said. Ciada's face seemed different. Augustus thought that the alien had been struck and wounded until he looked closer. The green humanoid face was replaced by one that looked more like an orange. Ciada's skin had become mottled and yellow. The Orion's pupils were now small pinpoints. Kirk turned to see Soong and Miasa walk up. They were both bruised and bloodied. He started to point the flamer at the Orion woman, and then realized that she was no threat.

She gasped when she beheld Ciada. "You were expecting something different?" Kirk asked the Orion.

She looked sharply at him through the haze of her injuries. "Suliban," she declared. Kirk did not understand the word. He was about to ask her for further explanation when Ciada spoke up:

"My species Kirk," Ciada answered. The alien had stopped struggling despite being pinned beneath a large heavy section of wall.

"You knew?" Kirk asked the Orion woman.

"I have heard of them in legend only," Miasa answered. "It is said that the Syndicate employs them to keep its minions on their guard. I had not believed that they existed—until now."

Kirk depressed the flame thrower's trigger sending out a small jet of flame. "Now it's your turn to start talking," he told the Suliban. Kirk decided that this was a time for honesty. "There is no other disk." He looked at Soong. "Soong tricked you. But it seems like this whole thing is one big double-cross. Now how about you coming clean?"

"Kirk!" a distant voice with a harsh guttural Klingon accent called.

"It's Chang and company," he told Soong. "You two look bad. You better head off and get some help from the Klingons. Tell Chang we'll need help to dig Ciada--,"

"Silik," the former Orion interrupted. Kirk could see that the alien was wounded. Gurgling noises came from his chest as he breathed. Kirk turned his head to see Soong and Miasa limping away into the distance. He turned back to the pinned Suliban. "Okay, no more, no more bullshit. I want to know who you are working for." Kirk's mind raced. "Who are the Romulans?"

Silik grinned and chuckled weakly. "You have a keen mind." The alien coughed, ejecting a trail of dark blue mixed in some drool. Some of it landed on Kirk's fur cape. "But it is we Suliban who wanted the genetic coding from Doctor Soong. Our profession of late has caused us to need enhancements."

"But the original samples that the Klingons got--,"

"We Suliban did not introduce the retrovirus. The samples were exchanged by our employer—our real employer."

"Who; what are the Romulans?" he asked.

Silik grinned. "I'll never say," the alien mumbled. Kirk's mouth dropped open. The visage was strange. Silik was altering his face before Kirk. Augustus found himself staring into the face of a smiling Vulcan.

"Kirk!" Chang's voice was closer.

Augustus rose from where he had been kneeling beside the wounded Suliban. His knees cracked and ached; a painful reminder of his age. Silik was not going anywhere, Kirk reckoned. He stepped over some rubble. A group was outlined coming down the tunnel. Kirk could make out Soong putting a supportive arm around Miasa.

"I'm here Chang!" he called back. Kirk ducked as a section of electrical conduit and ceiling fell down around him. Sparks exploded forth from a piece of tubing. Chang, Kaluch and just one of Kaluch's personal guards emerged through the light show put on by the damaged conduit.

"Karag?" he asked.

"Killed in the ambush," Kaluch answered. "He died on his feet, fighting; as it should be, Kirk" The Klingon looked at Soong. Despite their harsh attitudes it was apparent that the Klingons had treated both Soong and the Orion woman for their wounds; at least the worst of their injuries. "We are here, Soong. Now it is time to save your pitiful life."

"They're going to kill me Miasa," Soong said to the woman. "I was an honest broker."

"Except when it came to the enhanced DNA," Kirk said. He related the Suliban's story to the Klingons.

"Okay," Soong said in a frustrated tone. "I didn't have everything I promised. But I guessed that the Orions wanted something different. They seemed more interested in DNA that would allow for rapid changes; morphogenic properties. I assumed that it was for organ transplants or cloning."

"Or other uses," Kaluch said. Kirk watched as the Klingon absently pulled at his straggling growth of beard. Augustus could almost believe that the Klingon was Pan-Asian from his own world. "I shall look upon this shape-shifter."

Kirk gestured toward the pile of debris behind him. "He's there, pinned under--,"

Except that Silik was not pinned beneath the fallen section of wall. Silik was no where to be seen. Kirk hustled over the rubble. The piece of wall was lying upon the ground. The Suliban had slipped away.

"The samples that we did not exchange with your people are in storage," Miasa said. "The Syndicate might cheat its customers but I do not believe that they would try to make an enemy of the Klingon Empire."

"You said this Silik told you that the Orions were not his main employer, Kirk," Kaluch said.

"You believe these humans?" Chang asked.

"Yes, Chang," Kaluch declared. "I have not turned a blind eye to Kirk's conduct here."

"And you?" Kirk asked the Orion. "All of a sudden you are on our side?"

"I will be." She paused in thought. "I will be punished for the failure here." The emphasis that she put on that word left little doubt in Kirk's mind that the punitive action that Miasa expected would be quite severe. "The Syndicate does not reward failure." She looked down. "I have been a slave all of my life. I do not know what I shall do."

"You can come with us," Kirk said.

"With me," Soong added. Kirk gave the doctor a look full of cynicism. He suspected that Soong was interested in one thing from Miasa.

"We must take a crawler back to the town," Kaluch said. "Let us go before the remainder of these gangsters digs their way out of the ruin."

"Wait a minute," Kirk said. "Can't the Revenge land here and pick us up?"

"I ordered the strafing, but the bartender was right," the Klingon explained. "There is mountain wave turbulence that would spin even a ship as massive as mine."

"Right," Kirk agreed. He was not looking forward to another bumpy ride. It occurred to him that this going out and saving the universe was for younger people.

Kirk fell in with the group. Miasa led them to a foul smelling storage room. There they retrieved several metal vials in a heavy duty briefcase. Kirk was appointed as the carrier. He supposed that he had earned the Klingons trust though God knew why that was. Kaluch asked him again what Silik had told him about the Orions not being behind this operation.

"Was it these Romulans?" the Klingon asked him.

"I really can't say," Kirk answered. "Silik never came and out admitted that. He just confirmed my guess."

"What do these creatures look like? Did you ask him that, Kirk?" Chang asked.

Augustus recalled Silik's last facial metamorphosis. He had been mulling it over since he had witnessed it. Had the Suliban been trying to say that the Vulcans were behind this? But he had all but come out and said that it was the Romulans. Kirk shook his head.

"He never really said," he answered at last.

Taskforces 9 and 33, the Beta Corallis system, Feb 2158

Admiral Maxwell Forrest paced around the narrow confines of his quarters. Corallis might be as effectively defended as Topaz was. If that was the case then this might turn out to be a fight for their lives. Corallis had been discovered to be a main supply and communications' base for the birdies. The allies' many surveillance drones had finally yielded some results.

Based on the old Friendship One designs the drones had been dispatched last year. Most of them had gone silent after a few months. Intelligence had all but written off the unmanned devices until four months ago. That was when Erica Soames and her team of experts had gotten information about a Romulan installation on Corallis from one of the probes. Forrest looked again at the bright holophoto.

The design was alien but the station definitely housed a communications' array. Forrest agreed with Intel's assessment that part of the station housed deuterium. He wondered how long the station had been there. How long had men gone about their affairs while the Romulans plotted? When Max looked again at the station, almost a full kilometer in diameter, he could see that it had taken them years to build. Erica's team had identified weapon emplacements beneath the station on the surface of Corallis' fourth planet.

How was Erica, Forrest asked as he examined the grainy photos of the Mars like world. Her last letter to him had been brusque, almost businesslike in its nature. He recalled the playful Erica that he had enjoyed his leave time with. That woman, it seemed to Max, had not written that letter. The author had been despondent, just aping the motions of Soames. Forrest wished that he could be on earth, to see what was wrong in her life. He looked at a holophoto that he had of her and him when the two had stomped around Erica's family home in Ipswich. A solitary chime sounded. Forrest admitted his caller.

"What's the weather like on deck, X?" he asked Commodore Xavier Valdez.

"A little chilly," the commodore replied. He chuckled. Forrest still could not get over seeing the gray in his old friend and war college classmate's curly black hair. Were they really getting old?

"I imagine that we'll see it get a lot hotter," Forrest answered.

"I was hoping that we would give the other team a sunburn," Valdez retorted; "a permanent one."

Max looked at his chronometer. "It is about time." It was close but they still had a few minutes. "I'm allowing your engineer to keep his stripes."

"Lieutenant Commander Tucker will be pleased," Valdez answered. "I was frustrated by what happened over Deneva, Max. But after awhile I decided that there really wasn't anything that Trip could have done."

"I've turned the logs over to the software people on earth," he said. Forrest smoothed the wrinkles out of his gold command jersey. Valdez wore a stylized letter V on his breast denoting Lord Admiral Nelson's ship Victory. Forrest had a distinctive crest on his jersey: The old earth United Nations oak leaves enshrining a belt of stars. Max wondered how many changes the logo would go through if Thorpe's federation ever went anywhere.

"Perhaps it wasn't even sabotage," Valdez said. "Our machines seem to go faster; we don't."

"In case you noticed how much thinner I am," Forrest started. He threw on his uniform jacket. "It is because the president chewed my ass off about this very thing. Deneva was our chance to perhaps speak to a live Romulan. Thanks to Jo-jo there isn't even a speck of Romulan left for examination."

"The fog of war Maxwell," Valdez answered. Forrest watched as Valdez turned his back to him. "I'm satisfied with the outcome there. The Romulans didn't bother showing our colonists any tender mercies. Maybe having some of their…whatever they are, incinerated will send a message."

Forrest had been picked for the supreme command position because of his background in diplomacy. He considered Xavier's statement in light of his diplomatic training. "We might settle with them X. I know that is unthinkable now; but the possibility is there."

"You have the president's ear," Valdez said. "And it seems that our president has the ears and antennae of our allies in this; just tell me that it is not all going to be for nothing Max."

"What is wrong X?" he asked as the Trafalgar's captain turned back to him.

"My son Alberto will be old enough for service next year," Valdez replied. "Maurren will be at that age a year later. I don't want to see my children die Maxwell." Valdez turned around and faced him. "This has to end--decisively. I don't want to be an executioner but if I have to go to Romulus and bomb the entire surface, I will. I don't want to leave this for some future generation to deal with."

"I can't guarantee anything X," Forrest motioned for Valdez to follow him. His exec reached out and took hold of his arm.

"Our people have earned a lasting peace out of this," Valdez told him. Max was struck by his candor. But he remembered that Xavier's home life was of great value to the man.

"I wish that I could tell you the future X," he said. "But you know that isn't possible."

"You can shape the future Max," his friend retorted. "You are in a unique position in history. You can guide how this thing will come out."

"I don't even know if we can win this war X." Forrest looked at his old friend. He looked around the room as if there might be listening devices. He knew that there were none but the things he wanted to say to his friend could not go beyond this room. He made his decision:

"We finally got a surveillance drone near Romulus. We didn't get much before the drone was destroyed; no communications except possibly the encrypted transmissions that we get from their ships when we are lucky. They seem to keep a tight lid on civil transmissions; at least in the bands that we use and our alien friends use. But we did scan their shipyard: They are rebuilding."

"Madre de dios," Valdez said softly. "We have our answer."

The question that every officer and enlisted person in the Star Fleet had been asking: What were the Romulans doing in their territory? Star Fleet had been busy shoving them out of this section of space. What had the Romulans been doing in the mean time? What kind of capital resources did they have? Forrest went on to explain what the allied probe had discovered.

"There is residual radiation; it looks like a recent accident. There are several hulls hanging in slips; a number of Sabinus and Veronus class ships and something else. Intel hasn't assigned a class to this new ship. The drone ran sensors for about thirty seconds before it was destroyed. Nothing conclusive; the few reactors that we scanned were in warm up mode."

"Exactly how a scan of Utopia Planitia would look," Valdez said. The captain folded his arms over his chest. "We need to push the fight to them; get them off Topaz and shove them back to their own system."

"It quickly approaches a zero sum gain," Forrest explained. "The president needs to break this goddamned Vulcan impasse. But even with full allied support estimates are that we would lose two-thirds of Star Fleet in an attack on Topaz. Meanwhile they are setting up shop there. If we bypass Topaz we face the prospect of some bright, shiny brand new birdie taskforces boiling out of that system."

"The Romulans knew what they were doing when they took our colonies," Valdez declared. "It was like they put a dagger in us. We can't move one way without causing major damage and we can't move the other way."

"Which is why I'm treating this like a surgical procedure," Forrest said as he motioned for Valdez to follow him. The two stepped out into the narrow passageways of Trafalgar. "We slice out part of their communications; then we can turn to Topaz. Not only will a victory here at Corallis take away one of their ports; it will also deny them any advantage in calling up new taskforces."

"Corallis is almost as tough a nut to crack as Topaz is," Valdez said.

Forrest chuckled. "We'll see."

They duo entered the darkened bridge of Trafalgar. Commander Valz poked his snout in the air. The Tellarite had his back turned to them. The team of Valz and Valdez had become somewhat of a joke in the new Star Fleet.

"I smell an admiral and a commodore," the Tellarite declared. "That must mean that we are about to cause a great deal of trouble. Either that or there is free food at the officer's mess."

"We'll line up the drinks after we knock out the array," Forrest said. He watched as Valdez pressed past him to his status board.

"Fighters from Monterey and Randolph are moving toward the gas giant admiral," he told Forrest. "Early radar returns suggest a force of Eightballs hiding in the giant's thermosphere."

The rumor of Stiles' ignition of a gas giant had run rampant through the fleet. Forrest could not reprimand her as he had never received official confirmation of the act. The pointies had stayed quiet on the issue.

"Proceed as planned," Forrest ordered. The Tellarite had vacated the center seat. Forrest settled into it and strapped himself in. He recalled a time when he had commanded one ship; that one ship's mission had been exploration. Valdez's words came back to him. He hoped that exploration would one day be the navy's primary mission; again.

Lieutenant Mikhail Ligachev studied his radar plot as his Minotaur emerged from warp. His copilot, Ensign Sandra Ross, confirmed that the Minotaur's midline Powerstar IV nacelle was on line. Mikhail knew that he would need to jump to warp as soon as he could. An alert tone sounded in his helmet as specks of light raced across his HUD: Approaching Romulan Aeons. Mikhail watched the chronometer.

"Standby Slick," he said using Ross' callsign. "Ready, ready, drop," he intoned. Ligachev pushed the Minotaur hard. The tiny fighter's artificial gravity strained causing a heavy weight to settle on his chest. Mikhail grunted down a few breaths.

"Eightballs to starboard!" his copilot exclaimed. He saw the same thing but it was pleasant to hear a confirmation. Mikhail's squadron had managed to put themselves between the Romulans and the Grand Slams that they had just launched.

"Turning to engage," he announced. Ligachev spun the fighter on its axis bringing its four pulse mounted lasers to bear on the approaching spherical fighters.

"Firing!" the ensign yelped. Ligachev could see her youthful excitement. It wasn't that age separated them by much; Ligachev was only three years her senior. It was rather the depth of his experience. He had chalked up several kills, but he had nearly died several times. Somewhere he knew that a Romulan Ligachev was waiting to kill him.

He maneuvered skillfully allowing her the full range of the deadly pulse lasers. Ross incinerated three of the Romulan fighters before they had a chance to roll out of the way. But the odds turned the other way. Mikhail soon found himself being surrounded. Three Aeons formed a triangle with Ligachev's Minotaur being in the center. He gunned the craft's impulse engine pushing against their former direction. Mikhail's stomach churned as it protested against the artificial gravity's conflicting messages. But his Minotaur bolted out of the trap: Ross scored one more kill as they went to warp.

The force of Veronus and Sabinus class cruisers headed directly for the gas giant. The Star Fleet taskforce was shielded by the bulk of the great planet. The force of eighteen Romulan cruisers burst forth into normal space. The great green gas giant lay between them and their opponents. Small pinpricks of light flashed deep in the giant's atmosphere. The deadly shark like forms of Grand Slam orbit-to-ground missiles burst out of the gas giant's cloud cover.

The Romulans lined up to destroy the large slow moving missiles. The Star Fleet weapons exploded well before they came under Romulan guns. The missiles formed two massive, blinding fireballs that consumed the leading edge of the defending Romulan taskforce. Behind the gas giant the Minotaurs leapt into subspace. The Star Fleet warships followed

"I hope they have the timing right on this thing," Ensign Ben "Smiley" Porter told his copilot. Chief Ronald "Goldbrick" Simmons was almost twice Porter's age; but the man had an affinity for flight. Star Fleet needed good pilots for its Minotaur squadrons. The in-service recruiters were looking the other way when it came to things like age.

"It depends on how many make it past the gas giant ensign," Simmons answered. The chief had a way of making Porter's rank sound much the same as the word 'junior'. "They'll have us locked up in about sixty seconds."

"We'll have about four seconds to fire, chief," Porter advised. He felt comfortable with the older man. Ben had not understood Commander Walters; until three months ago.

Porter had been working as the landing deck duty officer when a stricken Minotaur had been recovered. The Andorian pilot had brought the craft back in after a freak collision with an Aeon. The Intel and metallurgical people had poured over the impact area while the copilot; a girl that Ben had graduated with, stumbled out of the wreckage. He recalled thinking how lucky they had been that the two fighters' relative velocities and vectors were nearly equal. Then he had discovered Paolin in the cockpit.

The Andorian had been neatly severed in two when his instrument panel had been pushed back. Still alive; the alien had babbled along in Andorian. Porter had just recovered the presence of mind to summon an Andorian to translate along with the medical team. Paolin had grabbed Porter's hand before Ben could back away. The doctors and technicians had worked fiercely but in the end when the consoles were cut away Paolin's life blood and organs had spilled out of him. They had been unable to save him.

Ben had stumbled away, bereft of emotion. He was sure that this was what a pointie experienced. He had always assumed that combat fatigue had to do with bouts of terror. But Porter felt no fear. He felt nothing. There was only a continuation. He guessed then that was what Walters felt. That was why Porter felt more at ease with a combat veteran instead of someone closer to his age; someone who would be fresh out of one of the academies. He understood that numb, emotionless feeling now.

"Twenty seconds ensign," Simmons announced. "Amazons are hot; ready to fire."

The chronometer on Porter's HUD timed down. He shook his head to keep from being fixated upon it. Forrest had told them that their flight was to be computer controlled. Still; Ben kept his hand near the warp drive control levers. He knew that he had not the precision of a machine, but he had a fighter pilot's wits. Porter pulled the levers back at almost the same time as the autopilot dropped the Minotaur back into normal space.

"Acquiring targets," Simmons said coolly, as if he was announcing that he had just poured the flour into a cake recipe. "Firing and away," Simmons said.

Ben could feel the Minotaur lurch despite the protective web of the artificial gravity. He killed his fighter's engine, snapped the ship over and engaged the impulse drive. His vision swam as the ship turned through ninety degrees. He vaguely heard the chief announce the launch of the second salvo. Porter watched the timer. He prepared to go to warp when the fighter's computer made the decision for him. They were away; the engine readings were dangerously close to the red line. But Porter reflected that engine wear was far better than death.

The spherical array orbited amongst a collection of missile platforms and plasma cannons. A collection of dark plates dotted the surface of the Romulan communications' center; the antennae for the subspace radio signals. Smaller tender ships passed by the array. Further off against the backdrop of the ruddy world Veronus and Sabinus class ships that had not responded to the Star Fleet force orbited in a widely spaced formation.

The arriving Minotaurs created flashes of light as they dropped to normal space. Their first salvo of Amazons seemed pointless as they were far out of range. Romulan plasma cannon emitters glowed white. Seconds later they ejected their lethal streams at the marauding Minotaurs. The furious white plasma was stopped as the shield of Amazons went off. Minotaurs emerged through a boiling cauldron of energies to fire a second salvo. Moolah missiles streaked toward them as they jumped to warp. The fighters' last stream of missiles scored hits: A missile platform and a plasma cannon lit up in spectacular explosions.

Two Minotaurs failed to escape. The first was taken out cleanly by a Moolah. The second was hit a glancing blow by plasma. It spun away; its aft section a ruin of tangled glowing metal. A laser fired by a passing cabbage finished the fighter. Another squadron of Minotaurs leapt in among the Romulan defenders. A small force of Aeons launched out the bays of two Sabinus class ships. They held back to allow the warp driven plasma to do its deadly work.

More objects stretched forth into normal space. Slightly smaller than Minotaurs some of the cigar shaped metal tubes broke up. Others rolled slowly through space. Plasma cannons picked off most of the canisters; until the tubes exploded. Four plasma cannon platforms and an orbiting missile platform were incinerated immediately. Star Fleet cruisers emerged into normal space ahead of the conflagration.

"That opens a hole in their web admiral," Commodore Valdez said.

Forrest had deployed his ships in a tight formation: Something he himself had warned against doing. He needed concentrated firepower. He gave the orders that caused the combined taskforce warships to lay down a barrage of Narwhals against two lone enemy battle stations. He knew they could not have done this without the destruction of part of the birdies overlapping network of stations. Forrest also knew that they still had a fight.

"We have a few seconds admiral," Valdez stated; "coming out ahead of that blast wave paid off."

"Hard for radar to adjust to that," Forrest agreed. He knew that there was no physical blast wave; but the combined explosive force of their Grand Slams had emitted a high speed wave of radioactive particles.

"Firing and away!" the gunnery officer bellowed. Forrest sat back and waited. Every second they hung out here was extra time for the Romulans to reorient their stations toward the Star Fleet forces. The graphic tags for many of the Narwhals vanished as they encountered Romulan lasers and neutronium pellets. But some made it through. The larger graphic showing a plasma cannon platform vanished.

"Vandalia is hit!" Valdez exclaimed. "Hull plating is holding," he added in a voice filled with tension.

Max felt his straps bite into his shoulders. He realized that Trafalgar had taken a hit. The status display panel built into his armrest lit up with red lights. Forrest felt the might ship shudder again. More missiles left Trafalgar's tubes. He wished that they packed the punch of Grand Slams but the orbit-to-ground missiles were just too cumbersome and slow. A graphic of a Romulan missile platform vanished. Its deadly spawn, a flight of missiles did not.

"Bring lasers to bear on those inbounds!" he roared. "Evasive starboard; put us in that debris."

"Turning to starboard and accelerating admiral," Chief Ray Dixon answered.

"Rickover is gone!" Valdez spat. "They were caught in a crossfire between two stations. Mobile Bay and Saint Louis are maneuvering against the charlie target."

"Positive firing solution for the epsilon station!" the gunnery officer exclaimed. Max thought that the West Point graduate was a little high strung, but she performed her job flawlessly.

"Fire missiles," Valdez ordered. He turned to Forrest. "Port hull plating is gone; decks four, eight and thirteen are open to space. Engineer reports that repairs are in progress."

"Maneuver to keep our port side away from enemy fire," Forrest instructed. "Bring Waterloo alongside to cover us until the hull plating comes back on line."

"Minotaur squadrons dropping out of warp!" Lieutenant Kirsten Sondheim announced.

Not one minute too late Forrest thought. He quickly ordered them to anchor the lower hemisphere of the engagement zone. The plasma cannon fire coming from there was murdering his ships. Trafalgar shuddered again. The bridge lights went dark for a split second. Ceiling light panels exploded in a shower of sparks. Max heard the whir of the atmospheric scrubbers step up their pace.

"A hit to starboard," Commander Valz announced. The Tellarite was occupying the operations' officer position. "Hull plating is coming back on the port side." Valz's panel blew out and caught fire. Max watched as the Tellarite calmly took up a fire extinguisher and put out the worst of the flames. "Pirates!" he exclaimed at last as if he were referring to biting mosquitoes.

Trafalgar was hit again; but not before it destroyed another station. Forrest gripped his seat as the artificial gravity burbled. He didn't have to look down at his status board to tell that things were bad. The plethora of desperate calls choking Trafalgar's comm system provided part of the clue on the status of the heavy cruiser. Forrest's years of experience as master of a starship told the rest of the story.

"The starboard nacelle was hit," Valz explained. "Tucker says the plasma to the nacelle is pinched off. He can contain it but we won't have warp."

"Number two Narwhal tube is damaged admiral!" Ensign Karen D'Arco shouted out.

Forrest realized just how much of a knife's edge that this battle rested upon. He ruminated over the fact that Topaz had at least four times the number of emplacements waiting for them. At least they had lured the force of birdie capital ships out and taken care of them. The gravity shut off. Forrest fought against the feeling of vertigo.

He vaguely heard the voice of Lieutenant Sondheim calling from the sensor station: "Approaching alien craft." Forrest wondered if that would be his epitaph.

Trafalgar fired a single Narwhal out of its remaining tube. The lethal dart avoided some neutronium pellets but was cut in two by a laser aimed from a Romulan battle station. The station fired a lance of white hot plasma at Trafalgar. The deadly beam missed. The emitter glowed as it warmed up for another shot. A boxy alien vessel emerged from warp on the other side of the station.

Two large space doors on the craft's port and starboard opened up. Needle like merculite rockets blasted out of the cavernous port bay of the ship. The small darts erupted into a myriad of explosions against the Romulan station. Like a piece of wood being whittled away the station was reduced to shreds in seconds. The Tellarite light cruiser maneuvered past Trafalgar in search of more prey.

The Star Fleet forces had turned the tide: The few Romulan platforms and stations that survived were now isolated against their attackers. Rampaging squadrons of Star Fleet Minotaurs battered away at one station with Amazons. The Romulan defenders held on blasting away most of the missiles. But it was not to last: Three missiles slammed into the station turning it into a nuclear inferno.

The Tellarite fired away at a missile platform. A Romulan Moolah exploded in the flight path of the Tellarite's merculite rockets. The light cruiser turned slowly; a perfect target until Waterloo closed on the Romulan. Two Narwhals burst out of the Tannhauser's stern. They went through the Romulan's defenses then turned into brilliant miniature suns. Glowing scrap marked what remained of the Romulan's orbital forces.

Several missiles rose from the planet's surface towards the Star Fleet taskforces. Spider area defense missiles and the precision laser fire from the nimble Minotaurs destroyed the weapons before they could do the same to an allied ship. The cold, ruddy planetary surface went from darkness to a blinding dawn when Trafalgar and Waterloo rained a hail of Grand Slams down onto the offending Romulan surface base. The former Romulan base was gone: Replaced by a molten pool of radioactive lava.

"Tas Shavma," Forrest said. He stood up amid the smoke and ruin of Trafalgar's bridge.

The image of the Tellarite general stared back from the viewer. Max guessed that Tas was sizing up the damage to Trafalgar. "You are not supposed to use your ship as a target drone Forrest," the Tellarite said at last. Forrest noted that the Shavma's English had improved.

"We achieved our purpose," Max responded. He looked around the bridge and realized that the bridge crew was as curious as he. "I thought that your government was keeping the expeditionary fleet around Tellar?"

"There has been a change of plans Forrest," Tas explained. "We cannot wait on our world while the pirates rampage about. It is time to take the war to them." The Tellarite leaned into the video pickup. "It was also thought that at the pace you earthers and iceheads are moving that it will be ten of your years before this is resolved. That is too long! So we are back. Let us proceed on to Romulus and make an end to this thing."

Forrest smiled. He had not had good news in many months. "We'll have some repairs to make before we go anywhere Tas Shavma."

"I'll dispatch some of my engineers," the Tellarite answered. "You humans will take all day and probably still get it wrong."

Forrest closed the circuit. He had to admit; he needed the help. The Tellarites returning to the war would drastically alter the balance. The remaining obstacles were the Vulcans. He wondered if Thorpe's messages to the desert planet had gotten anywhere. Max sighed. He would get solid information after his ships were repaired and they were back in subspace radio range.

"It's going to be a long month X," he told Valdez.

Savi Province, Vulcan, the earth year Feb 2158

Tarang Gupta was strangely unconcerned about his promotion to lieutenant commander. He had a bad night after his rescue by his old friend and coworker Frank McCoy and the reclusive Micah Brack. Gupta could not decide what to make of the middle aged man who spoke in an antiquated Vulcan dialect. It was seeing Frank and hearing all about earth that was the source of Tara's distress.

He wondered how his parents were. He had not even been able to send letters out. Tarang wondered what his doppelganger had written to his father and mother. He suspected that now Admiral Soames had ghost written for him. Gupta was not surprised that Soames had risen in the ranks. He was still sad though: The homesickness had hit him hard. T'Pol tried to help, but Gupta decided that he wanted to be alone in his grief. He had improved during the next morning.

The mission had pulled him along. Syrran had succeeded in rallying the Vulcan people. With the exceptions of what Frank McCoy called 'diehards', most Vulcans had left their jobs. A large portion of them were making the pilgrimage that Syrran had requested of them. Gupta was discovering that all roads to Mount Selaya were choked. Air travel was still under government suspension. The meant that ground transportation was at a premium. Syrran would accept no favors despite a certain reverence that Vulcans seemed to have for him.

"The roller is booked for tonight," T'Pol announced. The group had been in a press of people waiting for transportation to the mount.

Gupta waited while Brack translated for McCoy. It was odd seeing someone nod. The human gesture was seldom seen on this world. Tarang also looked around in suspicion, sure that someone would see Frank's nod and point them out as alien agents. Gupta knew that Frank had caught himself. His old friend's face assumed a look of forced serenity.

"Well we still have our rooms at that hostel," McCoy whispered. The group was heading out into the desert night away from any earshot of any local. "Do they have any meat on this planet? Don't these Vosh-takers eat meat? I could do with a big Kansas City sirloin, or at least its equivalent."

"I'm afraid that you are out of luck chie—lieutenant," Gupta answered. His English was not as halting as it had been since his encounter with McCoy and Brack.

"Might as well call me Frank, Tara," McCoy answered. "This war will be over sometime and I'll be back to wearing enlisted stripes again."

"Nothing will be the same after this war is over," T'Pol declared in a soft tone.

"If it ever gets out that your people are trying to--,"

"The Romulans are not," T'Pol interrupted harshly; "our people Lieutenant McCoy."

"The return of those who march beneath the raptor's wings was foretold T'Pol," Brack spoke up in Vulcan. "They should not be repudiated just because they want to rejoin our—your people. Surak spoke of a time when all of Vulcan would unite. Those writings are forgotten I suppose."

"It is not time for that, Brack," Syrran said. The small group drew within sight of their lodging. "We would become more like them than they would us."

"Surak said that the Vulcan people's growth would lie in another direction," Brack argued.

"You would have us take back our savage half?" Syrran asked.

"Sounds like a fight to me!" McCoy declared. Gupta smiled at Frank's down home wit.

"Just an old argument," Gupta explained in English.

What would happen if it became known that the Vulcans and Romulans were brothers? Syrran had explained that the consequences would be dire. But would they? What if the Syrranite movement caused the Vulcans to join this federation of President Thorpe's creation? It seemed problematic to Gupta that the secret would come out eventually. What did Syrran fear? For as tightly controlled as the nomadic Vulcan leader was, it was clear to Gupta that he was afraid.

"Surak discovered evidence that Vulcans might have been the progeny of a greater race," Brack said. "He says there may be other descendants of this race."

"Speculation only," Syrran argued.

"Perhaps it was not speculation," Brack retorted. "Perhaps Surak was speaking metaphorically about another race; about man."

Gupta felt uncomfortable as he realized that Syrran was looking at him and T'Pol. They were nearing the inn. They crossed a mighty stone bridge. Gupta saw lights far below. He knew that the desert floor was over a thousand meters below.

"The merging of man and Vulcan is something that may happen," Syrran agreed.

"Those so merged could reach out to the Rihannsu," Brack said.

"Eventually that may happen," Syrran answered. "But the Romulans will have to change as well. Given what has happened there is little evidence that they can ever do that."

"Perhaps not this soon," Brack said. "But it shall not always be so. The Romulans must change and grow. Do you not have faith that our brothers can change; when we ourselves changed so long ago?"

"You have a katra of one of our people human," Syrran answered. Gupta could hear the terseness even through Syrran's mask of control. "But you are not of our people, Brack. I touched your mind when I touched Mistral's katra. I know about you Brack."

The mysterious human's face was hooded, but Gupta realized without even seeing his face that Brack was mollified. Now he remembered: Micah Brack was the head of one of the big space corporations. Tarang could not remember which one. He thought that his father had spoken of Brack as if he were old when Gupta was still a child. Yet the man beneath the cloak seemed to be in his mid thirties at best. What was it that Syrran had seen?

Tarang was not sure about these mind melds. He had felt T'Pol's mind become a part of his. Syrran had explained to him what he needed to do to initiate mental contact with a mate. These were the things that Tarang suspected a Vulcan father would show his son. Frank McCoy had dismissed it as 'Vulcan birds and bees.' Tarang recalled that Frank had then seemed to change his mind. McCoy had grown quite serious: Something Gupta had seldom seen. McCoy had mumbled something about holding onto your love no matter what the cost; before it was too late.

McCoy had recoiled after that. Gupta realized that his friend had suffered a great hurt. But further questioning had caused McCoy to become withdrawn and surly. Gupta had left the matter go finally. He realized that they had all had lives while he was bumping about here on Vulcan. It was yet another unpleasant reminder of how long he had been gone.

Gupta hung back as they entered the inn's lobby. T'Pol got their chambers back. Syrran had a small room of his own whereas the rest of them were staying together in a large single room. It did not afford him and T'Pol much alone time. The group stopped and got some food from the innkeeper's brother. The pickings were scarce owing to the large influx of Vulcans making their way to the mount. There were no steaks, much to the chagrin of Frank McCoy.

"Shall we walk before we rest?" T'Pol asked him.

Gupta wanted some time alone with her; just a walk was better than nothing he thought. He was about to excuse the couple from the rest of the group when Syrran motioned for him to follow.

"Perhaps I will see you before you sleep," Gupta told her. They briefly touched fingers in the Vulcan way. Tarang felt her presence in his mind. It was a warm, tranquil feeling. He parted from her and followed Syrran into his chamber. He appreciated the instruction in Vulcan customs but tonight Gupta wanted to be elsewhere.

He started to say as much when Syrran in an uncharacteristic flourish, interrupted him. "Events move along. They move in such a way that we might lose control."

"This seems to me to be what we—you wanted. Many in the High Command have dropped their weapons and any pretense of supporting V'Las' regime. I do not pretend to understand your politics but it seems that with these many Vulcans on the move; it is only a matter of time before V'Las' government falls."

"This is not a matter of who rules Tarang. There is much more involved here."

"I thought that you would take over as first minister--,"

"Then you do not understand what any of this is about." The Vulcan surprised Gupta when he actually reached out and laid a hand upon Tarang's shoulder. "It is not your fault. I suspect that T'Pol believes as you do." Syrran released him and turned away. Gupta could almost detect a sigh beneath the control. "I do not seek political power; that is for others. My role is to set my people onto a new course; to ensure that we do not grow stagnant; relics of a bygone era. Also that we do not return to the ways of the Rihannsu."

"My apologies Syrran," Gupta declared in a voice full of human humility.

Syrran spun around. "What do you think would happen if the identities of the Romulans became known to all?"

He was surprised as he had been considering that very thing. Frank McCoy's arrival and information on the president's new federation were acting to convince Tarang that perhaps exposure of the secret could be weathered. Gupta voiced his opinion to Syrran. The Vulcan seemed lost in thought. Tarang wondered if he had even heard his reply.

"Perhaps you are right," Syrran said at last. "Your people, the Tellarites and even the Andorians have grown. Perhaps they would not turn upon Vulcan in reprisal. But there are other factors."

"What might those be?" he asked.

"It is time for more instruction Tarang," Syrran answered, bluntly deflecting his question.

When it came right down to it Gupta's surgically altered ears and skin did not make him a Vulcan. His neural physiology was different, making it difficult for his mind to access another's or to be accessed in a meld. Syrran had worked with him to show Tarang how to use his human mind to facilitate the contact that must happen between Vulcan couples.

The experience had proven to be, well, dry was the only word that Gupta could think of. He had expected some mental awakening; instead besides losing the sense of Syrran's touch on the side of his head, Tarang had felt nothing. He had begun to become dubious of the whole process until he had heard T'Pol call to him mentally. It had sounded like a whisper, but it was there. He could sense more from her during physical contact. So there were differences Gupta concluded.

Gupta took a seat on a hard stone bench beside Syrran. He made himself as comfortable as possible as the Vulcan reached out with a hand and touched the side of his head. He expected to feel nothing as he had felt nothing in the previous sessions. Something was wrong. There was a sharp pain. The room faded around Gupta.

The chamber stank: A combination of the acrid smell of hot sand, feces and vomit assaulted his senses. Tarang realized that the man in the chamber was the source of the smell: He was dying. Gupta recognized the symptoms of radiation poisoning from history class presentations. A few pustules covered the Vulcan's thin, drawn face. The old Vulcan absently wiped at a trail of drool on his mouth.

"An alien?" the Vulcan asked. "You don't look very different from us." The Vulcan looked at Tarang's ears. Gupta gasped when he felt them himself and realized that they were the rounded ears that he had been born with. "Human," the Vulcan said slowly.

"Tarang Gupta," he said.

"Tarang," the Vulcan replied. "Odd language; but it would not be logical to expect you to sound as we do." The Vulcan's chest audibly rattled as he sucked in a painful breath.

Gupta looked past him. They were in a room atop some sort of stone structure. A vast plain lay beneath. Roads intersected in the plain. The arteries connected where vast structures of some sort rose out of the floor of the plain. Some of the structures were battered and burned. Gupta realized that he was looking at a group of some sort of rockets. The ships mounted on the rockets reminded him vaguely of earth's old DY's.

A blinding fire lit beneath one of the vehicles. It stood immobile as its support gantry fell away. Seconds later it leapt into the dour gray sky. Gupta watched the flare of the rockets illuminate the snow and ice on the floor of the plain. He shuddered: T'Pol had told him that Vulcan had always been a temperate world; except for the decades of nuclear winter after their wars. The rockets sped away into the gray, leaden sky.

"They have honored their pledge," the old Vulcan whispered. "They are leaving."

"They?" the question stood out between the two beings.

The Vulcan coughed. "The Rihannsu; they shall follow the raptor's wings to the stars."

Gupta gasped. "You…you are Surak."

"Am I?" the Vulcan asked. Gupta was surprised to see a look of emotional pain on Surak's face. The stone chamber vanished around Tarang.

He was standing waist deep in a pool. A lush, green jungle surrounded him. The sky had a reddish tint to it. The sun was warm on Tarang's face. The air smelled clean and clear. Gupta became puzzled when he realized that he was completely dry despite his immersion. He took a halting step back as someone burst forth from beneath the water's surface. Gupta could see the man's enjoyment of the swim. He turned and looked at Tarang.

The Vulcan was young and hale. His chest and arms rippled with muscle. Several scars were visible on his naked abdomen. Tarang followed him out of the pool. The Vulcan retrieved a robe that hung from the branch of a tree. He covered his naked form with it. He turned and sneered at Tarang.

Gupta was about to speak when the Vulcan held his hand up. "I know who you are human." Tarang mentally peeled away the Vulcan's youth and strength. It was the dying Vulcan he had met just a minute ago. That old Vulcan despite his medical condition had a serene, almost kind look upon his face for the most part. His younger self showed Tarang a cruel look. He walked away leaving Gupta behind.

Tarang looked at his back and beyond. A mighty stone structure lay before the Vulcan. Gupta realized that the low, squat, decoratively sculptured building was an estate. Surak meandered up to a high arched entryway. He paused and stooped between two sehlats. He nuzzled the animals' necks and then rose and proceeded on. Gupta did not want t follow given the malicious look that Surak had given him; but he had little choice.

The bed chamber must have been twice the size of Tarang's parent's home. A striking Vulcan woman frolicked with two children on the floor in the middle of the room. They laughed as she teased them and pretended to chase them. A joyful smile played across the woman's face; until Surak came into the chamber. He smiled at her as he strode up to her. He stopped before her and caressed her hair. The children seized his legs and tried wrestling with him.

Gupta watched as Surak embraced the children; a girl and boy. The woman looked on; an expression of smoldering anger crossed her face. Surak played with the children until they became more interested in the sehlats outside. They left the Vulcan couple alone. Surak reached out to the woman who was sitting tailor fashion on the floor. She jerked her head away from the caress.

He turned to Tarang. "I love her." Surak's sneer dropped to reveal a face pained with grief. "I visited a horrible act upon her when I took her. It is our way. But; it was not right. No matter how much I love her and the children that we share I can never undo that act." Surak's face twisted in grief and rage. "She will always fear me and never come to love me."

Surak paced toward him. He was going to collide with Gupta causing him to move out of the way. Too late—nothing happened. Gupta stood in a great room with a vaulted ceiling. Garishly uniformed and caped Vulcans sat around a large square, heavy wooden table. The table's surface was covered by a vast relief map. Gupta intuitively understood that these were military officers. The group rose as one when Surak entered the room. They thumped their right arms across their chests and then extended the same arm; open handed towards Surak. The Vulcan returned the gesture.

A horrid plan formed amongst the group. "We'll introduce a tactical nuclear device into the city's northern sector. The buildings there are largely wood and the ensuing fire will spread." Surak turned to a hard looking Vulcan on his right. "Tarl; you will launch a biologic into the reservoir at this point." Surak used a pointed to illustrate his intended target.

"I thought that we might raid the city for…entertainment," Tarl replied. "Our warriors have gone long without the spoils of war."

Surak shot a baleful glance toward Tarl. He took a deep breath and composed himself. "The goal is to drive our enemy out and tie up the rescue forces. This is the beginning of the push into the M'Warv Valley." There were nods of approval around the table. The planning drew to a quick conclusion. The officers and enlisted soldiers filtered out except for Tarl.

"I meant no disrespect old friend," Tarl told Surak. The two seized each other's wrists. "I was thinking of the troops. But; it is obvious that a victory in the M'Warv Valley will be far more advantageous to us in the long run."

"None was taken Tarl," Surak sighed and released his fellow Vulcan's wrist. "You think too much with your mouth my brother." This last was added with a slight smile.

"Would that we could harness it to our weapons," Tarl answered with a chuckle.

"That would be the ultimate weapon," Surak finished. It was evident to Tarang that the two indeed brothers.

Tarang gasped. He was wreathed in flame, but he was not burned. He stood in the ruins of a burning building. A Vulcan couple skulked in a room that was not yet afire. They huddled in an attempt to protect their children: It was vanity. The helmeted soldiers seized the couple. The children were each shot in the head. Gupta turned away when the man was forced to watch while the soldiers violated his mate: He realized vaguely that this was all some sort of apparition. He could not influence what was going on around him. An armored car cruised slowly down the street. A great raptor was emblazoned upon the vehicle's cowling.

A soldier, wearing a glittering helmet similar in design to what he had seen the Romulans wear stood triumphantly in the car's turret. The soldiers turned from their savage revelries and cheered. Gupta heard a word from the crowd. He realized that they were chanting a name.

"Careaza, Careaza, Careaza!" the soldiers roared. Realization dawned on Tarang as Surak removed his helmet.

Suddenly he was standing beside Surak/Careaza in the turret. "All of this was my youth; my great legacy." The soldiers dragged the naked screaming woman away; but not before disemboweling her mate. "I did not realize that evil begat evil. I was too young and stupid to see what was before me. The cycle of violence could not be stopped. Half of this world is dead. The other half would be soon to follow."

"We are near to victory," Tarl declared. The Vulcan drank from a large metal goblet. Gupta was in a small comfortable room. Surak was seated across from his brother.

"This world may be dead within the span of our lives brother," Surak declared. "The air of the southern hemisphere is poisonous. There is mass starvation. The Grenara Sea has all but evaporated. This world will become a desert."

The discussion was interrupted by a concussive thump. The room shook. A stone statue of a warrior raising a sword into the air rattled and fell to the floor where it shattered. The Vulcans both sprang up. Surak retrieved a pistol from his belt while his brother had what Gupta guessed was some sort of automatic rifle stowed by his chair. The two burst out of the room into a confusion of shooting and yelling.

"R'Allons!" a soldier proclaimed.

"Get under cover you idiot!" Surak bellowed. The soldier's head jerked as a slug grazed his helmet. Surak stepped back just in time as another soldier, this one in a different uniform charged forward. The Vulcan leveled his pistol but another hostile surged forward pushing Surak back. Gupta watched as the soldier was skewered on a bayonet.

Surak fired a single shot at his attacker. The back of the Vulcan's head exploded outward. Gupta wondered where the enemy troops were coming from. They seemed to be everywhere. They seemed to be winning. The smoke filled hallway faded around Tarang. He stood in a courtyard with Surak, his wife and children and at least a dozen of the enemy troops.

A Vulcan with a twisted face approached the group. He bore a flame thrower strapped to his back. "Lord General Careaza; how nice to see you." He smiled cruelly. The soldiers restrained Surak's movement. The Vulcan bearing the flame thrower was obviously in charge of the group. He let the weapon hang loose while he undone his tunic. A rough scar ran from his waist to the base of his throat. "Your butchers should have checked their handiwork lord general." He turned Careaza's title into a curse.

Gupta realized with a start that it was the Vulcan he had seen in the burning city. He marveled in horror that anyone whose intestines had been lying on a floor could survive. "Line the general's family up against that wall." The Vulcan closed his tunic and took up the flame thrower. The soldier's pushed Surak's family up against the wall that he had indicated.

"Chani!" he exclaimed. Surak turned to his captor. "Kill me but spare my family. I took Chani in the kali-fei. She despises me. She is one of your people."

"That is unfortunate General Careaza." The tormentor aimed the flamer at the frightened woman and children. "But you need to see what your monsters do to others; feel what it is like." The Vulcan looked at Surak: "How fortunate that I lived to see you that day general; few have lived to see the great murderer Careaza!"

Surak struggled valiantly but vainly. The bearer of the flame thrower depressed the trigger. Gupta looked away as the screaming started. He looked directly at a small canister that had rolled into the courtyard. The explosion was sharp; more like a giant snap than a blast. The flame thrower exploded into flame on the Vulcan's back. Fire spread like a fast moving curtain engulfing all before it. Surak ran, covered in flame toward the lake. Gupta stood rooted.

Tarang was beneath the freezing water. He looked up as the flaming body of Surak hit the water. The fire died out as the Vulcan flailed in the water. An immense blinding white light filled the sky. Gupta realized that he should be blinded but was not. The light faded away to black. Gupta heard a lonely, slight roaring sound. What sounded like that under water? He realized that he was listening to the wind. It was bitter cold.

Gupta was standing upon a blasted plain. A robed figure stumbled along. Gupta ran to catch up with him. He recoiled as he saw the burned horror that was covered by the hood. It was Surak, burned and bloodied. Tarang wondered that the Vulcan still lived. Surak stopped and looked at him then continued along. Many times the sun rose and rode across the sky. They had been walking many days. Surak collapsed.

"You are fortunate," the old Vulcan declared. Gupta watched as the Vulcan, perhaps in his middle two hundreds dabbed at Surak with a cloth. "But you will heal."

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Surak asked in a weak voice.

"I chose to live in this cavern after the war started." The older Vulcan explained. "There is no logic to living on the surface anymore. Our passions have proved to be our undoing. I chose to expunge those passions." He continued ministering to Surak. Gupta, despite knowing that this was some sort of Vulcan telepathy wanted to retch: Surak so badly burned. "There; you will live to kill again." The old Vulcan pronounced.

"I…I want to stop it," Surak declared in a breathless voice. He looked at his caretaker. "I am General Careaza of the Rihannsu."

"I know who you are," the Vulcan replied.

"And you allowed me to live?" Surak asked. "Are you?" the question hung between the two aliens.

"I am not Rihannsu general," the old Vulcan answered. "I am a being who found a path away from the hatred and killing. I can control my emotions; put them in check. I will not kill today or tomorrow. It is not logical."

"Teach me," Surak begged.

"I spent most of my life creating this discipline, general," the old Vulcan explained. "I may not live long enough to teach you anything."

"I beg of you," Surak pleaded.

"There is no need to beg," the old Vulcan answered. "It is not logical. Your recovery will take a long time. I shall endeavor to teach you the things I have learned in that time, general. You may call me Surak."

Time accelerated. Gupta watched the two aliens as seeming months passed. He felt neither thirst nor hunger. Careaza improved in health as Surak deteriorated. Tarang gathered that Careaza had some innate extra mental abilities. In one of those odd moments in the experience Careaza stepped out of the situation to explain that he did indeed possess psychic abilities. Early Vulcans had not bothered to develop those abilities.

Careaza healed such that he could be looked at without making Tara ill. Surak got older. Gupta watched as a bond formed between the two Vulcans. Meanwhile the surface temperature dropped. Careaza had walked to his old compound; or what was left of it. A single, broken wall stood beside the now frozen lake. Snow fell from the black sky. Gupta was wearing the clothes that he had started with when Syrran had touched him, while Careaza wore a thick cloak.

"I hoped to find them here," Careaza told him. "I also hoped they were not here; that they had the final peace of death."

"I'm sorry," Gupta told the Vulcan.

"Surak would tell me that it was not logical for you to be sorry," Careaza stated. "That you did nothing to bring me sorrow. I did that." Careaza looked skyward. "I believed this world to be dead. The winter caused by the bombings would last many generations." He gestured for Gupta to follow him. They started the long trek back to the cave.

Gupta began to wonder if he were still back in Syrran's chambers. He had been asking himself that when it occurred to him that many years had passed. The journey to the cave had originally taken close to a month and yet Gupta knew that if he closed his eyes they would be there. And they were there. Surak lay dying. Careaza went to the old Vulcan's side.

"It is time lord general," Surak said a raspy wheezing voice. "Do not grieve, it is not logical. It is the cycle of life General Careaza. You have been a good student."

"It seems not," Careaza answered. Tears ran down his face. Gupta had never seen a Vulcan cry before. Careaza took the dying Vulcan's hand. "I know that is not logical: You will excuse me Master Surak; I love you."

"Go forth," Surak spat out between coughs. "The anger that you used to conquer this world, use it to bring peace." The Vulcan's eyes fluttered and closed. "My final gift to you general," he said as his arm extended weakly and stroked Careaza's hair. Surak stopped moving, allowing his open hand to rest on the side of Careaza's head. "Remember," Surak said quietly. Presently; the rise and fall of Surak's chest stopped.

Careaza knelt silently by the dead Surak for some time. Finally he turned to Tarang: "More death human; it is time that we learned how to live."

Careaza rose. He prepared the body according to the traditions of that time. After Surak's body was reduced to ash he proceeded to pack a bag. He headed toward the surface. Gupta could see the Vulcan's breath exhaled as steam. Tarang was only slightly cold; almost an afterthought of cold he thought. They arrived at the surface and headed away in what, it seemed to Tarang was a random course. The darkness was absolute despite the fact that it was mid day on that part of Vulcan. Tarang had despaired of ever seeing the sun when he saw light over the horizon.

A great city was aflame. Most of it was smoldering embers but there were still active fires burning away. The travelers crept up to the city's edge. A great fire was burning there. Gupta could just make out small figures tossing fuel onto the pyre. The smell became overpowering. As they drew closer Gupta realized that the great fiery mound was made up of bodies.

Several gaunt Vulcans approached them. Gupta was glad that he was an apparition and not visible. The aliens looked like walking sticks. He became frightened. Their leader approached Careaza. The thin Vulcan was chewing on something as he walked up to them. Gupta, to his horror realized that it was the lower section of an arm. The Vulcan held his repulsive meal out to Careaza.

"There is plenty," the alien declared. He shot a quick glance back to the bonfire. "Those are the ones too contaminated to eat." He shook the arm, hand out at Careaza again. "It is not bad once you get used to it. Right now," he pulled up his tattered filthy tunic to reveal the very detailed map of his ribs; "anything that keeps you alive is good."

"So; we fall literally to eating our own?"

"What would you have us do?" the shattered Vulcan asked in reply. He eyed Careaza. "You look like you haven't missed a meal." Careaza had remained well fed from Surak's underground greenhouse.

"Is it not logical to attempt to build some sort of hydroponic garden or greenhouse?" he said. Careaza gestured at the funereal pyre: "After all; your supply of food will soon exhaust itself. Will you then turn to each other until no one is left?"

"And you are going to show us how to build these miracle greenhouses?" another in the bedraggled group scoffed.

"I shall labor alongside you," Careaza answered. Gupta's heart sank when he saw a small child clinging to the stick of her mother's leg. Careaza looked at her. "Which among you will consume the child? If you continue this course then the weak will die first. Which of you will kill this child to fill your stomach?"

"It will take a growing season if it works at all," the Vulcan with the arm declared.

"The populations were reduced," Careaza said. "We once were a planet of billions. Surely enough prepared foodstuffs could be made edible again."

The mother looked with sympathy at her daughter. "There is a food bank near the old city center. The food is badly contaminated."

"We can work on ways to cleanse away the radiation," Careaza said. "Take me to this food bank."

The Vulcan looked at the chewed arm and then at the child. Reluctantly he spit the grisly meat out of his mouth. "I will help you. I am weak though and don't know if I can resist my hunger."

"Join me," Careaza said. "I shall show you a mental discipline that will allow you to control your weaknesses."

The crowd fell silent until the girl's mother spoke up. "Show me," she said.

The Vulcan threw the cooked arm down into the snow. "I shall join you." There was a pause.

Careaza looked back at the direction from whence they had come. He returned his sharp glance to the crowd. "My name is Surak."

The years went by. Gupta saw it all: The survivors clinging to life in the burned out remains of the cities and villages. They flocked to Surak who seemed to offer them a chance at survival; a future free of war. A few at a time, but Gupta watched as if it were a snowball rolling into a mighty avalanche. Surak aged before Tarang's eyes. All was changing for the better, but still the Rihannsu were making war.

The outcome was turning against them. The mental discipline of logic caused the followers of Surak to be able to build better defenses. The Rihannsu became fewer in number. Yet they were there. The bombs still fell from time to time. Surak looked out at a great assemblage of Rihannsu force. He was now closer in age to the Vulcan that Gupta had met at the beginning of all of this.

"Who's there?" the soldier demanded in a voice steeped in anger and caution.

Gupta observed that Tarl had aged as well. A wicked looking scar ran the length of his face. One eye was covered with a patch. "Do you not remember me brother?" Surak asked.

Tarl looked with caution at Surak. Memory overtook his scrutiny. "It…it cannot be; my brother!" He lunged forward to embrace Surak. Surak, much to Gupta's surprise returned the gesture. "I thought that you had been killed with Chani."

"I have been dead brother," Surak answered; "but I am back now."

"We can change this brother!" Tarl exclaimed. "I have assembled the last great host of the Rihannsu. We can conquer Vulcan at long last."

"My brother; you plan on using the last of our nuclear and biologic arsenal." Surak turned away from his brother. "You will only briefly rule over the dead before joining them."

"What would you have?" Tarl asked angrily. "We are conquerors! We shall not lie with this Surak and his mindless followers. If we only knew what he looked like and where he was going to be I would kill him."

"There is a third alternative Tarl," Surak explained, staunching his brother's passions. He told Tarl of the scheme.

"The space bending device?" his brother asked. He looked with suspicion at Surak. "Where have you been my brother?"

"A long journey," he answered. "I have wandered a long time now."

Others barged into the underground bunker in defense of General Tarl. They were led by Petrus, an old tutor of Careaza's. "My…my lord general!" the old warrior bellowed. He fell to his knees and bid his platoon to do the same.

Careaza took a pistol from an immobile Tarl's belt. He handed the weapon to his brother. "My own brother doubts me. He is wise to do so. I have been gone a long time. Kill me then brother; if you truly doubt who I am and my desire to see the Rihannsu conquer all."

His brother's hand was limp as Surak put the pistol in it. "If Lord General Tarl kills me then know that it was a wise decision. He has led our warriors well." Careaza looked at his brother. "Do what your emotion tells you Tarl. I have loved you always no matter what; even when you blamed me for M'Shan's soiling of mother's carpet." This last was added with a slight grin. Gupta had not seen Surak/Careaza grin in decades.

Tarl looked at the gun as if it were something he had seen for the first time. He looked at Surak and then turned to his personal guards. "Such courage can only come from one warrior. This is my brother: Lord General Careaza." Tarl knelt before his brother.

Careaza looked at his followers. "It is time that we abandon this world; leave it to the pacifists. We shall return one day. We shall reunify. Until then the destiny of the Rihannsu lies in the stars!"

Gupta followed Surak up the metal ladder of the test vehicle. "You are no pilot!" he told Surak.

"Tarl is convinced of this plan," Surak answered, 'but things still rest upon a knife's edge. My people need inspiration to continue."

Gupta watched as the primitive craft exploded. He wondered where Surak was. He spied a hooded figure walking away from the horrified crowd of Rihannsu onlookers. Gupta was pulled along behind the hooded stranger. He was standing in the stone tower. A sickly Surak watched as the last rocket climbed skywards.

"I almost made it. I became contaminated from the ship's reactor." The Vulcan wiped away some blood from his mouth.

"You lied to them!" Tarang exclaimed.

"They needed a martyr," Surak answered softly. He turned to Tarang. "Do you believe that logic just swept over these people and the Rihannsu decided to leave? Now you know. Human…your species is not displeasing to the eye. It is unfortunate that your ears are deformed."


	32. Chapter 32

Tampa, Florida, the old United States, earth, Feb 2158

Commander Jeffrey Sutton slowly moved to the door of the small house that he had bought. He was quickly out of breath. Sutton had been told repeatedly that he would need time to adjust to his artificial lungs. He despised himself for his stupidity. He recalled the old spacers' adage about the last man out: He never should have turned back to see if the evacuation was complete. His last breath from his living lungs had been full of delta ray contamination.

The knock came again. He gathered his breath and slowly made his way to the door. Sutton hoped that his caller was patient. He opened the door at last. A short, compact black woman stood on the other side. Sutton guessed that she was on the better side of her fifties. Her black curly hair was streaked with white. She wore an easy grin on her face. Despite his youth Sutton could detect a strong person beneath the grin.

"Can I help you?" Sutton asked without ceremony. The woman seemed familiar. He wondered if he had seen her at the base clinic.

"Mebbe so," the woman answered. She stuck out her hand. Sutton was surprised at her grip: It was very strong for a woman. "My name is Kendra Stiles."

Sutton remembered now: The woman who was challenging Councilor—no make that President Pro Tempore Hawkins. He had been following the no confidence vote on the vidcaster. It was unprecedented but the United Earth Constitution had not been written with space travel in mind. The minions of the Sons' of Terra had just enough backers with Bindu Raj Modi's district being put out of the vote. Sutton did not like it, but it was the republican form of government at its finest. The woman was also the mother of Jocelyn Stiles. That made her the mother of a legend of Star Fleet.

He remembered his manners and invited her in. "The place is a mess but it takes me a little more time to get around."

"When will your new lungs be ready?" she asked him.

"Less than a year," Sutton replied. "There is the anti-rejection therapy and acclimation period. I should be back in space in a year and a half."

"You gonna go?" she asked. Sutton wondered why she had asked a question that was very near to what he had been dwelling upon.

"I can come back on the active list ma'am," Sutton answered.

"Just funny is all," Stiles remarked. "You could have a desk job in at fleet headquarters in San Francisco; instead you put yourself on the inactive list. Cain't have anything to do with your lady friend getting killed?"

The pain was there, Jeff had to admit that. Sometimes he woke up expecting to feel her beside him, but that would never be again. He found himself wishing that he had taken a deeper breath of the radiation laced air. He forced himself to not feel those things. Sutton wished he were a pointie and could just stifle his grief.

"Maybe I just got my fill," he admitted. Sometimes he had begun to wonder if he would go back on active duty. "Talas' death is part of war. Yeah it hurts; like a piece of me died that day too." It did not help that his parents had been against the idea of him marrying an alien. His mother had even gone as far as to suggest that 'things had worked out for the best.'

She nodded in agreement. "I know it hurts. I lost someone all of a sudden too." She sighed while making herself comfortable on his sofa. "Sittin' around mopin' about it won't bring them back. I know you probably already know that, though." She looked around his less than neat apartment. "So how long are you going to hide in here?"

"I don't know," Sutton answered truthfully; "as long as it takes."

"You did pre-law at FSU," Stiles remarked. "I also read that you were active in campus politics. Seems like you had an interest in that; would you like to do it again?"

"With all due respect ma'am I've had lots of job offers," Sutton countered. "Everyone is crying 'remember the Fearless.' I'm some sort of hero." Talas' suicidal rush against the Romulan attackers had bought Star Fleet precious minutes as well as blunting the intensity of their final attack. It was more than words to him: She had died as she had lived; as a warrior.

"And you haven't took a one of them?" Stiles asked. She looked at him in such a way that he thought she was looking into him. "It's all because you are a war hero. Lot's of nice folks are anxious to hire veterans." He noted how she pronounced it 'vetrans.' "Especially ones who are heroes," she added. "I bet you think I'd just love to have you on my campaign because of that?" He nodded. The thought had crossed his mind.

"Do you know how I heard of you?" she asked him.

He thought of several biting replies but the woman really had done nothing to deserve that from him. He merely shook his head. Jeff was sure that the answer would come in time. Stiles removed a paper folder from the old styled briefcase that she carried. She shoved it across the coffee towards him. Sutton opened it up to discover some of the non electronic literature that The Sons' of Terra employed.

There were the usual proclamations claiming human superiority. A few of the fliers trumpeted that human rights were being denied. Sutton recognized rights in this case as meaning special privileges that the Sons' would bestow upon their certain of their supporters if only the reins were handed to them. It was an old political ploy. There were pamphlets discussing racial purity. Sutton stopped at one of those.

The holophoto was taken on Andoria where a recovering Sutton had been awarded the Andorian Legion of Merit for his actions in saving Shahar Shran. Talas had been on hand and had given Jeff a quite warm, quite human kiss after the ceremony. A reporter or journalists must have taken the image. It was a moment that had been quite special to Jeff. The title that the Sons' propagandist had assigned to the photo turned the moment into something else: Something that was tawdry and ugly. He balled the flier up and tossed it on his floor.

"Not like any of those bastards ever got any pleasure like that unless it was from his hand," he said quietly.

He looked sheepishly at Stiles who he guessed might not want to hear talk like that. She guffawed. "Might be a rejection issue even then," she added. Her face turned serious. "Look, President Thorpe asked me to run. I didn't want to get involved in politics but here I am."

"I used to look at these people in office and think they were just a bunch of harmless clowns. They are clowns. The trouble is that they are anything but harmless. Every time people let their guard down, here they come with a whole database full of new laws and rules that don't do one damn thing except to line someone's pocket. Do you know that Hawkins is using his power to recall the ships off of the Mars Defense Perimeter? He thinks it will make a statement to the Romulans."

"What?" he asked; horrified at her information. She told him of Hawkins' bulletin to the council.

"It'll make a statement alright," Sutton declared angrily; "here we are, come get us."

"Can't someone max boost a subspace message to the president?" Sutton asked.

"It wouldn't matter," Stiles answered. "The Constitution treats this like presidential incapacitation. The few times a president has left earth the custom has been for the council to respect the president pro tempore. This is the first time anyone introduced a no confidence vote while the president was away. From what I've read even if Thorpe sends orders to the contrary they have no legal validity."

Sutton recalled his civics and government classes. It all made sense in a perverted way: What if Thorpe sent a partial order or set of instructions? The bureaucracies and military might find themselves starting something that the president might never even have meant to initiate. Subspace communications had been dicey at best, but since the war it was more likely that a ship would get to a port before a radio message would.

"The president will be gone over a month," he said at last. "That isn't much time to mount a recall." His head throbbed. He was gasping for his breath.

"Take it easy," Stiles advised him. She was massaging his back as she spoke. He became aware that she was taking his pulse.

"Just got angry," he rasped out. Pissed off was more like it. He recovered enough to talk. "You a doctor?" he asked.

"A veterinarian actually," she answered. "You're doing pretty good; if you were a bloodhound." She added that with a grin.

"It'll slow Hawkins down in the meantime," Stiles added.

The wheels were spinning. Sutton recalled a few college friends of his who had pursued journalism and vidcasting. His father had taught him from an early age the value of networking. But he was still breathing hard.

"I'm not in the best of health you know?" he asked.

"You'll do fine," she answered. "There are a few campaign managers I coulda picked. But they all impressed me as career politicians. I don't think that a soft approach is called for here."

"I'm just as liable to bury your whole political career from the start." A few college clubs were a far cry from what she was proposing. Still he had that cocksure attitude that many in the military adopted. He felt that he could do almost anything with a modicum of training. "But I'll give it a try if you'll have me."

He knew that the Sons' movement was founded on nonsense. He had obviously not paid much attention to news from earth as he should. It was not only founded on nonsense, it was founded on evil. Sutton was only one person but he vowed that he would help this woman. She nodded and the two shook hands.

Jeff looked around the narrow confines of the house. The February sun poured through the drapes that his mother had hung. He also realized that Stiles had prevented this place from becoming his tomb.

The Klingon Empire colony of V'hAch'c, Feb 2158

It was oppressively hot. Augustus Kirk found it uncomfortable but preferred it far more than the frigid world that he had been on last week. Still he had met a member of an as yet undiscovered race of aliens: The alien tavern owner Zan seemed to be short on information and felt that everything had to have a cost attached to it. They had learned nothing about Romulans from Zan. Kirk was still mulling over the Suliban's animated facial changes.

Were the Vulcans involved in this? Kirk had contemplated asking Smiley but he was unsure of that course for now. He sometimes felt that Soval was genuinely remorseful about Vulcan's abandonment of its treaty with earth, but could not say for sure. Augustus recalled the hearts game: He had concluded that Vulcans did play fast and loose from that match. There was nothing in the Vulcan's past dealings to show that they stirred up trouble.

Kirk watched a feather covered bird that had a body similar to a terran snake fly out of the top of one of the umbrella trees. Augustus had assigned names like that to the flora and fauna of the Klingon colony. He laughed when he thought of how lucky history was that he was not an explorer; new animals would have names like; the scaly warthog, the flying feather duster, and the smelly frisbee. Kirk had discovered that the frisbee was one of the few meat animals prepared in Klingon fashion that he actually liked.

He thought that he would call the bird the flying feathered python. Chang had advised Kirk that most of the more dangerous animals resided in the deep jungle. The two had even gone on a hunt for a large six legged cat like creature. Kirk had bagged one of the creatures with his Marlin. He had even amazed the Klingons when he had nearly hit another animal with a spear. Augustus still had a farmer's arms and had briefly flirted with the javelin as a young athlete. He was as surprised as had been the Klingons at his eye hand coordination. The Klingons had only shied away from one particular area. Kirk wondered what manner of beast must live there to discourage a Klingon. The only new creature that he had discovered in the prohibited zone was a pleasant, purring creature that he called a powder puff.

He wound through the spiraling well laid flagstone path to G'Nar's laboratory. The Klingon geneticist was somewhat different from his warrior peers. Augustus realized why the Klingons were not masters of this entire region of space: Scientists did not seem highly prized here. Kirk could see the contempt that G'Nar was held up to by the warrior Klingons. It baffled Augustus: Surely they realized that this disease would not be cured by the lethal parry of a batleth.

"Kirk," Chang's clear voice rang out behind him. Augustus was nearing the stone structure that housed the doctor's laboratory. The building, for Kirk, bore more of a resemblance to the apocryphal Count Dracula's castle than a research facility. He turned to see Chang running up behind him. He envied the Klingon's youth as Chang was not even breathing hard.

"Are you preparing to destroy us again?" Kirk asked. That seemed to be the Klingon's customary greeting to outsiders.

"You would not be here if that happened," Chang answered. He came to the point immediately: "The chancellor has informed me that your Doctor Rand has a little more time. These scientists and technicians; the hunt seems to go on forever with them."

Kirk thought that perhaps Chang had a few grains of wisdom. "What of our crewmen?" he asked.

"Marag is of the House of Duras," Chang answered. "He has asked Ma'aQ to explain why he should release your warriors. Ma'aQ believes that Marag is using the time to study your ship's technology." Kirk knew that the chancellor's hold over the houses was not absolute.

"President Thorpe has authorized us to release technology to you Chang," Kirk said.

"The House of Mogh wants this technology," Chang answered. "This is why the chancellor may authorize you to cross our space to Rura Penthe—if your doctor can cure this disease."

"So we cure this and we still end up doing the dirty work for Ma'aQ?" he asked. Kirk didn't expect an answer and was not surprised when he did not get one. He had fathomed that there was some sort of conflict between the two houses. Who ever had taken Kaluch's people out of the picture had significantly strengthened Mogh's side. Kirk suspected that Serendipity and her crew were being used as some sort of pawns by the great Klingon houses.

Chang stopped and motioned for Kirk to do the same. "You could retrieve your people Kirk. Morgan's ship is capable of escaping and going to Rura Penthe."

That confirmed it for Kirk: The chancellor was using Serendipity and her crew as pawns in the game against the House of Duras. There was a greater chess master somewhere, Augustus suspected: A master who was moving the Klingon Empire against Thorpe's fledgling federation. Kirk suspected the Romulans but he still wondered about Silik's facial contortions. He merely nodded to Chang in regard to the Klingon's suggestion.

Kirk took a deep breath as the duo entered the air conditioned building. Augustus would've liked it here except for the antiseptic smell: It was one of the few Klingon buildings that were cool. Chang bristled at the cool antiseptic air. Kirk led the way through the oddly curving corridors; by now he was familiar with them. He soon found himself confronting the sight of his friend David Rand and the Klingon geneticist G'Nar. Rand had actually started a dedicated study of Klingon while G'Nar was attempting English. Together the two communicated through a bizarre combination of both languages. Rand looked up at the two.

"Augy, drinks may be in order," Rand stated.

"You have a cure?" he asked.

"No," Rand answered; "not yet."

"This shape shifter," G'Nar interjected; "this Suliban. David examined the blood stain from your cloak. We believe that we have discovered where the retrovirus' morphogenic properties came from."

"Suliban blood?" he asked.

"Suliban DNA," Rand corrected Kirk. "It was not part of our research but I was excited that you had a sample of their blood after you told me about their shape shifting ability." Kirk didn't think a wounded alien's blood and spittle constituted a sample but who was he to argue with professionals from the field? "We've been frustrated at running into obstacles so I thought that the Suliban sample might be an interesting diversion."

"So explain all of this in Kirklish Dave," Augustus said. A grin played over his lips.

"Remember how I said that gene therapy was specific to the individual and its effects should not be able to spread?" Rand seemed pleased with his progress Kirk thought. Kirk nodded. "That would be true unless you added something that would allow the genetic changes to adapt and spread to a new host." Rand looked pleadingly at Kirk. "I don't suppose that there are anymore of these Suliban on that planet?"

"Not that I know of," Kirk answered. The Klingons had thoroughly examined Miasa after Kirk's disclosure concerning Silik. She was not a Suliban as far as they could tell.

"We have the method Rand," G'Nar declared. "We shall overcome all problems to find the cure!" Kirk looked at the Asiatic looking Klingon. Augustus would want to find a cure were he so afflicted.

"What about you Soong?" Kirk asked. The cyberneticist was busy sitting before a circuit board.

"I knew you'd care about me Augy; if no one else," Soong replied. Kirk shot him a look of consternation. "I can upgrade the crinkle-heads' computers. The two doctors there should have better number crunching ability anytime now."

"What about Chang?" Kirk asked, feeling that he was pointing out the obvious. "I noticed that a lot of the younger Klingons seem to be immune."

"We're working on that," Rand said. "Some but not all," he added. "We couldn't connect the dots on what was causing this thing to mutate—until now. Now that we know we can look at age related factors."

"Connect what dots?" G'Nar asked. "There was no spotting caused by the retrovirus."

Rand laughed. "It is like you told me about when a targ goes cross-eyed looking at his snout." The Klingon caught on.

"Okay what do you and Doctor Frankenstein over there make of this?" Soong asked as figures ran down a video monitor. The screen was split; one half in Klingon letters, numbers and chemical symbols, the other half in English. The English side meant as much to Kirk as the Klingon half did: Which was to say, nothing. It apparently meant a great deal to Rand and G'Nar.

David beat Kirk's question: "This is interesting and may even lead to a way to reverse this. Or it could just as easily mean nothing." The human doctor shot a glance at his Klingon associate. "We'll need time."

"I concur," G'Nar said.

Kirk looked up as Captain Marissa Morgan entered the lab. Her long red hair, usually tied back in a severe ponytail was untied and lay about her shoulders. She still looked very much the fighter despite her hair style. She made a quick survey of the laboratory before saying anything.

"I don't suppose you've anything new to report?" she started by asking Rand. Serendipity's chief surgeon filled her in on what they had discovered. "That's a start I guess." She sighed. Kirk could see that she looked troubled.

"Anything new up there?" he asked looking skyward. She shook her head.

There was a commotion as Kaluch barged into the lab with his guards. It occurred to Kirk that it must be a rule that Klingons make a noisy entrance. "So Ma'aQ sends you here as a diversion while he readies an attack fleet!"

"What is going on?" Morgan demanded in English. Kirk translated for her. "Tell him that we are not a diversion for anything. We are here to retrieve our people." Kirk translated quickly. He also added that they were near to a cure. Augustus looked hard at Kaluch. If G'Nar or David said otherwise his calculated lie would be exposed.

"Kaluch we are very near to a cure," Kirk was surprised to hear G'Nar add. "There are infected Klingons in space. If we end here it is possible that this will spread to the rest of the empire. Even Ma'aQ must see that."

"This was just an excuse to lure us into a trap," Kaluch roared back angrily. "Our spies in the council are ahead of the chancellor's forces;" this last he directed towards Chang. "Ma'aQ will not find it that easy to destroy us."

"Maybe it won't come to that," Kirk said in Klingon. Morgan looked at him in bewilderment. He knew that the Serendipity was under her command, but the president had sent him out as a diplomat. Kaluch seemed to be temporarily out of words. Kirk took advantage of the situation.

"Look at what has gone on here Kaluch: A disease radically changes a large segment of your population at the same time that we are at war with the Romulans. Who stands to lose here? If you war among yourselves no matter the outcome you'll be weakened before whichever of us wins. None of the races in the federation have ever been overly aggressive. We are more explorers and traders than conquerors; both of your houses have criticized us for that. If you'll weakened before the Romulans…well I understand that you've already had run-ins with them along your common border. Your worlds will be easy prey for them; especially if they are victorious against us as well. My point is, Kaluch, if there is a Klingon civil war the only winners will be the Romulans."

"Perhaps Chang has a point Kirk," Kaluch countered. "Your federation would wither before an alliance between Romulus and Qo'noS. Perhaps the only ones to lose here are your people."

"Even fools can sometimes be led to wisdom," Chang declared. Kaluch pulled the dagger from his sheath. Chang did likewise.

"An attack fleet on the way and you two are bent on killing each other," Kirk declared tersely.

"I will present Ma'aQ with Chang's head after I've blown his ships to the stars!" Kaluch bellowed.

"Give us a chance Kaluch," Kirk declared. He recalled some of his discussions about Klingon culture that he had with Chang. "Kahless was a conqueror; but don't you celebrate him in part because of his victories against Molor? He united your people; are you going to throw all of that away?"

"How do you propose to stop Ma'aQ?" Kaluch asked.

What is going on?" Morgan demanded. Kirk hastily translated what he had been saying. "Tell Kaluch to beam a message to the chancellor's fleet: Tell him that he knows the attack is imminent and that he is prepared for it." Kirk rendered Morgan's words into Klingon.

"Reveal our strength?" he asked angrily.

Kirk thought that he guessed the intent behind Morgan's words. "No; won't the chancellor think twice about attacking when he discovers that it won't be a surprise? Your forces already butted heads once before…" Kirk saw the Klingon's confusion at the human aphorism that Augustus had just introduced. "You two fought inconclusively before; I expect you knew he was coming then?"

"We only delay the inevitable Kirk," Kaluch argued. "This fight has been a long time coming."

"Give G'Nar and Rand time to come up with a cure," Kirk said. "We'll share the technology with both houses. Everyone comes up a winner."

Kaluch's anger seemed to abate. Kirk explained what he had just said to Morgan. "Tell him I'll commit my ship to fighting on the side of the House of Duras if Ma'aQ continues; that might help buy some more time."

"You'd do that?" Kirk asked.

She nodded. "You aren't the only one who knows how to play fast and loose Augy," Morgan admonished him. "The fact is that star ship captains are going to end up being ambassadors and administrators as well as explorers. We'll never get anywhere out here by waiting for words from a command base. It's on my head Augy: I'll accept the outcome of whatever happens."

"Including war with these people?" he asked.

"What do you think is going to happen if we fail here?" Morgan asked in reply. "I don't know if your theory about the Romulans being involved is correct or not Augy. I do think that I understand these people enough that I understand that they respond to actions; meaningful actions."

Kirk told Kaluch of Morgan's commitment. The Klingon turned to her. "Tell her Kirk, that I believe her. So shall it be. I will order my ships away from hers. I also believe that both you and she understand that if we do not win the day then it is likely that your federation will face an enemy from yet another sector." Kaluch folded his arms across his armored chest in a very human like gesture. "I shall send a message to Ma'aQ's forces. This may be moot if the chancellor continues. I do not believe that he will: Ma'aQ has shown himself to be conservative in the battlespace." Kaluch chuckled. "He has been too long a politician."

Kaluch departed shortly thereafter. Kirk turned to his friend David. "You two better turn into miracle workers."

Taskforces 17 and 33, UES Agincourt, near 40 Eridani, Feb 2158

"Report!" the commander of Agincourt roared. Zimmermann had a death grip on the side of his chair. Despite the restraints he was still being tossed around by fluctuations from his cruiser's artificial gravity.

"Power to decks one through nine is being routed through secondaries," Commander Tristan Conway informed him. "The port nacelle is venting plasma. Shuttle bay two holed and depressurized." Conway looked grim as he added: "It'll slow things down when we have to abandon ship."

"The proximity bursts don't even faze those bastards!" the gunnery officer exclaimed in a voice dripping with despair.

Less than a week away from Vulcan, Zimmermann and Stiles' taskforces found themselves jumped by Vulcan cruisers loyal to Minister V'Las. The two earth taskforces and the Vulcan cruisers Druzm'za and Nefiir had been cruising just off of the established spaceways into Vulcan when loyalist forces had discovered them. Agincourt rocked again from what Conway described as a glancing blow from a Vulcan particle weapon. Leonard had a morbid thought as he considered the very real possibility that this was the end of their journey into Vulcan space.

"Druzm'za is under evacuation commodore," Lieutenant Thomas Bateson informed him. Zimmermann wondered how the Vulcan cruiser had come this far. "Sub Commander Z'Tel reports that Nefiir is adrift—scrambled voice over video from Beagle commodore!"

The tactical plot, a portrait of their defeat as far as Zimmermann was concerned, was replaced by an equally unpleasant image of the bridge of Commodore Jocelyn Stiles converted freighter. The young officer was wreathed in smoke; looking to Zimmermann like some vengeful demon. Zimmermann heard pleading sobs in Andorian. He saw some of Beagle's medics working on one of the blue skinned aliens just behind Stile's seat. The smoke was still rising off of the injured alien crewman.

"Can you retreat?" Zimmermann asked simply. He could see the pain in the woman's face. He felt it too. There had been just five Sh'Raan class vessels opposed to them at the outset. But it was like a contest between ancient sailing ships and an iron clad wet navy battleships.

She slammed her fist into the arm of her chair. "We can cover a few of our ships commodore. We won't make it out; maybe they will."

"I'll move to a position to bracket cruiser three," Zimmermann informed her. The combined force of earth and Vulcan ships had managed to dispatch two of the loyalist cruisers, but that had been with the help of Nefiir and Druzm'za. The defending Vulcans had moved quickly to neutralize that threat. That left the relatively primitive earth ships for last Zimmermann thought bitterly.

"I'll move to cover you," Stiles answered. Just in time as the video image broke into static. Bateson confirmed Vulcan jamming. If only the Vulcans would stop to talk Leonard thought.

He guessed that V'Las would order radio silence not only out of military necessity but also as a way to curb defections. They would not even be able to surrender Zimmermann realized. That was now a very real possibility he knew. He ordered a return to the tactical plot. Zimmermann watched as trailing data streams representing Minotaurs marauded ineffectually among the mighty Vulcan cruisers.

"At least the carriers got away chief," Lieutenant Ben 'Smiley' Porter told his copilot. Porter could not bring himself to use the older man's callsign of 'Goldbrick', despite having the broken hash marks of ensign recently filled in.

"I read all the tactical dispatches on these pointie ships," Chief Ronald Simmons answered. "I never thought they would turn out to be this tough. We might as well be throwing rocks at 'em!"

Porter slewed the stubby Minotaur over to stay as close to the Sh'Raan as possible. Their missile shots were pathetically useless as the Amazons were picked off sometimes less than ten kilometers from when they left the tubes. He looked at his HUD to see that he still had a store of five of the fifteen kiloton jewels. Porter thought bitterly that it might as well be five canisters of garbage for ejection.

An idea occurred to him as they closed for the safety of the nearest Sh'Raan. "Chief; prepare to jettison weapons. Set a timer for fifteen seconds after ejection for detonation."

"What the hell Smiley?" the chief asked. Porter grinned back; a rare facial expression for him and the reason for the choice of his callsign.

"We ain't going to make it out of here with lasers chief," Porter stated;' Just follow my lead, chief."

He watched as Simmons analyzed their Minotaur's speed and direction. "You aren't nearly as dumb as you look sir!" The chief cycled the weapons' emergency jettison control. He turned back to Ben seconds later: "Standing by lieutenant."

He slowed the fighter. Both men stared in awe at their video displays. Porter had matched speeds with the Sh'Raan putting the tiny fighter in the space between the warship's toroidal ring warp nacelle and primary hull. Porter swore that he saw Vulcan crewmen through the Sh'Raan's panes of transparent aluminum. He issued the order to Simmons.

"Weapons away!" the chief confirmed.

"Hold on!" he exclaimed. Porter knew that these relatively slow velocities that the fighter's small gravity web would protect them. Still; he strained against the g forces as he maneuvered the Minotaur through all three dimensions in a series of wild random jinks.

"Damnit!" he swore. The craft's controls stopped responding. His heads' up display winked out accompanied by a plethora of red warning lights from the fighter's instrument panels. Porter felt his pressure suit swell. "How bad is it chief?"

"Uh sir," Simmons responded in uncharacteristically bewildered tone. "Better look behind you."

Porter realized that the artificial gravity was gone as he cocked his head around. An incredible visage filled the corner of his eye: The stars were rolling, cold pinpricks of light against the black curtain of space. The fighter's aft section comprising its power plant and drive section were gone. He stared open mouthed at Simmons who returned the gaze.

"It was a good plan l-t," the chief remarked. Simmons words filtered over Porter's tiny helmet speakers. "Remember what you told me about not seeing your grandfather the last time you shipped out?" Simmons continued before Porter could answer. "If we make it back take him out fishing like you said you wanted to."

"I'll remember that chief," Porter extended his gauntleted hand to the chief. The enlisted man seized it. The broken shell of the fighter lit up with blinding white light.

The lethal darts looked small next to the bulk of the Vulcan ship. The spear shaped craft fired beam after beam at the escaping earth fighter; finally one connected, neatly shearing the back of the Minotaur off. The missile warheads exploded: Caught between the Sh'Raan's warp nacelle and its hull the explosion illuminated the Vulcan's shields. It seemed for a split second that the Sh'Raan's shields would repulse the nuclear detonation. Then it seemed as if the scalding white explosion leaked into the cruiser's shields. The warship became, for a second, a gleaming white spear until its shields failed forever allowing it to expand into a fiery sphere.

"Prepare to send a message to the Vulcans," Zimmermann buried his face in his hands as he considered what must be done. The odds had improved but not enough to save them. He hoped that his plea for surrender would be accepted. Leonard knew, like any good officer that there was a point where there was nothing left to fight with. He would die with Agincourt but he could not allow his crew to die in a vain last stand against overwhelming odds.

"Commodore I'm reading friendly IFF on an approach vector," Chief Tanya Lindstrom informed him. "The last two Vulcan ships are moving to intercept."

"What ship is that?" he asked the sensor chief.

"Unknown sir," she responded crisply. "They are dropping out of warp." The crispness left to be replaced with a tone of puzzlement that turned rapidly to excitement: "Distance; twenty five thousand—solid objects ejected--missiles on the fly! Going to warp!" she exclaimed.

The ship stretched into normal space with a flash. Its design was apparent; reflected in its large cigar like shape. The tubes of its twin warp nacelles glowed red on their ends. The seal, emblazoned upon the side of the vessel, showed a muscled white stallion underscored by the words 'UES Charger'. Missiles spat out of the characteristic twin tubes on the ship's keel. A single tube projected from the top of the ship's bow. Three missiles spat out of that tube in rapid succession.

Just as rapidly the missiles vanished into subspace with a flash. The first of the missiles was taken by particle beam fire. The second was destroyed a little closer to its intended target. The third emerged from warp less than a kilometer from the Sh'Raan. The fireball subsided, leaving the Vulcan cruiser adrift; the remaining piece of its warp nacelle ring glowed red as it trailed radioactive debris. The new arrival turned to the last Vulcan warship.

The Surak class vessel's nacelle glowed in preparation to entering warp. Beams hit an incoming missile but did not stop the other two. The first detonation sent the cruiser reeling through space. Its shields visibly pulsed on then off then back on. The second blasted the tumbling craft; destroying its protective shield blister. A final missile turned the cruiser into a small, short-lived sun. The mystery United Earth Stellar Navy craft cruised past the destruction on impulse.

"Raise that ship!" Zimmermann bellowed.

"They are hailing us," Lieutenant Thomas Bateson answered. "Voice over video scrambled," he added.

Zimmermann ordered the encoded image put up on the bridge's main viewer. The man wearing the gold command jersey looked familiar to Leonard. He had been on the network. Deep Space One; Zimmermann remembered where he had seen the captain. The captain was also the son of a famous warp field theorist. Archer that was the name, he remembered.

"Commodore Zimmermann I presume?" the captain asked.

Leonard nodded. "Lucky for us that you are out here; what sort of vessel is that?"

"This is the Conqueror class Star Fleet ship Charger," Archer replied. "Speaking of being out here; just what are you doing violating the Vulcan border commodore?"

"Beagle is requesting permission to conference," Bateson informed him. Zimmermann nodded at him. The screen split into one image of Archer and the bridge of Charger; the other the darkened smoky bridge of Beagle and Commodore Stiles' image.

"We'll make short work of the other side with ships like that," Zimmermann answered; deliberately sidestepping Archer's other question.

"We only just managed to push this one out because we have a hell of a chief engineer," Archer said. "We like to think of him as our major domo of engineering." The captain nodded at Leonard. "That's true but we have to assume that the other team isn't just sitting on their laurels. They probably have some surprises of their own. Now; as to why you are heading toward Vulcan?" the captain asked.

Zimmermann wondered what the outcome of this would be. Was Star Fleet here to end their diplomatic junket? His memory became clearer: Archer was supposed to head up the United Earth Space Exploration Agency. That told him little about the man. Zimmermann decided to relate what had happened in the past few weeks. Archer nodded. Stiles threw in support whenever possible.

"So you mean to continue?" Archer asked pointedly.

Zimmermann found himself becoming a little angry with the man's tone. "As a matter of fact yes; captain." He put a severe emphasis on Archer's rank. "Even President Thorpe has said that this Vulcan impasse has to end. So we are going to Vulcan captain," he stressed the rank once again.

"You're right Commodore Zimmermann," Archer said agreeably. Zimmermann was surprised to see him vacate his chair. A man with wiry red hair crossed behind Archer's empty seat.

Another person entered the video pickup. Zimmermann's career flashed before his eyes. He wondered how conditions were at the New Zealand penal colony these days. President Christophur Thorpe smiled at Charger's bridge pickup. Leonard lowered his chin to conceal his gulp.

"Commodore Zimmermann, Jo-jo it is good to see you both," Thorpe wore a broad smile. "I know you through signing your promotion papers Commodore Zimmermann." Leonard wondered how the president would feel about him after he signed his discharge papers.

"Nice meeting you out here Mister President," Leonard said. He felt foolish but he was out of ideas. He wished that he were facing an entire squadron of birdies instead of this situation.

"Likewise," Thorpe answered.

"Sir," Commander Conway was whispering from out of range of the bridge audio pickup. "Bateson says that Nefiir is calling. Sub Commander Z'Tel says that he has recovered the crew of the Druzm'za, but it will be at least a day before they are able to get underway."

"The area reads clear captain," an Irish accented voice declared from outside the range of Charger's video pickup.

"Mister O'Brien has enabled us to use our subspace sensors again commodore," Thorpe explained. "I believe that the military contention is that we can stay until the Vulcans make repairs. I believe that I can bring a little diplomatic expertise to your mission if you will permit?"

"Of course Mister President," Zimmermann answered. He ran down his armrest status panel. He guessed that they would need at least a day for repairs themselves.

"Excellent!" the president exclaimed. He rubbed his hands cheerfully. "I'll look forward to reviewing your service jacket again commodore." Leonard's heart skipped a beat: "To enter a commendation—for both of you. Good show."

Thorpe left the picture to be replaced by Archer. "We'll lend assistance as needed commodore."

"Thank you captain," Leonard answered. The bridge of Charger vanished. Zimmermann wiped at his brow. "That was close," he mumbled.

Stiles laughed. "I was wondering about that prison in New Zealand."

"Me too," Zimmermann answered with a grin pasted on his lips. "We could have teamed up: I'm sure we would have been running the place in six months."

Stiles laughed. Her image vanished. Zimmermann sat back and examined the tactical readout that had replaced her visage. He sighed. Zimmermann guessed that he would finish this war as either an admiral or a prisoner. Neither choice seemed particularly palatable to him at the moment.

The presidential compound, San Francisco, California, the old United States, earth, Feb 2158

"This order withdrawing our ships behind the Mars defense network," Commodore James Leonard started; "I just want to know what your reasoning behind this is, councilor."

"President," Mark Hawkins corrected the man. How he despised the military in their fancy powder blue uniforms. He thought that the new jerseys were a better choice: The colors made the soldiers look like clowns that Mark had seen in circuses.

"President Pro Tempore," Leonard retorted. "President Thorpe will be back from Vulcan, sir. In the brief history of our government councilors have always respected the office while the president was absent—until now."

"I've not violated the law commodore!" he answered angrily. These high minded people like Leonard always left Mark feeling unsettled. He had had a belly full of them during his life. "Are you questioning the orders of the president, admiral?" Hawkins knew how intimidating making an error in a person's name or title was.

Leonard merely smiled at him in turn. "President Thorpe is conducting a diplomatic mission to Vulcan. I would never question his orders sir."

"Don't play smart with me you…you." His fury was consuming him. "You've had it all given to you! All of your kind; well I'm here to show you! You…you perfect little people all getting the best of everything because of who you are; because your parents are nothing but a bunch of rich ne'r-do-wells!"

Leonard's smile dropped ever so slightly much to Mark's confusion. Rather than look angry the commodore looked at him with eyes full of pity. "Thank you for making a biased assumption about that which you couldn't know a thing Mister President Pro Tempore. My birth parents were nativists: You must have heard of that quaint little sect; after the last war they rejected technology. I grew up in much the same way as a farm boy in nineteenth century America must have lived." Hawkins remembered something about that from school. Nativists were some sort of Indians he thought. Leonard continued before Hawkins could jump in:

"Of course they also refused medicines. They died of smallpox when I was ten. No reason for it really; not in this miraculous time we live in. I was adopted by a retired petty officer and his wife. She inherited a defect that prevented her from having children." Leonard held up a hand as Hawkins tried speaking. "I'll be brief sir. Since you brought up my parents I'd thought that you'd be interested in knowing about them. I was fortunate to have two sets of loving parents. They both taught me the value of hard work; one taught me to respect those who go out and put their lives on the line for this society. Would that everyone did the same," the commodore added as he gazed at Mark.

"You are the ones who brought the Romulans here," Mark sputtered; "with your expansionist policies! Do you know where we'd be if the money pissed away into the space navy was spent on people instead?"

"Probably back in the twentieth century thinking that by robbing one person we could benefit another?"

"Goddamn you that is enough!" he bellowed. Hawkins slammed his fist down upon the desktop. He hated this office; the smell of furniture oil and its large window. Dominique had advised him to leave it open to show confidence; to show guests that this was his purview. He differed with her believing that the position of power should be one where others could not look in, but he agreed to do as she bid.

Mark's heart jumped a little when the commodore stood up. He was beginning to hate the shimmering gold tunic as much as he did the old blue uniforms. Leonard did not attempt to strike him as some part of him thought would happen. The naval officer acquiesced at last.

"No pussyfootin' around either," Mark continued. "I want those ships in by the end of the week!"

"That is doable Mister President Pro Tempore," Leonard answered. "It takes that long to accomplish the rerouting and opening the slip space." The military officer grinned again. "Almost as much time as it takes to stage a recall election, eh sir?"

"Go to hell," Hawkins snapped. Leonard had hit painfully upon the truth. Stiles and her cripple of a campaign manager had obtained almost all of the signatures necessary to for a recall vote. Did people really hate him that much?

He was hungry. Dominique had told him that was one of his weaknesses. Hawkins' mother had always fed a young Mark when he had had a bad time of things. That seemed to have turned out to be many times. He needed her. She had told him that it was best for him to receive visitors alone. She had advised him that it showed strength; that she would be there listening if he needed help: He needed that badly now.

"Hell sir?" the military officer asked. "I expect that would be the least of what I deserve for failing in my duties.

"Do as I say Leonard," Hawkins said. He filled his voice with as much menace as he could muster. "I'll be keepin' an eye on you; you sombitch. You'll be out of the service after this is over. It'll be a hoot to see a fancy boy like you make it in the real world."

"Like I said sir," the commodore answered; "a good work ethic and respect for those who make things go. I'm not worried. Too bad you never learned those things. If my term was over I'd be the first in line to vote you down." Leonard turned on his heel and walked off.

"I haven't dismissed you…you bastard!" he cursed at the officer's back. The glass shattered against the doorframe just as the door closed on the departing commodore.

Tears of anger rolled down his cheeks. He was famished. He knew that the presidential chef would fix him what he wanted. He pictured a ham sandwich and french fries: The sandwich was dripping with fat and mustard. He started to pick up the phone when a strong hand settled on top of his. The nails of the hand were immaculate: They were painted a deep scarlet and well manicured.

"You've gotten what you wanted," Dominique cooed at him. "Remember what you said: Do observe that he does as you have bidden and do what it takes to remove him from the military. Threats are an act of a child. Men act. They do not threaten without following through."

The sandwich vanished from his mind. She smiled as if she knew that it was so. Calm seemed to overtake him. Still; there was a part of Hawkins that craved that sandwich; that craved his mother's sage advice and kind words. He wasn't doing anything wrong? The answer seemed to come: No, this war was evil; young men and women being killed and maimed in horrible ways. We are the ones at fault; humanity: Always poking our noses where we don't belong, interfering with cultures that were older and better than ours. We moved out too soon; without adult leadership. We deserved what happened to us.

She smiled down at him. Hawkins took her hand and moved it below his waist. Dominique smiled in that way that excited him; so tawdry and dirty he thought. Her hand pulled away abruptly. Fear descended on Mark as she stood bolt upright. Words that sounded like gibberish and yet he knew were a language left her lips. For a brief second he saw the fear that he felt on her face. The fear was replaced by a dreadful sense of urgency. She looked wildly at the open window.

"We must leave this room!" she hissed. "Blackness!" she murmured.

"What should I do?" he asked as she hustled him to his feet. An image of the panic alarm appeared in his mind. He reached under the desk and pushed it.

Malcolm Reed rather enjoyed the cool weather here. The major much preferred it cool since he had to crawl through the manicured garden. His facial spray did not breathe much; that made his face warm. But he could not have gotten into the presidential compound without the flesh-like substitute on his face. He could not look like poor Johan Stinson without the spray. He smiled as he recalled the sweet young civil servant.

He wished he could have enjoyed Stinson in that particular way that he liked the most, but it could not be so. He would end the man's life fairly cleanly and humanely. Reed would have preferred a little play but he had a job to do and Stinson had a destiny to fulfill. The time released organic poison would make it appear that the young man had killed himself; just after he assassinated the president.

Reed aimed the slim rifle toward the window. He didn't need accuracy. The organic casing would slough off as the projectile traveled. It would break apart releasing its lovely contents into the room: The gas would attack the heart muscle of those who inhaled it. Hawkins had been overweight. Reed knew that the doctors would find that he had put too much onto his self. He chuckled softly. A hideous din arose: Someone had sounded the alarm. Reed fired: The noise was barely perceptible. He folded the rifle neatly into its pocket sized carrying mode and then scrambled through the thick growth.

He emerged near a walkway that led into the compound's administrative section. Reed took a deep breath and slowed his gait. He was just a happy civil servant going about his job with just a little concern for the hubbub. He passed two of Johan's chums. The voice synthesizer created a passable voice for him. He inquired about the alarm. One of Stinson's fellow administrators started voicing an opinion. The other gave Reed a strange look.

"I thought that you were going to leave early today, Johan?" the woman asked. "What were you doing over in the greenhouse anyway?"

Reed had done his research: The presidential staff called the lower section containing the garden 'the greenhouse'. A different level of work was done there requiring a higher clearance. "Just delivering the noon report for old Bixby," Malcolm replied. He had extracted some names after some network snooping. The woman saw grass clippings in the cuffs of Malcolm's slacks. He did not follow her gaze. If he had been alone with her he could have persuaded her using his talents.

"I think that you should wait here Johan," she advised him. He looked into the distance to the end of the shady breezeway. Two armed Star Fleet red shirts stepped out, their red tunics covered by olive drab equipment vests.

"I really don't feel like waiting," Reed said. He grabbed the woman's mate; a large but rather slow moving man. Reed twisted about until he had the man's head firmly in his grip. He used his free hand to retrieve the rifle. A single flip of Malcolm's wrist reassembled the rifle. The first cartridge had been for the gas, the remaining ones were small armor piercing rounds.

He fired two shots. One of the security troops jerked backward. Malcolm guessed that there was more to their vests as the man reeled into some bushes. The other red shirt knelt and unslung her rifle in one fluid motion. Reed fired again while pushing the woman away. He suspected that she was the feisty type and was on the verge of interfering with his plans. His prisoner struggled as Reed let fly with two more shots. The man screamed and jerked as a laser beam sizzled into a concrete support. Malcolm shoved the man into the deadly beam.

He landed hard and rolled onto the lawn. Malcolm was up and running presenting as small a target as possible. The motor pool and landing pad was less than fifty meters away. Reed lunged forward diving into a small fold in the landscape. Grass and dirt exploded around him. He knew that the security troops carried more than lasers but he noted that they seemed to favor the beam weapons over more traditional choices. He rolled and fired again. This time he aimed for the red shirt's head. The woman went down but her partner continued firing. An autobot, sweeping the grounds, rolled past.

Malcolm rose and shoved against the automated groundskeeper. He caused it to careen toward the vehicle service area. It moved slowly enough that he could keep it between him and his adversaries. He turned and fired at an older ceremonial groundcar. Reed was painfully aware that he was running low on ammunition. The vehicle's fuel cell ruptured. Reed winced as he felt the hot bite of a laser in his left shoulder. He discarded the almost depleted rifle in the bot's small stowage area. Reed was pleased to see a container of paint with flammable marked on it. He had discovered that the grounds' workers used the small bots to transport things that they needed in addition to taking care of the presidential compound.

Malcolm pulled an old US Army Colt ten millimeter pistol from his shoulder holster. He missed the plasma pistol but that could be too easily traced back to a service member. The United States Army's last service pistol had the unique ability to handle explosive rounds. Reed fired two of those into the fuel cell. The cell's hydrogen exploded. Just in time as three more security troops emerged from that location. One was thrown clear while the others were engulfed in flame. This was going horribly. Reed sprinted the last few meters to the maintenance area.

He had seconds. Malcolm grabbed a pair of bulky overalls from a hanger and threw them on. He debated trying to remove his temporary face but he could ill afford to be videoed. Reed opened the door of a groundcar; a security escort vehicle he noted. He buttoned up the overalls as he engaged the car's tiny auto controller. Reed jumped away from the vehicle as it shot from under the roof of the covered parking area. He spied several civilian security people. Reed made a bee line for them.

"I saw the bastard!" he exclaimed. Reed pointed anxiously at the empty car speeding away.

"Where's your pass?" one of the burly, unsmiling presidential guardians asked him.

"Damnit!" he cursed after he reached for the nonexistent badge. "I left it in the car with that…that person."

"Then let us see your alternate ID," an equally burly, grim faced woman asked.

"No time for that Kara!" her mate warned.

She gave Malcolm a look laced with suspicion, but she allowed herself to be led away. Reed looked with longing at several aircars. He knew that the compound had an excellent point defense missile system. His career and life would come to an abrupt end if he chose one of those. He knew that he was still living on moments. Everything had been going so well until that mental brush had come across his psyche. The gas' anesthetic effects would have dulled the senses of its victims before they could have sounded the alarm. The mental intrusion had come before he had even had a chance to fire.

He turned around. Kara was busy discussing something with her partner. She was pointing in Reed's direction. His time had run out. A small tour bus was stopped for the emergency. The driver was seated behind a combination of protective transparent aluminum and crystal. The man was quite nervous about events. No wonder Malcolm thought, since the assassination of Todd Glenn. Malcolm gave the older man even more to be concerned about when he started a headlong rush for the bus, firing at the protective bubble as he went. The bubble was designed to insulate the driver from possible unruly passengers and allow for short term protection from beam weapons.

The first three shots turned the side window into a spider web of cracks. Reed fired two more times. The tough material finally yielded to the ten millimeter's explosive rounds. So did the driver whose head exploded into a pulpy mass. Reed drank of the terror being exuded from the horrified tourists. He sprang up into the driver's cab and leaned over to push the corpse out of the way. Just in time as the bus' bubble rattled from the impact of anesthetic darts. Reed was surprised that the temporary president's guards were trying nonlethal means of stopping him.

The transport's controls were fairly easy to decipher. Malcolm sent the bus toward the gate. It wasn't built for speed. He considered using the driver's public address system to further implicate Johan Stinson but rejected that plan as he realized that scheme had fallen apart. Malcolm cinched the bloodied straps around his waist. The bus hit the main gate with a bone jarring impact. It did not break the gate open but he had a platform from which to climb over the fence. He scrambled out of the cab and onto the bus' roof.

The smooth metal gate was pushed out enough that he could slide the six meters to the grounds outside the compound. Reed's landing was not without incidence. He felt a sickening crunch in his right ankle. He would have to push his body for all that it was worth. Malcolm took off for a line of trees at a hobbling gait. He heard the small turbojet engines of pursuit aircars. Malcolm didn't have to look behind him to know that they would soon find him.

He was happy to see that the news services actively monitored emergency communications. Malcolm burst out of the trees to see a vidcaster crew busy setting up for a transmission. He had a few shots left. He aimed toward the news crew.

"Hawkins is a race traitor!" he proclaimed for the video recorder. It was sheer nonsense but these peoples' politics all struck him as being nonsensical. Reed started firing, seemingly randomly but with the goal of driving the vidcaster team away from their aircar.

He exhausted a clip. Malcolm ejected it and quickly replaced it with another. The crew ran: One man fell and started screaming like a child. Malcolm wanted to laugh but that would be out of character for a murderous lunatic. He had a few seconds. The terror the man felt was rich. Reed walked up and put his gun against the man's forehead. He smiled broadly at him. The feeling flowed through Malcolm so much so that he almost forgot himself.

"Your lucky day friend," he told the hapless man. Reed winked at him then scrambled into the aircar.

He headed away at a leisurely speed. Reed turned the craft in a slow turn; right into the path of an oncoming security car. He could see the red shirts gesturing angrily at him. The armed aircar nosed up sharply to avoid hitting him. Reed stared haplessly at them. Malcolm looked at his traffic advisory screen until he found a place to enter the pattern. He guessed that he now had more time. Reed turned at the first opening and descended.

He skimmed along the top of the lawful ceiling toward the Richmond District and Johan Stinson's apartment. Reed listened to the aircar's emergency services monitor: They were on to him. He had been airborne less than two minutes. Reed wished that he was reviewing the security forces' conduct. He would have given them an excellent rating. He nosed the car below the deck eliciting angry warnings from a local controller. Reed laughed with abandon as he speeded past buildings. He applied braking thrust and killed the craft's artificial gravity cushion. The aircar dropped straight down into a parking area.

Malcolm bounded from the car toward the small apartment building. He had to do something with Stinson to erase his trail. Stinson's half of the double house exploded knocking Reed on his back and the air out of his lungs. A groundcar drove up beside him. He started to reach for the ten millimeter when a hand with an iron grip seized his gun hand. His arm was wrenched in its socket as he was pulled into the car.

"Admiral Soames said that this killing would lead to disaster!" Kanya Nayyar exclaimed.

The passenger compartment door slammed shut. Nayyar turned the vehicle on just one of its three wheels as she pushed the car to its maximum. Reed was thrown against his door. Nayyar raced through the less populated streets finally slowing down as they neared Fisherman's Wharf. Reed admonished her for her blatantly reckless driving.

"I took this vehicle even though it does not belong to me," she answered. "We will probably be tracked soon."

"Stole it love," he corrected her. "Stole it; you sound like a bloody pointie sometimes."

"I am still learning how to be human," she answered.

"It's dreadfully overrated my dear," he told her. "Still its better than being a cold fish like the Vulcans. Speaking of cold fish love," he paused wondering how much he should let her know. He finally decided that he could skirt around the hows and whys. He had been doing so for a long time. "Tell me; do these Romulans have any sort of…mental abilities."

She slammed on the brakes well prior to the stop. "Reman!" was her one word exclamation.

"Don't get too excited my dear," he said with a grin pasted on his lips. "At least not until we have time to exploit it," he added. His grin changed to a somewhat suggestive smirk.

"I would never mate with you," she responded angrily. "The admiral is right: There is something wrong with you Reed."

"Saving it for dear Frank when he returns?" he chided. He had heard a few slips of her tongue. Nayyar fascinated him: She was as lethal as he and yet in some ways almost childlike. It was Reed's nature to probe.

She rubbed her stomach as they resumed driving. Reed figured that they now had a half hour lead on the authorities. Despite his admonishment to her it had not escaped him that she had driven fast in areas that were relatively clear of people. She finally answered him, much to his surprise.

"I am carrying their child, but that is not what…interests me about Frank. Humans; my people are a mystery to me. What the Romulans told me was nothing more than information designed to manipulate us. I first became curious after…after I killed Admiral French."

"So the fire was not an accident?" Reed asked. He knew that this was information that he could use later.

She nodded. "I thought that he would beg for his life. But he stood proudly at the end. He said men would prevail and that the Romulans had underestimated them—us. Then later Frank spared me after we tried to sabotage Space Station One. He told me not to kill anyone anymore."

He saw a sadness reflected in her eyes. "You've certainly reneged on that." He thanked her for taking care of his Stinson problem.

"I ran a tox kit on him," she answered. "You had already done your damage. At least he died quickly in the explosion. This was badly done Major Reed."

"Which brings me back to…what did you call it; a Reman?" He looked at the tourists and locals carousing along the street as the sun began to set. Reed became painfully aware that they had to abandon this car. He started the procedure of removing his 'face'. She pulled into an underground garage and killed the engine while he became Malcolm Reed again.

"Remans are indigenous to the Romulans' second planet," Nayyar explained. He produced a small pack of vacuum sealed clothing different from any other that he had that day. They expanded and took shape while he stripped unabashedly before her. "The Rihannsu conquered them shortly after they landed on Romulus and consolidated after the long voyage there. The Romulans told us that they were willing subjects. Yet some of them are taken as personal bodyguards. Their brains are surgically altered to remove their psionic talents as well as to implant control mechanisms."

"Sounds lovely," Reed commented as he threw on fresh undergarments. "This one—if it was that—certainly did not have its telepathic abilities removed."

"It is said that most of those who are scanned cannot feel it," she eyed Reed with suspicion.

"I'm mildly sensitive in that area," he was not really lying. ""Hawkins is always in the company of some bird." Did that slang take on a more sinister meaning here? Reed had read a little about Hawkins' flame. The woman was listed as an advisor by his staff. She was allegedly from Spain, although background information on her was sketchy. That was not unusual Reed knew: Privacy rights were jealously guarded in the aftermath of man's disastrous foray into nationalism. He pulled on slacks as he told Nayyar of his suspicions.

"We augments heard whispered tales that the early Rihannsu, decimated after their voyage mated with Remans to sustain their small gene pool." She looked out through the car's windscreen as a couple strolled by. Reed caught a look of longing in her eyes. "It is said that an occasional wild talent is born of the combination."

"This Catères could be that," he agreed. She opened her door. "We should destroy this car."

"There is a transthermite device in the cargo area," she explained. He exited after her. The two started toward the surface. He followed the augment into a lift. Reed felt a rush of intense heat on his back as the lift doors closed.

Romulan Imperial Cruiser Riitraxa, hidden on the third moon of Vulcan's gas giant Antinox, earth year Feb 2158

Valdore sat opposite his companion Senator Vrax. Centurion Baraza stood before the older Romulans. The centurion concealed his nervousness yet Valdore detected it. For himself Valdore felt nothing but remorse and a little foolishness. Baraza had been a member of his trusted operatives. Was he really getting that old that he had been unable to see the Tal Shiar agent beneath his very eyes; so it seemed, and now it was nearly too late.

"You were a far better choice than Talex, my admiral," Baraza declared. "The Tal Shiar is separated much like the rest of our society: Those with connections to the court have greater influence. General Cazon spoke at length about appointing you leader of forces here. Talex's minions ensured that he was overruled."

"It matters not who leads Baraza," Valdore said. "The appointed commander must have as a primary goal leading the empire to greater glory." He rose angrily from his chair. "The Tal Shiar has prosecuted this entire war with the sole purpose of enhancing their grip over our people!"

"And now it appears that they are leading us to our destruction," Vrax added.

"You must comply with the final protocol admiral," Baraza declared.

"Or you will have me killed?" he asked in reply.

Baraza lowered his gaze. Valdore saw sadness in the warrior's face. "I would never try to kill you admiral."

"Even had I not compelled V'Las to conduct the gas barrage?" he asked. He felt dreadfully betrayed.

"I would not," Baraza said. "But others would admiral. We are convinced that in the confusion the death of these Vulcans will be the decisive factor that will convince them to call for an alliance with us."

"What happens after Reunification then?" he asked. "A relationship founded upon a lie is doomed."

"We will be there, on Vulcan, in force, admiral." The warrior's eyes were clear as he spoke.

"And if the Vulcans side with the Triple Alliance?" Vrax asked.

"The gas attack will be blamed on the alliance, senator" Baraza answered. "The common subjects of the empire will be filled with a desire for vengeance. We can use the occasion to further increase tribute so that the navy can be rebuilt."

"Using Reman slaves was not a wise choice Baraza." Valdore paced the length of the room. He stopped before a portrait of the Valley of Chula. His estate lay atop one of the overlooking mountains. Since the death of his mate it was little more than an empty house now. "The yards should have been rebuilt by now."

"We've made an example of the dissidents, admiral," Baraza answered. It was the first time he had seen the centurion exhibit arrogance.

"Yes," Vrax interjected. "Your precious Tal Shiar had the most experienced workers put to death. There is no further need for sabotage: The new slaves are so inept at their jobs that they do more damage than shipbuilding."

"There have been many errors," Baraza conceded. The centurion reached into a pouch and retrieved a piece of paper. He presented the rolled up document to Valdore. "My Letter of Supplication admiral," he declared; "you doubtless plan to have me killed anyway."

Valdore laughed heartily. "Your new Romulus, regrettably, may be the future, but for now we live as we always have: I need your skills as a warrior Centurion Baraza. I shall keep you near where those who are unworthy of trust should be kept; in plain sight." The slur seemed to affect Baraza almost as much as the snap of a lash.

"I shall do my duty admiral," Baraza replied grimly. He looked straight ahead and not into Valdore's eyes. Valdore could see his shame. What of it he thought? Baraza had made his choices. He knew that the message of a new Romulus was a compelling one. The trouble, he thought, was that the old Romulus had forged an empire; this new one was rapidly destroying that empire. Valdore did not see the need for change.

"I know that you shall," Valdore answered. "Now go to the bridge and make ready to leave here. Set a course to maintain a low sensor profile and prepare to engage at my command."

"Engage for where my admiral?" the centurion asked.

Where indeed, Valdore wondered. The situation on Vulcan was deteriorating. He knew where it mattered that the situation was lost: The populace had shut down the infrastructure to make the pilgrimage to Mount Selaya. The new scanning devices had picked up Stellar Navy vessels near the Vulcan system. Valdore had only just learned that the earth president was aboard one of those ships. He came to a decision.

"Plot a course for Romulus," he said without looking at Baraza. He could sense the soldier's surprise. "You are dismissed centurion." Valdore looked at Baraza. He halfheartedly returned his salute. Baraza departed.

"Then we are departing?" Vrax asked.

"I am going to the surface old friend," Valdore replied. "I have one last mission there."

He gazed at the senator who was looking around the room with suspicion. "Don't worry Vrax: With the unmasking of Baraza I now know how many Tal Shiar agents are aboard this ship. We need not fear prying ears."

"I shall accompany you?" the senator asked.

"I desire that you stay here and monitor the crew," Valdore responded. He spoke up before Vrax could answer. "I know you have been long away from the deck of a warship. But you have a keen eye Vrax."

"We are leaving here then?"

"Exactly," Valdore replied. "We are sundered from our brothers. Careaza said that a day of Reunification would occur. He did not say when." Valdore turned back to the portrait. He hoped to see the deep lake at the bottom of the valley one last time. "This is not the time Vrax. Careaza said when we had grown together. Do you think that we have grown?"

"We are different from them Valdore." He sensed the senator's presence beside him.

"We have not changed much since the days of Careaza." Valdore looked at him. "I must prepare V'Las for the final act."

"I should go with you then," Vrax argued.

"There must be one hand in this my friend; no more." Valdore laid his hand upon the senator's shoulder. "Trust me in this Vrax. We have a slim chance here."

"Who will go with you?"

"I need only two loyal troops. I told you once that I had an outside operative. I am going to retrieve that agent."

"You mean to continue with your plan then?" the senator asked him. Valdore remained silent. That in itself was an answer. "Your operative must be skilled indeed. A praetor has not been removed in such a fashion in many lifetimes."

"I must have total control over our forces!" he exclaimed. "There are over three hundred cruisers stationed about Venador. If I had command of those I could well have defeated the Triple Alliance here." Valdore walked up to the desk intent on slamming a fist down on it. He dismissed the gesture as being pointless. "An old protégé of mine sent me a confidential communication: Do you know what our mighty fleet is doing at Venador?"

"Sinphius said that they are planning to trap the Triple Alliance's forces there," Vrax answered in a thoughtful tone. "I imagine that they are preparing the same defense as you have done at Gozai."

"That would be a reasonable assumption—if we were not dealing with the insane." Valdore turned and leveled his gaze at Vrax. "The praetor's glorious navy is staging precision close order flybys for the entertainment of the Chairman of the Tal Shiar." He saw a rare flash of anger on the senator's face. "Over one thousand warriors were killed because a commander was unable to conduct system checks on his vessel's star drive. The fusion reactor went critical before he could order an evacuation; all because the Hand forbade the commander the use of his star drive."

"As much as I wish it were otherwise I hope that you are successful," Vrax said with bowed head. He looked up at Valdore. "That would make you the first praetor to lead our forces into battle since the time of Kahlil."

"I do not aspire to that seat my friend." Valdore watched the look of shock spread across Vrax's face. He was about to further compound the senator's confusion: "In fact I was considering a relative of Karzan's blood; a cousin possibly."

Realization descended onto Vrax. "You cannot be serious Valdore! My bloodline barely qualifies for that! I begin to suspect you of the madness that you ascribe to Sinphius!"

"Be calm old friend," Valdore said. He laid a reassuring hand on Vrax's shoulder. "As our brethren would say, it is logical. You are related but you are also almost an outsider."

"I would not last till sunset," Vrax countered. "I have no support beyond yours and that of a few allies in strategic places; none of them hold a great deal of power."

"The same is true for me, but listen: You shall form a group out of our allies. Call it a committee. This committee shall dedicate itself to the continuation of the empire. With that power behind you, you could rule."

"The Tal Shiar?" the senator asked.

"Allow them on this committee," he answered. "What I said of Baraza is true of them: You should put them in a position where they can be watched." A silence fell between the two.

"It could work," Vrax said at last.

Valdore hoped that was true. He was preparing a final delaying stroke against the Triple Alliance. If all went well this next attack would provide for the time he needed to install Vrax and gain control of the fleet. Valdore was glad that he had had the foresight to assemble a mobile shipyard at Gozai. It was small and had to be hidden from the prying of Imperial Proctors but his loyal crews had turned out almost one hundred cruisers similar to his Riitraxa.

He was angry though, that such efforts had to be hidden. Valdore had come to realize that the Romulans shared one value in common with the earthers: The desire of the soldier to be allowed to do battle unencumbered by politicians. Had his small factory complex been discovered it would be likely that a proctor would arrive with his beneficiary. Tribute would change hands and the output of Valdore's loyal workers would probably been reduced to a tenth of what it was now. Somehow despite the political machinations of the empire he intended to win the war.

Talhava, Capital City of the Andorian Sovereignty, Season of Rebirth, earth year Feb 2158

Captain Gordon Albright was nervous. He had met Shahar Shran one other time. He was still not comfortable meeting the titular ruler of an entire world. Albright fell into step with Shran's grim looking guards. Gordon remembered vidcasts of earth presidents. Their protectors had pretty much the same no nonsense cast to their faces. He looked over at one of his escorts and was about to grin, then thought better of it.

Albright entered a lift for the upper stories of the ruler's residence. The ancient elevator took less than a minute to arrive at its destination. The doors parted. His escorts grunted at him and indicated that he should exit. This time he turned and smiled cheerily at them as he walked out. They looked at one another and then at him. He knew enough about Andorian facial expression to recognize a look of bemusement. Gordon guessed that they thought that he was a little cracked.

He headed down a long hallway. The passage was warm but looked like it had been hewn out of ice. He pushed open a large set of double doors at the end of the corridor. The cold hit him a blow that almost caused him to step back. Albright looked across the massive chamber. The reason for the cold was evident. Twenty or so meters away a figure stood silhouetted upon a balcony against the brightening morning sky. Albright crossed the stone floor glad that he had retained his blue Star Fleet jacket. He drew it tightly about his slim frame.

"Shahar Shran," he said quietly. He placed his arms at his sides, palms outward in the Andorian gesture of respect.

Shran turned and greet him. He was wearing a variation of the Imperial Guards form fitting one piece uniform rather than the rich ceremonial cloak that Albright had expected. He turned back to the skyline. Albright took a place at Shran's side. He looked out in silence at the magnificent vista.

Steam, from the capital's geothermal energy plant rose to catch the weak morning sun. The rays struck the moist air breaking the light up into a multicolor rainbow burst that reflected off of the ice beneath. A few surface skimmers raced along carrying passengers and cargo. Albright forgot the cold. How on earth he wondered, could people in the Sons' of Terra declare that space travel was an unnecessary luxury? Here he was standing atop an ancient palace in the company of an alien leader, observing a sight that few other humans had beheld.

"It is warmer than the last rebirth," Shran remarked while exhaling a stream of moist air. Albright remained silent. He hadn't been here for that. Shran looked at him. "I called you here because you are becoming somewhat of a legend when it comes to defeating the soulless ones."

"My crew is splendid warriors," Albright answered. "I had some fortunate--,"

"Spare me your modesty, captain. Still, it is refreshing. One of my people would have extolled such exploits to the point of being annoying. I won't be coy: We may be at war with the Vulcans soon. I have asked Star Fleet to promote you to primus."

Commodore, Albright translated the rank mentally. "I would command a taskforce then?"

"I know that you will not find this pleasant," Shran replied. "I need a warrior to act as liaison officer. Collectively we outnumber the Vulcans, but if they ally with the pirates then it is we who will be at a disadvantage. You would no longer serve as master of Kumari."

"Shahar shouldn't--,"

"Shouldn't you be on the bridge?" Shran interrupted. "So should I. We all have our assigned duties Albright. I want a human officer who is experienced in dealing with the Imperial Guard; that is you."

Gordon was downcast. He had fought the Andorian cruiser through many battles now; grown to know its crew. The words of the long dead Captain King returned to him: Words explaining how the crew was family and it was the captain's job to watch over them. What would happen to Kumari's crew? He seldom thought of the blue-skinned Andorians as aliens anymore. How would he transition from captain and master to liaison officer?

What did a liaison officer do he wondered. Albright got a mental picture of himself acting as some sort of super paper pusher and linguist. There were many humans versed in Andorian. Surely he thought that one of those would be far more suitable. He expressed that sentiment to Shran.

"If Christophur is successful with this federation of his there will no longer be a stellar navy," the Shahar declared; "or an Imperial Guard for that matter." Shran gave him an appraising look. "Do you know that your president is on the way to Vulcan?"

He did not. That fact disturbed Albright. Would the soulless ones jump Thorpe's ship? He realized with a start that he had picked up some of the Andorian prejudice against Vulcans. He told Shran that this was his first time hearing about it.

"I shudder to think what will happen," Shran commented. They shared that tendency between the races, Gordon thought absently.

"You think that they will try to shoot at one of our ships with the president on board Shahar?" he asked.

"I don't know," Shran answered. "But my fear is that Christophur will be successful." Shran must have seen his look of surprise. "You see Albright, I'm not sure that I believe in this federation. I do believe in Christophur Thorpe however. I cannot see the day that my children will explore and fight alongside Vulcans. But if it could happen, it could only happen if Thorpe brings it about." Shran chuckled. "Not long ago I stood where you are standing with Shahar Rastan. He advised me that we cannot remain relics of the past. Now here I am wondering if I shall not become a relic when all of this is done."

"I don't think that you'll be--,"

A gong sounded. The noise made Albright want to twitter in laughter. It reminded him of a cheap holovid horror story. Gordon knew though that the noise registered differently on Andorian auditory organs. He waited while Shran went into the chamber and bent over a desktop communication device. The cold no longer bothered Gordon. He drank deeply of the biting air. Shran was visibly disturbed. He paced quickly back to the balcony.

"The Romulans have been scanned on a heading for our shipyards," the Andorian told him. "Looks like you will stand on the bridge of Kumari one last time."

"Repairs are complete Shahar," Albright informed him. "With your leave I shall--,"

"I shall go with you Albright," Shran declared.

Andorian maintenance dock, earth year Feb 2158

"You are abandoning our people to these savages," Vanik declared. Skon looked at him. He centered himself before responding. Skon was absently aware of hunger.

The Andorians had ensured that their prisoners were fed. But the diet was primarily meat with few vegetables; not very filling for the vegetarian Vulcans. Skon had decided to spend his incarceration period here with their former enemies rather than on earth. Upon reflection that might not have been a logical decision. His only reason was that the earthers seemed strange. Skon had been there briefly with his father the ambassador. He looked around the small cubicle that the Andorians had assigned Vanik. It was as cold and nondescript as was his cell.

"We entered space with the understanding that we would be observers and teachers, not conquerors." He answered. "I question who you place the label of savage upon when Vulcans have killed Vulcans."

"I had no involvement with that," Vanik replied. "Those who did were following lawful orders; as you should be Skon."

"None of this is logical," he answered. "How can a Vulcan follow orders that are not logical captain? Why did the High Command bombard the T'Karath Sanctuary? Why is First Minister V'Las unable to answer questions?"

"It is not my place to ask that Skon," Vanik answered. He recalled the teachings of Syrran. They had seemed to be an exercise in logic at first. Now he saw where the path from logic was sundered.

"Do you think that it was Surak's place to ask the inhabitants of Rakaro to renounce cannibalism?"

"I believe that story was apocryphal," the captain answered.

"So you pick and choose which of Surak's teachings to follow?"

"No; I simply cannot accept that Vulcans would," Skon watched as a little disgust filtered through Vanik's control: "That they would consume the dead."

"Just as we would not bombard innocents from orbit and murder refugees?" he asked.

The control dropped for a brief time. Skon could see the flash of anger. Could Vanik be in the early stages of Bendii he wondered? Vanik actually seemed to be struggling for words.

"Those were orders," Vanik responded at last. "And we must enforce our will during encounters in open space. That is the mission of the High Command."

"T'Mir," he said simply.

"What of my ship Skon?" Vanik asked.

"I was speaking rather of T'Mir, the scientist who created the warp drive." Skon laced his fingers together before him. "T'Mir said that the exploration of space presented us with the opportunity to grow and to spread the philosophy of peace and logic to others. I do not recall him explaining that we must enforce our wills upon others. But I suppose that you are going to discount T'Mir's words as apocryphal?"

There was a long pause in the debate. Skon had grown use to the silence from Vanik. This was not the first time for this discussion. He wanted to sway Vanik; to lead him to enlightenment as Syrran had once led him. He prepared to leave. This was not the time to convince Vanik.

"There have been errors," he barely heard Vanik reply, so soft was the older Vulcan's voice.

A young Andorian soldier stepped into the cell. An easy task given that they were denied doors. Skon merely looked and nodded at the Imperial Guardsman: A gesture he had retained from his childhood days on the earth. This was Chirosa, an Andorian who seemed to Skon to be less cruel than his associates. The guardsman was unique as he could speak passable Vulcan.

"You soulless ones!" he bellowed. Skon, once upon a time, had calmly told the guardsman that his hearing was functional. Chirosa had only laughed. "The pirates are attacking our system. We may have to move you; for your safety. But what do you care of death? That is the end for you cold blooded ones."

"Perhaps Syrran is right about us, Skon" Vanik said. Skon watched him stand up from his hard bunk. The detainees were only afforded a thin mattress to rest upon. Vanik started past the young soldier who gave way only enough to allow Vanik to pass. "I apologize, Chirosa," Vanik said. Skon stood up in amazement as Vanik quickly applied pressure to the Andorian's neck. The Andorian slid neatly to the deck.

"What are you doing Vanik?" he asked.

"I have been planning an escape," Vanik answered. "You do believe that our technology should not be for less developed species?"

"Yes of course," he answered. "Such knowledge is dangerous." He followed Vanik out of the cell. Several other Vulcans were out in the corridor. One of them was in the process of snapping the neck of a terrified Andorian who had obviously been caught at unawares.

"Enough Tonak!" he was surprised to hear Vanik order. The Vulcan stopped. "Tarcas has been a fair guardian over us. We are leaving here, but the killing is over." The Vulcan administered the pinch to the Andorian's neck.

Vanik explained that his crew had managed to access T'Mir's remote terminals. The Andorians and Terrans had been unable to fully gain control over the Vulcan cruiser.

Vanik continued on. "Will the Syrranites follow me?"

"We won't commit unnecessary violence Vanik," Skon answered.

"We'll need help moving the unconscious aliens off of T'Mir," Vanik answered.

Skon started at that: There was only one way Vanik could have used to render the Andorians and human technicians unconscious. "You did not…"

Vanik knew immediately what Skon was asking. "I ordered the sections decompressed only long enough to incapacitate. Those affected will of course need medical attention but none of the intruders should be dead. Perhaps some of our discussions have given me cause to rethink certain actions."

They arrived at the station's primary airlock. Vulcan High Command soldiers were carrying semiconscious Andorians, humans and Tellarites out of T'Mir. They were depositing them in the cargo bay adjacent to the lock. A Syrranite spied Skon and approached him.

"Skon," V'Lin looked past Vanik to address him. "The High Command officers in my section have informed me that they are attempting an escape. Shall we assist them?"

"Be at peace V'Lin." Skon could see that the younger Vulcan was at the margins of her emotional control. "We shall assist Captain Vanik in removing the aliens from T'Mir." He explained the need to maintain secrecy over their advanced technology. Several of Skon's fellow Syrranites joined the group seeking advice while Vanik made preparations with his officers.

"Then we are breaking our vow to remain neutral?" V'Lin asked.

"Captain Vanik is doing what is logical to keep our weapon system out of the hands of the less advanced." Skon realized that he was a sort of senior Vulcan among the Syrranites. "I ask that you help the captain's crew to get underway; that is not a violent act." He looked at Vanik. "I do not believe that he will commit anymore acts of war."

"I shall take T'Mir back to Vulcan space Skon," Vanik replied after some time. "More of your influence no doubt; perhaps it is time to inquire of the ministry as to exactly where our culture is going."

V'Lin, rather than replying stopped an officer who was struggling with a somewhat heavy human. She took up a position on the other side of the human, helping to move the unconscious man along. T'Mir was soon declared clear by Vanik's internal security officer.

"Your relief navigation officer was killed in attack," Skon remarked. "I am skilled in that regard."

Skon had followed Vanik into T'Mir's inner airlock. They were alone. "I told you that I intend no violence Skon, but circumstances may dictate otherwise. I intend on taking my ship back to its home port. We should be able to escape unscathed since the Andorians are otherwise engaged."

"I understand captain," Skon responded. "It is logical to defend one's self if the situation is unavoidable."

"I would approve if you joined my crew then," Vanik declared.

"I shall do that," he answered.

Andorian Imperial Guard heavy cruiser Kumari, the earth year Feb 2158

"Port starburst launcher is disabled!" Zenna exclaimed from the weapons console.

Captain Gordon Albright surveyed his bridge from an unusual position: That of his first officer's. Shahar Shran had assumed command of the squadron defending his homeworld. They had initially outnumbered and outgunned the Romulans. Albright should not have been surprised by innovative planning on the part of the birdies however.

The collection of forty eight Sabinus and Veronus class cruisers had assumed a tight, almost spherical formation. Albright had thought that the alignment of the ships was foolish at first; until the Romulans had opened up with a hail of overlapping plasma cannon fire. The force of Andorians and a few Tellarites that were guarding Andor were now roughly on a par with their adversaries. The small knot of Romulan ships were on a heading for Andor's primary shipyard. Kumari was near to being unable to do anything about the enemy.

Slightly subdued lime green lights flashed at Captain Gordon Albright's eyes. The green situation advisories were equivalent to the human color of red in terms of what they conveyed. Kumari was down to two active offensive missile tubes and just one point defense launcher. Albright shook his head as Shran moved the cruiser back to a safer position: A wise choice but one that frustrated Gordon.

"Helev squadron is attempting a narrow insertion into that formation Shahar," Gordon advised his commander. "We could follow them to the edge of plasma range and launch missiles until they track on us."

"Condition of plating, first?" the Shahar asked, falling back on Andorian rank protocol.

"Saln reports that hull plating is being routed through just one secondary power junction," he answered.

"Incoming Shards!" the sensor chief roared, using the Andorian name for the Romulan Moolah missile. Chief Ezra Crowder had remained glued to his despite several bad fluctuations in Kumari's gravity web.

"Fire Starburst and set a course toward the missiles," Shran ordered. A surprised bridge crew shot glances of concern toward the Shahar.

"Going inside their fusing range," Albright commented.

"Hopefully," Shran replied.

"Entering plasma cannon range!" Crowder advised.

"Slow to one-third!" Shran snapped.

Gordon watched as purple dots representing the incoming Moolahs made their way to a central point on the tactical display; that point happened to be Kumari. One of the illuminated pips vanished: Two more streaked onwards. Zenna's crews managed to launch one last Starburst destroying another Romulan missile. Albright's panel exploded outwards.

Gordon released his safety harness and rolled to the deck. The right arm of his fire resistant Star Fleet jersey was aflame. Albright rolled on top of it. He realized that the combination of crystalline based electronics and metal that had been his instrument panel was what had set the jersey on fire. Pain shot up his arm. He vaguely realized that some of the bridge crew was gathered around him. He waved them away.

"Back to your stations!" he heard Shran snap. Albright held on as Kumari's artificial gravity burbled creating the illusion of the deck pitching violently. Albright rolled up trying not to look at his arm.

"They are on a buildup to fire again," Crowder advised.

"Execute a negative ninety turn!" Shran ordered.

The force of Romulan ships maintained their formation. Spikes of plasma cannon fire were constantly being ejected from the group of ships. A Tellarite destroyer corkscrewed toward the group, its keel Merculite rocket battery doors presented to the Romulan group. The doors slid open. Rockets started firing, but only for a few seconds: A single plasma cannon volley hit the destroyer directly in its rocket bay. The explosion was terrific.

A squadron of dart like Andorian fighters, passing near to the doomed Tellarite was incinerated. Another squadron blasted past the destruction in the dead silence of vacuum. The Andorians opposed not only the invading cruisers but also squadrons of Romulan Aeons that were holding a tight formation with their carriers. The combined force released deadly, pinpoint laser and point defense missiles. The Andorians were mown down leaving less than five fighters to engage the Romulans.

The Andorians fought bravely. The fighters engaged and destroyed almost twice their number in Aeons. A single Andorian fighter pilot sacrificed himself when an opportunity to ram his craft into the open bay of a Romulan Sabinus became evident. Explosions radiated outward from the launching bay of the stricken Romulan. An offensive missile from Kumari finished the Romulan. The invading force proceeded onward.

Kumari nosed over relative to the attackers, narrowly missing a plasma cannon volley. Atmosphere and molten metal left a trail behind the Andorian ship. A Tellarite light cruiser arced around Kumari laying down a pattern of missiles and turning away. A plasma cannon hit sent the Tellarite reeling but both the light cruiser and Kumari escaped. Beyond the Romulan squadron the great bulk of Andor's primary shipyard lay.

Built as two rings situated ninety degrees from one another; the massive station housed docks and maintenance spaces for dozens of ships. Allied ships took up a formation between the attackers and the Romulans. Several of the Romulan forces responded by breaking away from the group. The smaller group peeled away towards Andor. Andorian ships and now three Stellar Navy Powhatons moved to intercept this phalanx of ships but too late the Romulans went to warp.

"Your people have a way of showing up when they are least expected Albright," Shahar Shran told Gordon.

"They are the lead elements of Taskforce Nine," Albright reported. His arm was wrapped in a protective healing layer of synthetic flesh. The coating was quite blue but supposedly compatible with his human epidermis.

Albright could see Shran doing mental calculations. He knew that despite inhumanly fast computers a captain earned his stripes being able to make snap decisions on where to put his ship. "Have them engage against the forces attacking the shipyard! It is time for you to act as a liaison officer Albright."

Albright knew that Shran had reached the same conclusion as had he: "Shahar, they cannot possibly arrive in time to engage the pirates. The nearest Minotaurs will arrive after the pirates are at the yard's contact point."

Albright knew as did Shran that the Romulans were intending to attack Andor. That would draw off the ships necessary to protect the shipyard. Gordon sympathized with Shran who now had to make a choice between the safety of those on his world or the sovereignty's only shipyard. Shran ordered a change of course for several of the ships at his disposal. Albright hoped that the split forces could deal with their respective threats. The shipyard had defenses of its own but the Romulans had done their homework: The station's strategos was reporting that the majority of her weapon systems had been destroyed.

"Shahar!" the communications' officer exclaimed. "The T'Zila maintenance facility reports that the Vulcans have escaped! Their vessel has powered up and departed the station!"

"Opportune timing," Shran commented dryly: "Makes one wonder if they aren't in league with the Romulans."

"Then again Shahar, this would be the perfect time to escape," Albright commented.

This added to the dynamics of the situation. Albright wondered if the Vulcans would make clean their escape or would they join the Romulan forces. The allies had been pushing the stoic aliens. But the Vulcans hadn't been blameless in regards to exacerbating the situation. Maybe now the allies and Vulcan would reap the results of their bickering.

"We are clear to maneuver," Skon reported.

"Proceed on maximum impulse until we are clear of the gravity well." Skon thought that only another Vulcan could hear an undercurrent of tension in the older Vulcan's voice.

"Romulan ships are emerging from warp captain," Sub Lieutenant Ralele reported. "They are making strikes against Andor's defensive emplacements." Skon craned his neck back to see the sensor operator intently studying her readout. "I believe that they are loading high yield nuclear weapons into their launch tubes."

"Making a surface strike to force the shipyard defenders away from the real objective," he heard Vanik comment; "a very logical and commendable tactic."

"Millions of Andorians will perish captain," Skon said. "It is illogical. We were in the beginnings of a diplomatic relationship with them; thanks to the humans. Now it seems that others will do what Minister V'Las wanted the High Command to do." Skon examined his readings. They were nearing the point where they could go to warp. He informed Vanik of that fact.

"You told me that we could learn from the humans Skon." He was surprised at the direction of Vanik's conversation: Given their present situation.

"We can learn much from all creatures captain," he responded. "It is a part of the concept of infinite diversity." Skon paused briefly, lost in thought.

"What is it?" Vanik asked.

"I was just thinking that we won't learn anything from either the Andorians or humans after all of this is over. Minister V'Las is leading us to a return to the old ways. We won't be much different from these Romulans."

"We'll never return to that which was," Vanik declared. "We are Vulcans. You Syrranites may differ somewhat in your beliefs but we share many common traits: Our logic and integrity."

"What does integrity mean when we abandon those who we pledged our allegiance too? What is logic when we obfuscate the teachings of Surak in favor of what we choose to believe?" Skon studied the readouts presented to him. "We are clear to go to warp Captain Vanik."

There was such a long pause that Skon actually repeated his last words. Had Vanik not heard him? There was another silence. Skon turned about to see the captain looking intently at the main viewscreen. Andor filled the screen. The Romulan force made steady progress toward their target, stopping only to engage a few Andorian fighters.

"You are soon to be mated, Skon?" Vanik asked.

"Upon my return to Vulcan, captain," he answered. His thoughts returned to his memories of T'Prel. They had met briefly before he had departed.

"What sort of legacy will we pass onto your children?" Vanik asked. He continued without waiting for a response. "I see now that the minister's policies will sunder us from those who looked to us as guides."

"Perhaps you can meet with Minister V'Las and convince him otherwise?" he asked. Skon knew that Vanik was held with some regard in the High Command and the ministry.

"Perhaps it is time to remove matters from the minister's hands." Skon turned sharply and looked at Vanik. "I apologize, Skon: I have decided that it is better that you return to internment with the Andorians. Someone must speak for our people who are in the care of the Andorians." Vanik turned to a younger Vulcan. "Skarn, assume the helm."

"Captain I believe that you are about to commit an act of violence," he said. Skon stood reluctantly to relinquish the seat to the Skarn. "Although I believe that violence solves nothing, I would serve with you still."

"Someone must remain to speak on what happened here Skon," Vanik replied. "I will have you put into a life pod by force if you do not surrender your station. I would regret such an action."

"It will not be necessary captain," Skon answered. He stepped away to allow the sub lieutenant to take up his seat.

Vanik extended his hand to render the ancient salutation. "Live long and prosper, Skon, son of Solkor."

Skon returned the gesture. "Live long and prosper Vanik, son of L'Mira."

A brief time passed. Finally Vanik answered: "I shall prosper."

Albright looked at the radar return showing the position of Andor's shipyard break apart into several smaller pieces. The Romulan strategy had proven devastating. Kumari was leading the wedge of ship on the way back to Andor to do battle with the oncoming pirates. He looked glumly at the chronometer. They weren't going to make it. As bad as Albright felt he knew that Shran felt worse.

Andor was about to be treated to the same thing that the Romulans had done to earth. Gordon did not know if that was the pirate strategy, but he was forced to admit that he would do that if he were the Romulan commander. The destruction of the factory complexes on Andoria alone would set the alliance back perhaps by as much as years. The physical and psychological damage to civilians would be disastrous.

"Maximum speed!" the Shahar roared. Graz replied that they were already at the limit. Shran looked at Albright. Gordon shook his head knowing that Shran had been among humans enough to understand the gesture.

"Sir, the pointie ship has reversed course," Chief Ezra Crowder spoke up. "I read T'Mir on an intercept course with the pirate attack force."

"What?" Shran asked. He looked sharply at Albright. "Could they be turning to join the pirates?"

"An odd way of going it," Gordon answered; "even for a pointie commander."

"Orbital satellites picking up long range video," Lieutenant Hahn reported. "It is confirmed Shahar, the soulless ones are engaging the Romulans."

The Romulan attack group slowed and started turning to confront the unknown. T'Mir stood out past their plasma cannon range. Twin particle beams lanced out into the blackness to hit a small target over fifteen thousand kilometers away. The Romulan Sabinus was sent reeling. Pieces of the vessel trailed the damaged ship as it rolled helplessly through the blackness. Another scathing particle beam assault finished the Romulan ship. Its mates cruised past the expanding nuclear explosion, intent on putting T'Mir in their range.

A second Romulan craft, this time a Veronus was destroyed in mere moments by T'Mir's weapons. The plasma cannon emitters of the surviving Romulan attackers illuminated as they prepared to fire. A third Romulan was split stem to stern by Vulcan particle beams. The Romulan group fired at T'Mir. White plasma leapt into the blackness followed by a hail of missiles. The deadly volley missed T'Mir as the ship stretched forth into subspace.

T'Mir emerged less than a second later among the Romulan attack group. Two Romulan cruisers were immediately incinerated. The proud Romulan raptor emblazoned on one of those doomed ships was literally cut down its middle before the cruiser erupted. Three of the Romulans managed to score missile hits against the Vulcan ship. T'Mir reeled. Its shields lit up showing for a few seconds the vessel's egg shaped protective skin. T'Mir responded by destroying a sixth Romulan cruiser. More missiles detonations rocked T'Mir. Its protective blister was gone in places.

Romulan plasma cannon raked over the spear shaped Vulcan ship. Part of its warp drive ring exploded, depositing a trail of molten metal as the Vulcan maneuvered. The Romulan paid for its lucky shot when T'Mir's particle beams lanced out and hit it squarely in its plasma cannon emitter. The Sabinus became a swiftly expanding globe of energy. Two more plasma volleys hit T'Mir. The Vulcan responded with a single particle beam that missed its intended target. The proud Vulcan cruiser now wallowed as two more plasma hits finished its shielding.

"We have the timing!" Albright exclaimed. The Vulcans had slowed the Romulans enough to allow the remainder of the Imperial Guard, Tellarite Defense Force and United Earth Stellar Navy ships to engage the enemy before they arrived over Andoria. There would be little left for Star Fleet to deal with. Four Romulan cruisers were in the process of finishing off T'Mir.

"Get out of there you fool!" Shran bellowed at the viewscreen. "Get out of there you fool of a Vulcan!"

Albright guessed that Vanik could have stood off and destroyed a sizeable amount of the Romulan force. But that would have allowed some of them to position themselves in high orbit over Andoria to launch an orbit to ground attack. By staying among the Romulans it virtually assured that the pirates would have to slow and engage T'Mir. Unfortunately for Vanik relief could not possibly arrive in time. Gordon realized that with the Surak class cruiser's advanced sensor suite Vanik had to know.

The video image focused then blurred and then focused again. T'Mir fired a single particle beam at one of its executioners. The beam created a small explosion of glowing hot metal and atmosphere. The Romulan fired two missiles in exchange. The Veronus turned away in an attempt at evasive maneuvers. A particle beam caught the Romulan between where the triple nacelles joined the primary hull. The Veronus erupted causing the video to blank out in protest against the blinding explosion.

The image returned to show T'Mir, now reduced to its primary hull, hit by a plasma cannon shot followed by a missile detonation. The screen went dark one last time. When the image returned it showed shards of glowing metal racing outward where T'Mir had been. Kumari's bridge was silent. Allied naval forces and a lucky hit from an earth made Hercules missile made short work of the last Romulan cruisers.

"The yard is gone Shahar," Albright reported in a grim tone.

"Many hundreds of thousand of workers were there," Shran replied quietly.

"Andor is saved Shahar," Albright countered.

"Scanning lifeboats, Shahar," Lieutenant Hahn chimed in.

When Shran did not answer Albright took up his position as Shran's first: "Scan for hostiles. Begin survivor recovery."

Hahn unstrapped from his seat to cross the bridge to the emergency recovery station. "There are soulless ones among them. I'll order them retrieved last."

Shran bolted up from the command chair to catch Hahn by the collar of his uniform. "The Vulcans are to be treated with the utmost respect! Do you hear me?" he bellowed at the mollified communications' officer. "Do you hear me?" he shouted again. Shran's antennae were standing straight up.

"Yes Shahar," Hahn said. The lieutenant hastily backed away after Shran released him. Albright turned back to the business of overseeing repairs to his ship. He vaguely wondered if he would stand on the bridge again after his promotion. His new position seemed relatively unimportant when he considered the sacrifice of Vanik and his crew.


	33. Chapter 33

Mustang, Oklahoma, the old United States, earth, Feb 2157

Mustang, Oklahoma, the old United States, earth, Feb 2157

The wind whipped through Phillip Decker's long leather drover's jacket. He would have preferred to stay on the ranch on this day but it was a recall election. He put a protective arm around his wife's shoulder as the couple fought the wind on the way to the polls. Downtown Mustang was mostly deserted Decker noted: No surprise given the sub zero wind chill. Pearl Decker held on to his waist. Phil knew that was mostly for his comfort and support.

He had discovered what a tough lady Pearl Decker was after almost thirty years of marriage. A full head shorter than Phil, Pearl's long red tresses were becoming shot with gray. Her hips were a little fuller than when they were newly married. Phil noticed that but he realized that his head of blonde hair had a good deal of gray these days. He had kept the lanky frame from his youth. Work around a ranch tended to do that to a man. Decker was not the young man he once was, but the flame for his wife was alive and well.

A few people were congregated near the city hall. Pearl asked him what he was already thinking: "Why aren't they inside where it is warm?"

Decker shook his head. "Beats me, I guess the turnout must be big. That Stiles woman got enough signatures in a hell of a hurry." The latter was true as far as Phil was concerned. There was some doubt about the former: Mustang's city building was more than big enough to handle large crowds. Decker spied Gavin McCarthy in the large crowd milling outside of the hall.

The younger man smiled uncertainly at Decker. Phil had always liked the boy, no man he corrected, who worked like a dervish despite his injuries. Gavin had lost the legs in an industrial accident rather than a war injury. Exposure to a certain radiation had prevented the attachment of new limbs. Decker didn't fully understand it given the seeming miracles of modern medicine.

"What's goin' on Gavin," he asked; "you all out enjoying the cold?"

"We're locked out," McCarthy answered. Decker looked at his chronometer. "Oh, its time Phil; the election folks are inside but no one has heard anything since they got here."

"Anybody think to knock on the door?" Pearl asked. His wife had a talent for getting to heart of things. Decker knew that it had kept his ass out of hot water more times than he liked to think about.

Phil started forward. Many in the crowd parted to let him have access to the main door of the city hall. Decker had once had the dubious distinction of serving as one of Mustang's mayors. He had discovered that the position had more to do with answering complaints about barking dogs instead of the monumental governmental decisions that he had imagined before being seated. Decker beat on the thick walnut doors. He turned to the crowd unsure of what to do or say if the doors remained sealed. He was relieved when they opened slowly.

A large burly man in the company of a short heavyset, plain dark haired girl stood on the other side of the threshold. Both wore white jackets carrying a shoulder patch that showed an image of the earth. The initials S.O.T were inscribed under the orbital image of North and South America. Decker noted that both of the white jacket wearers were armed. Decker had did a tour in the US army as a youth and considered himself a weapons aficionado. He did not know that military issue lasers were available to fringe groups like SOT.

"Nothing to see here folks;" the man proclaimed. Decker judged the man to be in his late twenties. He wondered why the man was not in the service. Those thoughts brought unpleasant reminders to Decker: Both Matt and Stephen were away in the navy. He prayed that they were still alive.

"There is a recall election here today," McCarthy told the man. "We'll going to send that traitor Hawkins packing."

Decker winced. Gavin was not the most tactful of men. But McCarthy had a point: The election was here. The recall process was a valid, legal procedure, put into place after the abuses of the old progressives. Phil jumped in and repeated the question. Not only for an answer but also because he saw how the two Sons' of Terra members had bristled at Gavin's remark. Phil didn't want a situation on his hands with armed thugs.

"No you got it wrong!" the woman shrieked. "You people have been taking away our rights, not letting us speak. Well, those days are gone! We'll be calling the shots now. No more sellouts getting' in office," she concluded. Decker wanted to chuckle: Her cheeks were puffy and red from the outburst.

"What she means," her partner started.

"Shutup John!" she yelled. "I can speak for myself. President Hawkins has filed with the World Court. There ain't gonna be no illegal recall."

"The recall is in the Charter," Decker said in a calm voice. "A bunch of judges can't make things that are in the World Charter illegal just because you went to court."

"Wrongo bucko!" the woman was nearly spitting in Phil's face. "We'll do what we want now! We are going to make sure that all of Thorpe's ships are recalled. You'll see!"

The woman got angrier when a single voice rang out in protest. Decker was surprised and yet not so to find out that it was his Pearl's voice. "You can't do this: We are free people!"

Many voices took up that chorus. The man looked malevolently at the crowd. Phil noted how his SOT partner was backing away somewhat. Decker guessed that she had only voiced her opinions with people who shared similar views. It was quite a different matter to speak up where nonsense could be challenged.

"We'll see how long you keep this place closed," an older man remarked. "You ain't the only ones with guns." The man spit a brown trail of chewing tobacco riddled spit onto the pavement. Decker recognized Dale Morrisey. "I doubt pansies like you even know what to do with them things."

"Well gramps," the male member of couple started. "We'll be coming for those guns. The order is going through the courts now. This assassination attempt against a great leader like the president; it just shows that people can't be trusted with guns. Besides; guns put too much power in people's hands. We can't have that. We know what is best for you."

He could feel Pearl's hand squeezing his. Phil could sense his wife's anger. He was angry too. But Decker knew when it was time to fold. "We'll see about that," he said and turned away. He looked at the crowd. Decker guessed that none of them were armed. There were no more arcane gun laws, but like earlier times in America when guns were legal; no one carried them. Decker didn't want to see any of the townspeople shot. "We need to go home and see what is going on." He raised his voice to be heard over the ripping wind.

The crowd was surly but after a few protests they agreed to calm down and return home. Decker paused to make sure some of the hotheads; Morrisey was among that number, actually complied with his wishes. The SOT woman told Phil that he had some sense.

"We'll be back," he almost added the word lady but had concluded that it didn't apply in this case. He turned his back on her, took Pearl's hand and stalked off.

"This is the invasive program?" Admiral Erica Soames asked Major Malcolm Reed.

"Of course it is, dear," he replied and smiled. She frowned at him in return. She had known that he would create a mess with his heavy handed approach. Erica could not have dreamed of how big a mess it was. "I don't see how obtaining a few navy codes is going to help us."

She guided the private suborbital liner towards the horizon. Soames didn't bother with the onboard computer. She could see her destination. But she didn't intend to make for the pleasure station. The orbital Hilton was a favorite fleshpot of many vacationers. It was also a spot that created orbital congestion. Erica was counting on that fact.

"What's your middle name?" she heard him ask.

"Does that matter?" she answered.

"We should get to know one another better. Don't you think?"

"No, no I don't think that Reed," she answered. When she saw that he was about to continue she jumped into an explanation of her plan to render covert aid to Commodore Jim Leonard.

"He's fighting a losing battle on this redeployment," she explained. "You and Kanya's information on this Reman tells me that the move is meant to leave Utopia Planitia defenseless."

Realization dawned on Reed's face. He gave her a sly grin. "Clever girl," he said. "The shell game?" he asked.

"We'll see," she answered. Traffic control was pinging the little luxury cruiser. Erica had used some of Nayyar's credits to rent the little craft. It would be perfect for her needs.

She looked over at Reed who was garishly attired; looking much like a scion of inherited wealth with too much time on his hands. Soames knew that she shouldn't judge: Her thin virtually invisible clothing made her look much the same. Erica was glad that she had started a winter work out binge: She had lost some excess kilos and formed up her curves. Nayyar had talked her into slowing down on the liquor and concentrating her grief into fitness.

Erica sometimes worked out until it hurt. It didn't seem to help. She went to sleep quickly enough but the nightmares were there waiting for her: The dead from Antonov City. They would ask her why she couldn't have done better. The anti-war forces in Carson Maclaren's old news service were busy: They showed the grossest video of survivors with the implication that if only earth and her allies were not so warlike, this would not have happened. The image of a young, horribly burnt girl who had been working at a dig site often visited Erica's nights.

"Going to answer that dear?" Reed asked; "or are you thinking about Mars?" He smiled a vicious smile. His head snapped to one side from the force of her slap.

"Shutup!" she bellowed. Erica took in a few draughts of air before continuing. "Why are you such a bastard Reed?"

"Because unlike your garden variety of bastard; one who is just a stupid oaf," he explained. "I actually prefer to bring the art form of bastard to a pinnacle." The grin was still pasted on his lips despite the rapidly forming red area on his left cheek. "You know dear, if you wanted to play rough you should have let me know. I rather enjoy that."

The radio beeped again, asking for attention. Soames angrily closed the connection. "—again; you've departed Elysium space for controlled space. Say again your clearance." The voice of the traffic controller seemed tired. Erica could tell that the faceless woman had done this one too many times.

Soames shoved her anger and grief away. At least concentrating on this task helped her to do that. "Why, I'm already in space," she announced in as vacuous sounding voice as she could muster.

Erica did not hear the sigh of frustration, but knew that it was there. "Ma'am you missed the Elysium transfer point. You are in Station One's control volume." The transmission paused while the controller gathered her thoughts. "It's best if you just reverse course. You'll exit our area and then you can pick up the Elysium controller on K frequency, over."

Soames figured that the woman had been in her job many years. The ancient radio protocols had sometimes dropped by the wayside. It was time to fulfill her part: "Okay thanks for your help. I guess me and Clive will turn around, except that this fuel light thingy is blinking. Will we be okay?"

"What fuel light is that miss?" the tired voice asked, now a little more agitated.

"It says low fuel warning; is that bad?" Erica asked in reply.

The light was actually illuminated. It had taken Soames everything to throw away her training and fly like she imagined a dunce would. She had also deliberately delayed her radio reply until her rented flyer was beyond the point of no return. The controller talked her through the process of slaving the little ship's controls to that of the station's. There was a long pause where Soames imagined that the controller was asking her commander what she should do about this little twit who was out for a joy ride.

"Next time you play the idiot, Reed," Soames told her partner.

Reed didn't immediately snap back with one of his retorts. Erica shot a glance over towards him. Finally he looked at her with a face that seemed old. "I've played many parts Erica."

Hackles went down her back. Soames was actually becoming frightened of Reed. The radio stirred her out of the fear. "Okay ma'am it looks like you have enough fuel to rendezvous at Station One. Our techs will give you enough fuel for you to make it back to Elysium. We'll do a remote navigation to bring you here. Please don't do this again. I know you probably don't know it, but there is a war on."

"Okay so you are going to fly?" Erica asked. "Thank you so much! It is all more confusing than the rental agent let on!"

There was silence. Erica watched as her instruments showed that they were under remote control and changing course. She reckoned that they would make the station in ten minutes. She sat back and reviewed the plan with Reed. Erica could not access an earthbound terminal. First she could not do it as Erica Soames and second the ground installations' security was far tighter than was Station One's. This was the one place she could pull this ruse and set foot on a Star Fleet base.

"We'll see what the security contingent is when we board," Soames stated. "We'll play it from there. One of us must get to a terminal; override the command codes and reissue a new deployment schedule." She absently turned the wafer over in her hands. "How did you get this?"

"I got it out of the Doomsday Vault," he answered.

She chuckled mechanically. "Come on, where did you get it?" Erica did not believe the stories surrounding a fabled vault that was a store for old weapons.

"I'm serious," he answered. He looked at her knowingly. "The vault isn't a fairy tale my love. There were lots of wonderful and deadly little things there that twentieth and twenty-first century man whipped up: Airborne HIV, flesh eating viruses, computer algorithms that were designed to shut off the world. Those were such good times!"

"You almost sound like you were there Reed," she remarked casually. He merely smiled at her.

"Anyway I suppose that you have access to the vault?" she asked at last. Something was truly unsettling about the major. She attached the wafer to her skimpy outfit. Reed had camouflaged it to make it look like a fashion accoutrement.

"I came across someone who did," he answered. "I made good use of the information."

"Contact," she announced, happy that she didn't have to banter with the major any longer. The tiny rental liner nudged against the station's lock with a thud. Erica swiveled her seat. She looked down at her feet and wondered again why the chair was placarded with the warning: 'Seat must face forward for launch and recovery.'

The narrow hatch slid open to admit two dour looking red shirted security troops. One of them was human while the other was Tellarite. Soames struck a seductive pose in the seat. She looked at Reed who merely looked bored. The young human male gave Erica, who had changed her hair color to solid black and paled her complexion, an appraising look.

"Are you here to help me?" she asked the human even though the Tellarite had superior rank. He young crewman licked his lips and stared back at her. He didn't pay attention to Reed. That didn't surprise Soames who thought that the major had gone a bit overboard with blonde hair coloring, and large, flamboyant synthetic sideburns. He had finished his guise with a rainbow striped suit and narrow dark rimmed sun, glasses. The lenses were a rose color. He had explained to Erica that the look was quite popular on old earth. That style seemed to be returning he had added.

"I'll be glad to help you." The security man leered. She crossed her bare legs and smiled at him.

"Well, fill up the tank chum and we'll be off," Reed added.

"Sure," the security man answered dreamily. He did not remove his eyes from Soames' legs. Erica was glad that she had taken care of her body through the years.

"Both of you clowns off of here!" the Tellarite ordered them. He turned to his human mate and thumped a hairy hand into the man's stomach. "You can indulge your hormones later Martin."

The human grunted. "Damn you Garn!" He assumed a more professional façade. "Okay we have to perform a safety inspection." Erica was counting on that. The new subspace scanners were back on line thanks to an enlisted engineer. Soames knew that they had already been scanned for radiologics.

"Well why don't you get on with it?" she asked in her best, softest bedroom voice.

Errr..yeah," the human answered slowly. He looked at Reed who seemed perfectly oblivious, then at his Tellarite partner. "We have a holding area where you'll have to stay put."

"Sounds fun!" she squealed. Erica jumped up. At least this play acting helped to smother her grief over Antonov City. She sidled up next to the security man. Erica turned back to Reed. "Come along Clive. This handsome man is going to take us to the club."

"We'll take you to the holding area!" the Tellarite declared.

"Come on Garn," Martin argued. "They are just two tourists." Erica watched him start from her feet and gaze up towards her head. "We can put them in the security lounge." He looked at Erica. "You will promise to stay there?"

"Unless you wanted me to go some other place with you," she crooned. She wanted to laugh when he visibly gulped.

He was starting to sweat she observed. "Uh…follow us." He turned away quickly, bumping into Garn. The Tellarite took up a position behind her and Reed. They headed out of the yacht and into the station's somewhat claustrophobic corridors. She and Reed were soon deposited in fairly nondescript lounge of sorts. Soames saw video screens but nothing with terminal access. She shot a look toward Reed. The Tellarite departed after some conversation with Martin. Erica was not surprised to discover that the young human was going to be left behind to guard them.

She struck up a conversation with him as soon as Garn left. Reed effectively played the part of an effete snob. He smiled and bumbled about finally settling on calling up a cheap holovid on one of the displays. Soames knew that they were counting on her to divert the security man's attention. They each had a data wafer with the program that should override any command protocols in the system. Erica wondered if Martin had a terminal in his room. She shot a conspiratorial glance at Reed.

"I'd love to see more of this station," she declared. She had adopted a southern North American accent for her role. Alvin Crosby had always laughed raucously at her use of it. She guessed that Crosby was dead. Daedelus was long overdue. Whatever his demons she hoped that Crosby had finally confronted them and had died peacefully.

"We really can't give tours…"

She realized that he was fishing. "Julianne Blair," she said as she extended a hand. He introduced himself. "That is too bad: I would love to see more." She looked him up and down. She noticed his look of concern directed at Reed. "Don't worry about Clive." She lowered her voice but knew that Reed could hear her. "He isn't much good in a certain area." She winked at him.

"Okay," he said at last. Erica could see him thinking. She could see the desire. His hormones were raging against his common sense. "Would you like to see my quarters?" he asked innocently. The hormones had won. She took his arm and gave Reed a slight grin. Martin at least had the sense to call Garn, who after a Tellarite look of consternation agreed to look after 'Clive'.

Erica looked and acted both amazed and none too brilliant as Martin escorted her through the station. She knew the function of almost every system. Martin tried to inflate his role as a security chief but Soames was pleased that he kept pretty much to the truth. There was a grain of a nice guy in there somewhere. They arrived at his quarters: Erica did not fail to note that the blowout access tubes were right across from Martin's single room. She knew that they led to a computer diagnostic terminal.

Erica walked in ahead of Martin. He put a hand on the small of her back which descended a little lower after the door closed. She turned on him. "That red shirt really excites me Martin." She embraced him and blew lightly across his ear.

He grunted and sighed with pleasure in return. Soames outfit left next to nothing to the probing man's imagination. She started breathing deeply. She ran her fingertips up the side of his tunic and then back down. She explored again only this time putting her hands under the tunic. She raked her fingernails against his flesh. Martin in turn fumbled around trying to remove her almost invisible garment. His movements were clumsy. Soames noted that they grew more awkward. Martin slumped into her arms. She lowered him onto his small bunk.

Erica looked at the fingernail of her index finger: The dermal agent had acted quickly and was thankfully nonlethal. She paused and thought how lucky her and Frank had been: Kanya was using just the shell of the resources that the Birdies had left while Reed had whatever sources he had. Their resources and devices had intimidated Erica somewhat. She thought that it made her and McCoy's operation look like some child's attempt at playing spy. The agent that was implanted in her nail was one such toy that Kanya had access to.

Erica looked around the small room while she checked Martin's vitals. "You really need to get an interior decorator." Soames guessed that standards sometimes slipped because of the war. Senior officers had real tasks now; not just inspecting junior officer and enlisted quarters. The young chief was unconscious. Satisfied that she had some time Soames opened the door and cautiously peered out.

The corridor was deserted. Erica was not surprised: She had studied the station's duty shift schedule. She scrambled across the hallway to the blowout access. Soames worked the hatch's manual opening mechanism keenly aware of how a practically naked woman trying to enter a maintenance access must look. The hatch swung open. Erica knelt and crawled through. She turned quickly and dogged the hatch.

One down, she thought as she stood erect and looked down the even narrower passage. The guts of the station; electrics, atmosphere, hydraulics, and most importantly computer trunking lay exposed. Soames followed one such conduit. She smiled when she saw the terminal in a small recess in the station's hull. She took the wafer off of her dress and slid it into the port. Her fingers danced over the touchpads.

A security warning popped up on the monitor. Soames entered a bypass command. The screen went blank. Erica looked around guiltily. She wondered how quickly security could track her. The screen reappeared, showing complete system access. Erica looked at the options until she found the command network. She selected that choice. Once again she was confronted by a security challenge. Erica took a deep breath.

"Go get it," she whispered. She hit enter.

The station's main computer network accessed the terminal—and the insidious wafer. The screen did not blank this time. Erica wondered if the old program had met its match against a twenty-second century software system. The screen seemed frozen. Soames started to input a command when she was abruptly granted access. Erica had been in this system many times. She knew exactly what needed done. She was glad now that it was her and not Reed who was doing this. The major probably would have murdered poor Martin and Garn then preceded with their business. She tabled thoughts about Reed as she got down to her business here.

The deployment schedule was laid out before her. She furiously punched in numbers, altering transponder codes and changing launch schedules. There were many inputs. Soames tried not to think about the time. She looked down at the computer display. Fifteen minutes had passed since she had gained access. She was almost through. Erica nervously mopped away the sweat from her brow. She vaguely wondered why engineers, who would be working in these spaces, designed them with such poor ventilation. The last command she thought triumphantly. She hit enter.

"Stop what you are doing!" a voice snapped. Soames backed away and turned. She was confronted with an angry Martin. The security chief swayed and reeled. His plasma pistol tracked unevenly in his hand. "I should have known better," he slurred. The drug was effective, just not as effective as it needed to be. She hoped that he had come alone in his drug induced stupor.

"I just got a little lost," she crooned.

"You'll be lost in a cell," Martin shouted and slipped against a bulkhead. He righted himself just in time to receive a sharp blow to the back of his head.

"Ouch; goddamnit!" a thoroughly frustrated Arnie Griffin exclaimed. Soames recognized the junk dealer almost instantly. She had not seen him creep up behind Martin. How that was possible she did not know. Griffin was dressed in his trademark sandals but this time he was sporting a bright yellow shirt adorned with palm trees and exotic birds. He was shaking the hand that he had just used to strike the chief. Soames stood mute. What to say at a time like this?

"I don't know who you are lady, but you do get around." Soames watched him retrieve Martin's pistol. "Don't worry; I'm on your side. I think."

"You have to believe that I'm trying to do good here," Erica answered.

"You do me good just by wearing that dress!" He smiled at her. Griffin dropped the grin and launched into an explanation. He told of how he had fared after his sales to Perrin and then Soames and Nayyar. Griffin had bought a villa in Puerto Rico and had quickly become bored. He had jumped at an advertisement recruiting former naval personnel who were past the maximum age or disabled. Griffin fell into the latter category. Although not put back into uniform, Griffin and recruits like him were given jobs in near earth, non combat positions. Arnie was serving as a communications' technician while learning how to fly a modern shuttle.

"So you are here to what; arrest me?" she asked.

"No; like I said I'm on your side." He gave her a serious look. "You really do have a nice body; but that is not why I'm helping you."

He continued with an explanation of his meeting with a UI investigator. The policeman had primarily been interested in a man. It didn't take Soames long to figure out that man was Malcolm Reed. Griffin had did a little work on his own; especially after this agent, Watson, had disclosed that laser activity had been scanned on the day of the Antonov disaster. Erica winced inwardly at the mention of that.

"Now; I know my ships," he hesitated before adding, "admiral." He saw her look of surprise. "I had a feeling I'd seen your face somewhere. You and the amazon girl with you were well disguised, but I saw a news vid of you." He looked terribly young for a moment. "I decided to be honest and admit that I know who you are. I never thought I'd see you again after that day."

"How do you know that we aren't," she paused and swallowed hard; "that we aren't Birdie agents?"

"Watson wasn't savvy on laser targeting," Griffin answered. "Hell; that is as old as a cavalry saber I guess. Playboy Steve takes off in a ship with an old L-nav guidance system; then you girls come along. You seemed interested in Stevie but I let that pass. The shipyard nearly gets taken out and the DY disappears. Add to that some rumors about a couple of crazy women running around in Luna City. My guess is that Steve was targeting a Martian moon for the birds and you girls put the schnockers to him."

Soames nodded hesitantly. "If you are on our side then we need help getting off of here."

"No problem," he answered. He looked her up and down. "I guess you seduced poor Hengist here?" he asked pointing to the unconscious security trooper. Erica nodded. "Good; the redshirts tease him to death about women." He looked at her breasts. "He must have thought it was his lucky day when you showed up!" Griffin continued: "Anyway was it just you here?" She explained that she was with someone else.

"Not the amazon girl again?" he asked. She shook her head, determined to be silent about Reed. "I guess it is this guy that Watson was asking about. I picked up that he wasn't after you. He is chasing weird stuff that has been happening; that is why he found me. He was a typical closed mouth cop but I could tell that he wasn't interested after I said two women bought a ship."

"Can you help me?" she asked at last.

"I'll drag Marty back to his cabin," Griffin explained. "I'll tell him that you got lost. I bet whatever you gave him, leaves a fellow kind of fuzzy. He'll be too embarrassed I'm bettin' to file a report. Call it a Jedi mind trick." He saw her look of puzzlement. "Forget it; just an old holovid. Okay, you and your friend head off. Is that your yacht that is moored up to papa section?" She nodded. "You are almost fueled up."

He started dragging the unconscious security man back to his cabin. "Thank you for your help Arnie. You don't know what this means."

"You mean if they catch a military officer interfering in civilian matters?" He had let the trooper's body down. He slashed a hand across his throat. "I know what it means."

"Anyone else who is implicated will swing too," Soames answered mournfully.

"I know that too," Griffin said. They had managed to get Martin back to his room without being observed. "I'll do what I can to help you." He paused. "Say; I hear through the grapevine that you and Forrest are..."

She decided to respond to the unasked question. "We are. Why do you ask?"

"Uh, no reason," Griffin answered. "Oh hell; look if it isn't serious or you ever want to retire and kick the sand along the beach maybe you and me…"

They departed and made their way back to the lounge. Griffin acted as a scout. They ducked into a maintenance alcove when they were in sight of the lounge. She looked into Griffin's eyes. She thanked him and then something occurred to her.

"You were a pilot and are retraining to be one again. The Stiles woman; she is somewhere in France." Kendra Stiles was a suspect, according to the UI, in Romulan involvement. The charge, leveled by Mark Hawkins effectively had shut down her campaign. "If they find her is there anyway you—

"I have a friend from Paris," Griffin interrupted. "As a matter of fact he told me that Stiles and her campaign manager are hiding out with some vintner. He wouldn't say who. Whoever thought we'd have to look over our shoulder when we talk. It's getting as bad as old America."

"Could you retrieve her?" Soames asked. He nodded. "Can you help hide her? She is the key to getting things set right I think."

"Yeah I can," Griffin answered. "I have friends in the islands." His face assumed a look of bemusement. "Us junkmen are popular guys. Garn is in there; just tell him that Marty dropped you off then had to go back for his weapon. It'll be embarrassing and should throw Garn off."

"Thank you Arnie," she started back to the lounge. She turned suddenly. "I don't know how things are between me and Max." She found his fresh attitude strangely compelling. "But maybe I'd like to feel some sand between my toes." She leaned in and caught him by surprise with a kiss. She made it one for him to remember.

She drew back. His eyes opened slowly. She was about to speak when he held up a hand. "Hey, let me guess; don't call me I'll call you. Not the first time I've heard that. But that lip lock made it all worthwhile. I'm due for a leave. I have a restored Mark VI jump jet. I'll head to Paris I think. I hear the bread is good there."

"A Mark VI?" she asked excitedly. He nodded. She could see that he was pleased that she was acquainted with the aircraft. Erica had been first become fascinated with flying when her parents had taken her to the London Air Museum. The old Mark VI transport had been standing guard at the entrance. She wanted to ask more but just waved and turned away. Perhaps she would see Arnie again.

Curran Class Patrol Vessel Salamunga, Mars orbit, Feb 2158

The old man finished his log entry. It was the same as yesterday's entry and that of the day before. Nothing changed for old Sal. That was the nickname for the chief's command. Salamunga was old but it had been one of the ships that had stood against the Romulans while the new Kretchets and Tannhausers were being built. Master Chief Georgi Tatlin looked around the small quarters. The desk would flip over and become a bunk. It was the only sleeping area on Salamunga that was designed for one person only.

Tatlin signed the touchpad and pushed enter. He would like to have written about Salmunga's great service history. It was all there; somewhere in a database. It seemed a shame that the old girl would be scrapped. Tatlin hoped at the least that the old ship would set outside some village as a memorial. He sipped at his tea. Served in a clear glass with brass fixtures the tea was hearty and nearly as black as coffee. He was considering using the desk in its other function and catching a short nap.

The chime sounded stirring him from his thoughts. Tatlin yawned, switched on the intercom and informed his caller to come in. Tatlin was confronted with the thin figure of Crewman David McKidd. The crewman had a sheaf of papers in his hand. Georgi still had to force himself to use the word crewman instead of spacer. He wasn't sure that he liked this new Star Fleet. Tatlin sighed audibly when McKidd came to attention and rendered him a formal salute.

Although technically a vessel under power and Tatlin in command, he did not feel like nor preferred to be called captain of Salamunga. But McKidd was young; Georgi knew that he would learn to relax when he was posted to a deep space assignment. Tatlin absently returned the gesture.

"What is it?"

"Sir; we have movement orders!"

Tatlin chuckled. He was sure that either McKidd had misunderstood or that one of his cronies was playing a joke on them. He took the proffered papers from the crewman. His laughter died in his throat when he saw the official order numbers and codes. He stopped scanning and turned to a careful analysis of the documents. He took a full minute to examine the orders, aware that McKidd was waiting at attention.

"Relax David," he advised the crewman. He finally looked up at McKidd. "These just came in?" he asked, knowing that the timestamp told him the exact time of reception. He drummed his fingers of his free hand on the desktop.

"Yes sir, captain!"

Tatlin sighed. "Okay; go to engineering and get Scott to warm up the reactor. Tell her to see to it that it doesn't explode." As proud as he was of Sal he also understood that she was not in the best of shape. There was a reason these ships were to be decommissioned. Georgi just wished that he could apply a pointie's detachment to the whole affair.

Tatlin threw a sloppy salute toward McKidd who smartly came to attention, returned the gesture, spun on his heel and left. He switched over the intercom. Baxter was on duty in communications he recalled. "Stinky! Stop looking at vids of naked girls and raise Hastings' command."

Both men had seen over thirty years of Stellar Navy service. Georgi had first met Louis Baxter in boot camp. "You mean Hastings' comm, don't you Captain Pudgy?"

"No, you seen the orders Stinky," he answered. "I want to talk to the commodore; find out what the hell is going on here."

"Okay boss," Baxter's disembodied voice announced out of the speaker grill. "I'll give you voice over vid; secure at that."

Minutes later the small monitor went from black to an image of a broad shouldered man dressed in the regulation black turtleneck undergarment. Another reason to get out when the war ended Georgi thought: He missed the old blue jumpsuits of the SN. Tatlin realized that Commodore Oulette must have received this transmission in his quarters. He looked beyond Oulette to see a space at least four times the size of his quarters on Sal, and was that a private water closet that he spied!

"Yes?" the commodore asked simply. Tatlin launched into a quick explanation for the reason of his call. "Give me the order number and code sequence." Tatlin did so. He watched as Oulette's hands moved beneath the display. Georgi was pleased to see the officer holding a piece of paper. Even after two hundred years of computers, having a printed page in one's hands was comforting. "This shows that the almost the entire movement are ships being retired."

"I saw the same thing sir," Tatlin commented. "I thought that they were redeploying the big boys?"

"They are," Oulette answered slowly after a short pause.

"Are you going to call fleet HQ and clear up the status sir?" Tatlin asked.

He watched while Oulette studied the paper again. "The original orders would leave the yard without cover." Tatlin realized that the officer was speaking to himself and not Georgi. Oulette looked directly in his screen; directly at Tatlin. "Who are we to question orders Chief Tatlin?"

"I think that I understand sir," Tatlin answered, "but it won't take long for Star Fleet Command in San Francisco to see that something isn't right."

He watched as Oulette played with his great, hairy moustache. Georgi realized that the officer had come to a decision. "I see that some of your ships are sublight only: Set your speed according to the slowest. Establish buddy cruise procedures. Respond with transponder codes only. Do not respond with ship names."

Tatlin would have done that anyway. Buddy cruise meant that a fully functional craft would shadow one that was in trouble. Ships had traveled in groups for a reason: A malfunction out in the deep would put earth thousands of lifetimes away. He picked up on something else Oulette had said.

"My ships sir?" he asked.

"I'm designating you lead for the," Oulette paused and twirled an end of his moustache, "for this taskforce."

Tatlin performed some calculations. Trina Hutchinson's Stinger was in the worst shape of the Currans and Archers that were to be scrapped. At Stinger's maximum speed they would be lucky if they saw see earth in a week. He informed Oulette of that fact.

"Yes they will take a week," the commodore replied. "Troubling, with the security exercise that I'm planning on carrying out; restricted communications and all," Oulette continued. "You have your orders chief!"

"Aye aye sir," Tatlin answered.

Oulette nodded at him and closed the connection. Tatlin sighed and stood up. The Star Fleet tunic pulled up along with him. He pulled it over his waist and departed his cabin. Tatlin made the short journey to the radio compartment. Lou Baxter was sitting back in the padded seat with his feet up on the comm console. He rolled his eyes when he saw Tatlin.

"Scotty reports the plant is hot," he told Georgi. "McKidd is on the bridge running warp entry calculations."

"That'll be good practice for him when he gets on a fighting ship," Tatlin declared. "I'm afraid this is going to be an impulse cruise my friend." He told Baxter of the commodore's orders.

"So you are a taskforce commander?" Baxter chided him.

"That is right Stinky!" Tatlin retorted. "Remember I could make you walk the plank." Baxter laughed.

The two chiefs went about the business of planning and coordinating the move. Baxter sent out coded dispatches to their charges. The other ships of the redeploying waved replied. Tatlin reckoned that they could get underway in an hour. He was looking forward to seeing earth again. God knew why. His family house in Saint Petersburg was empty. Still; he longed for earth as he had not in years. Maybe he really was ready to retire.

The foot of Mount Selaya, Vulcan, earth year Feb 2158

"The gas will be loaded in agricultural shuttles," V'Las told Admiral Valdore. "They shall go about their task before this day is over." Valdore saw how the sundered race shared one thing in particular: The use of colorful euphemisms. The shuttles' task would be a lethal one.

"The crews can be trusted?" Valdore asked. At the rate that the High Command personnel were either refusing to carry out orders or outright desertion Valdore began to wonder how many loyal troops V'Las had left.

"They have supported me from the very beginning admiral," V'Las answered.

"You are planning on making the demonstration against the provinces that you discussed with me earlier?" he asked.

"They have shown the greatest concentration of rebels," V'Las replied. Valdore was surprised to hear the minister use that term in reference to his fellow Vulcans. He supposed that V'Las must feel as if he were under siege.

Valdore had been a soldier long enough to know that the most tactically and strategically sound plans could afoul of unforeseen circumstances. Syrran was that unforeseen circumstance here. Assassination was out of the question: The overtaking wave was already in motion. Syrran's movement would outlive Syrran. The gas barrage would further sunder the population, but Valdore had to follow orders. There were still many Tal Shiar operatives buried in his command.

"You have done well for us here V'Las," Valdore said. Emotion or not he knew that the minister needed support from some quarter. He reached into a pocket of his cloak, retrieved the item there and presented it to V'Las. "This is a personal message for you from our praetor. Carry it on your person at all times until you return to Romulus."

"Then I can look forward to going to Romulus?" V'Las asked. The mask dropped for a second. V'Las thought that he saw…relief, on V'Las' face.

"Unless this meeting with Syrran goes well," Valdore answered. "If you convince him to support you at last, then you will have a further task of preparing your people for final reunification. Once that is finished you may come to Romulus as an honored citizen of the empire."

"I shall look forward to that, admiral," V'Las answered. He watched as the minister looked out toward the terminal. A citizen loyal to the government had reported seeing Syrran boarding a surface crawler for Mount Selaya. Valdore knew that even Gupta's guard must have slipped amid the fact that throngs of citizens were making a pilgrimage to the mount.

The crawler rolled onto the debarkation pad with typical Vulcan punctuality. There was only V'Las and his party there to meet the passengers. Valdore had wanted it this way. The boarding stairs rolled up to the crawler's side. The party stepped down the ramp. Valdore pulled the hood of cloak over his head and stepped away with his guards. He would remain hidden for this meeting.

The heat literally wrapped itself around Lieutenant Frank McCoy's face. It was a relief from the packed transport. McCoy had been forced to cover his pale skin and rounded ears for practical reasons. That had only made the journey more difficult for him. All around him he heard Vulcans babbling in their sonorous, cloying voices. No one raised their voice, no one became excited. Frank knew that no one was arguing about who was tops in football or having a domestic dispute with their wife over where they had been; or perhaps they were doing all of that he thought.

He would not fight with a wife ever again. Frank did not feel sorry for himself: He felt sorry that he had ever met Eileen Thomas. He did not believe that he was being melodramatic in believing that their meeting had led to her death. Would she still be alive had the two not met? He didn't know but he suspected that she would be alive. Frank wondered how he would face her parents again.

Would Nayyar give the child that she was carrying up to its grandparents? She had told Frank that she was acting as a surrogate mother only out of a debt to him. Women were strange creatures though; Frank had learned that the hard way. Stranger even than these Vulcans he thought. He took a position at the back of the group. Brack was, as always since their meeting, arguing with Syrran. McCoy knew that it was the Mistral part of Brack. Maybe there was something to this katra thing.

Those two were followed by Tara and T'Pol. Frank remembered how the people in Intel had teased Gupta about his crush on the Vulcan. McCoy could tell that it had gone beyond love from afar: Even a human like Frank could see the Vulcan woman's looks and small tenderness's that were rendered to Gupta. Tara returned those too. Frank had seen the two touching their fingers together: What Brack had told him was the Vulcan equivalent of hand holding. McCoy wished them well. He hoped that what had happened to him would not have to happen to his friends.

McCoy watched their unnamed travel mates make their way to the terminal; probably in pursuit of lodging. Syrran seemed to prefer staying with their group. McCoy sensed that the leader could get special treatment from innkeepers and such if he pressed the issue. Syrran did not do so. Frank wished that the Vulcan did: He would have enjoyed a luxury suite instead of the hostel type setup that he was sure they would stay at.

They went down the stairs. The press of Vulcan travelers was leaving the terminal. Except for the maintainers of the surface crawler their group was alone. Frank could feel the heat radiating up through the permacrete when he stepped onto the tarmac. Frank was glad that they were stepping lively for the final few meters to the terminal. McCoy thought it odd that the station was empty except for a single Vulcan. The Vulcan pulled back his cloak as the party drew to within ten meters of the glass doors. He stepped out of the terminal. McCoy thought that the alien looked familiar. Syrran, T'Pol and Gupta obviously knew who the lone Vulcan was.

There was a hubbub between the group and the Vulcan. Gupta stepped forward and leveled his pistol at the stranger. McCoy trusted his young friend. He brought his plasma pistol up and aimed it at the Vulcan. Syrran strode forward and confronted the loner. Frank could hear both T'Pol and Tara speaking in raised voices to the Vulcan leader who seemed unconcerned.

McCoy became frustrated. "Goddamnit! Someone speak English!"

"Shutup Frank!" Brack hissed. At least Brack's admonishment was in English. McCoy would thank Micah later.

It was V'Las. Gupta didn't spare a moment retrieving his weapon. Maybe he was going native as Frank McCoy had told him. A voice in his head asked him why he was planning on murdering someone. The minister was not armed and he did not have any troops with him to be seen: Was it logical to draw a weapon on someone who wanted to parlay? Gupta thought that it was the lingering influence of Surak.

Syrran had been right: Now that he knew the secret he wished that he hadn't. It had taken all of Tarang's mental discipline to conceal what he knew from T'Pol. How could he ever let her know that everything she had believed in had been based on a lie? He had hidden the facts from her but she knew that something was there. Gupta forced himself to concentrate on the issue at hand.

He was amazed to see Syrran hold up a restraining hand. "There will be no violence here."

"You travel with strange companions given your claim of pacifism Syrran," Minister V'Las said.

"They will not commit violence minister. I have claimed nothing and my pacifism is a matter of public record." Syrran's hands were folded under his cloak.

"Strange then that your logic has created a rebellion," V'Las said. "Our great world is at a standstill. Our ships are paralyzed our industries are stopped. Learning at the Vulcan Science Academy has stopped. Is this the path that Surak has laid out for us?"

"Logic does not compel us to act as drones, minister. Your government was acting illogically." Gupta watched as Syrran drew himself up. "You invited the Rihannsu here V'Las. I question who has acted with violent intent."

"They are our future Syrran," V'Las replied. "Surak spoke of the reunification of our peoples. Think of the power we could wield as a race unified again. We could temper their excesses. The Rihannsu need us as much as we need them." V'Las looked at Gupta and Frank McCoy who Tarang saw, had pulled back his hood. "Why do you consort with barbarians?"

"The humans have been most honorable minister. This one has been my friend." Gupta was taken aback to see Syrran gesturing at him. "I do not see any evidence of barbarism from our human allies First Minister."

"You speak of us teaching the Rihannsu and yet all indications are that we would become like them. We would return to that which was."

"What indications are those?" V'Las asked.

"You just said, 'think of the power we could wield as a race unified again.' That sort of power is to be resisted. Suppose our sundered races become a dominant power minister; how long before one of these so called barbarian races would rise up to defeat us?"

"Impossible," V'Las argued. "We would show them the error of their ways. That is when we would employ that which we learn from the Rihannsu."

"Yes, punish the barbarians," Syrran answered. "Give them reason to do the same to us until we have been annihilated."

"I do not believe that is so," V'Las answered. He looked at Syrran's small group. The minister lowered his voice. "Listen; there is a thing not known. You have heard the legends of the generals; Careaza and Tarl? Tarl took a tablet with him in exile; even Careaza knew nothing of it. It sits in a vault on Romulus. I have seen it. Translation has been slow but there are references to our race being descended from a greater one; a race whose minds were incredibly adept and powerful. We mustn't allow our race to be submerged into…" Gupta saw the minister looking at him; the restraint was gone for a second. The look was full of contempt.

"I am aware of the legend of Sargon," Syrran answered; "as to mixing our genes with those of the humans; what of it? Surak spoke of change from without. We will continue in our role as teachers. But we will remember our place as students."

"Students?" the minister asked in a tone that was openly sarcastic. "Is that the future that your movement seeks to lead us to Syrran? A future where we kneel at the feet of others?" For the first time Gupta noticed that the minister was casually fumbling with something in his left hand. He found the action odd for a Vulcan. Tarang was concerned that it might be a weapon. He was relieved when he saw that it was a Vulcan data rod. He watched V'Las glance at the hand and then return his gaze to Syrran. "You can go. You can go to Romulus and see for yourself."

Tarang almost gasped aloud as V'Las took a step and laid a hand upon Syrran's shoulder: So un-Vulcan was the gesture. "Listen; you can meet our brothers. They are not the savage monsters of legend. True they are passionate, but their passions led them to forge their way across space to create a great empire. Do not disdain that which you do not know. Let us agree to a compromise: Call a halt to this strike. Speak to our people of the logic of returning to their daily tasks."

"I have not called for a strike V'Las." Syrran stepped back, shrugging V'Las' hand from his shoulder. "You fail to understand that our people have made logical choices as individuals. They are questioning the logic of their appointed representatives. They are questioning your logic V'Las. You have yet to answer them."

"You will not find my answer to your liking." V'Las drew himself up. "You choose to pursue a course of stubbornness, very well: You actions will doom the inhabitants of T'Karath and Selaan to their deaths. You can reverse this Syrran. There is still time."

"So this is your plan V'Las; accept Romulan rule—and make no mistake—that is what will happen. We must accede to that or you will conduct another bombardment?"

"The reprisal will be through an application of N'Tak gas. The delivery shuttles have been launched. The time grows short. You can save them Syrran. Do not fear Reunification."

"Romulus has indeed influenced you V'Las. Do you not understand that which you have said? I," Syrran emphasized the article; "shall cause the deaths of millions? I have not ordered a slaughter. I control no military forces V'Las. Take some responsibility for your actions minister, or do you intend on blaming your role in this mass murder on your new masters?"

V'Las dropped all pretense of control. His hand gripped the data rod. Gupta wondered where things would go when gunfire erupted from the terminal. The building's large windows blew out. Laser fire seared the black night. Gupta sprinted forward and tackled Syrran. There was an explosion of green gore.

"Vulcan cruisers taking up a defensive sphere," Chief Dalia Morris announced.

"They'll use their speed to establish a running net," Jean Baptiste Jospin added. "If we try to go around they will merely snare us that way." Jocelyn Stiles watched as he turned his head and listened intently to the information coming over his earpiece. "Charger reports that they will remain at standoff range."

"That will give the Pointies a surprise," Stiles declared. She looked around the darkened bridge. The surprise would not last long Stiles knew. She had toured the new warship. It was the culmination of the Bison class of ships and the pinnacle of technologies for the fifties. Charger was not, however anything new. Charger's rather boisterous engineer had explained to Jocelyn that Charger's new matter anti matter reactor was the most efficient design thus far, but was still nothing more than an improvement upon existing systems.

The Vulcans would soon realize that Charger could be challenged by particle beams fired while in warp; something no allied vessels could do with any degree of accuracy. They had nine Vulcan cruisers with them; five had dropped out owing to Syrranite influence. Reports were that six of V'Las' cruisers had defected, but they too were under Syrranite control. Four of those were destroyed by their captains while the remaining two had taken on survivors and warped away to parts unknown.

Were it not for the even match in technology the fight would be near equal: The president's taskforce had twelve Stellar Navy vessels with their Vulcan additions. Zimmermann had assumed nominal military command. He had suggested a strategy of augmenting the nine Vulcan ships in the hopes of increasing their overall firepower. Charger would surprise their adversaries but the shock would soon wear off. Stiles swept her gaze around the bridge.

All of the faces were old and firm. Age didn't seem to matter. Stiles herself was only twenty-four but after losing people she loved and condemning so many to their deaths she felt as if she were ancient. Their faces were set and resolute. Jocelyn knew that it wasn't bravery: It was more like a condemned prisoner requesting that his executioner get on with his task. There wasn't going to be any rest. She stood up and paced around the bridge.

"We've faced bad odds before and we beat them." She walked by Chief Morris. The woman had been pleased with being able to use subspace sensors again. "I won't tell you why we have to win here. The president thinks that he can talk to these people. I don't know if he can. If he does, if he does," she repeated, "then this war might be a lot shorter. We all want to go home; to resume our lives." What sort of life would she go back to? "This might be our best chance." She strolled by Lieutenant Cruz at the gunnery alcove.

"Let's commence the shooting!" the Tellarite exclaimed. "Humans talk and talk, the Vulcans will act."

"President Thorpe is sending a message of greeting," the new Andorian communications' officer Lieutenant Par announced.

"Put it on the viewer Par," Stiles ordered. She knew that Thorpe was going to attempt a last communication with the Vulcans. He had already made several tries only to be answered by silence. Jocelyn suspected that nothing would change now.

She looked at the face of Christophur Thorpe. He rendered a greeting in proper Vulcan. Stiles only knew a few words from the language of that planet's stoic inhabitants. Thorpe had apparently been studying for this attempt at contact. She watched and listened as Thorpe spoke for almost two minutes. The viewscreen blanked out to be replaced with the tactical display. Thorpe had received an answer: High Command cruisers were on the move.

"Battle stations," Stiles said quietly.

Frank McCoy rolled and leveled his pistol. He fired. The plasma weapon charge blasted away at a support column. Stone went flying creating a dust cloud. Laser beams lit up the night. Someone on the other side, whoever that was Frank thought, had a sort of advanced machine gun type weapon. He rolled away just as the stone wall that he was hiding behind was reduced to flying shards of debris. The machine gun stopped. McCoy fired in that general direction. He crawled for deeper cover until he ran head first into Tara Gupta.

Gupta spoke calmly to him in Vulcan despite the nasty bump he must have given his friend. He looked at Frank and seemed to realize that McCoy could not understand him. "We have to prevent a gas attack against two provinces!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Gupta gave Frank an abbreviated version of the conversation that had taken place between Syrran and V'Las. McCoy gave it some thought. He jerked and rolled away as stone shrapnel rained onto him. The machine gun shooter was busy. "Wouldn't this V'Las have to order the fliers back?"

He watched as Gupta fired several charges toward the terminal. "That won't be possible: The minister is dead."

"Who in the hell did it; these Romulans?" Gupta nodded and fired off a few more shots. "I thought that V'Las was their man!"

"Apparently he was," Gupta answered. "It is my speculation that the Romulans were trying to kill Syrran and missed."

He digested Tara's last statement. "You know you could say; I guess. You sound like a Point—Vulcan." He gave Tara's ears a wary look.

A figure casually leaped in among Gupta and Frank. McCoy rolled up and leveled his pistol. Brack slapped it away before Frank could even draw a bead on him. "Don't be an ass Frank! It's me. We need to finish off whoever is shooting and send a message either from the crawler or inside."

The machine gun shooter sent a chilling answer to Micah Brack's proposal as its hyper velocity slugs tore through a boulder. The trio scrambled to heavier covering rocks. "It seems they have us at a disadvantage sir!" he heard Tara grumble. McCoy had noticed the friction between the younger man and Brack. Gupta seemed to be acting as Syrran's protector and it occurred to Frank that Micah's arguments with the Vulcan had to irritate Tara.

"Not much different than the Somme," Brack replied wistfully. Gupta gave him a look of puzzlement. Frank could readily understand why: Could he ever explain to Tara that in all likelihood Brack had been at the Battle of the Somme.

"The what?" his friend asked Micah in confusion.

"Forget it," McCoy interjected. "Do you have any suggestions for how to get out of this?"

"There are two shooters in the right quadrant of the building," Brack announced formally. "Our friend with the slug thrower is off to the left. You two could concentrate your fire over that way," Brack said, pointing towards the left into the smoke filled building. "I could move over behind that revetment and pick away at the two laser shooters."

"Theses pistols are no match for that!" for the first time since their meeting Frank heard emotion behind Gupta's words. So; he had not gone entirely native McCoy figured.

Frank watched as Brack produced the charge section of his captured Vulcan particle rifle. "I can short across the energy buildup coil and stifle the firing sequence on this," he informed them while holding out the small cubical weapon charge container.

"A forced chamber explosion?" he asked. Frank scratched his head. "How do you know how to do that?"

Brack smiled. McCoy hoped that meant that it was Micah and not his hidden Vulcan buddy. "Let's just say that past administrations weren't closed minded when it came to reverse engineering Vulcan equipment. We never had much luck but I know how to make the gun's charge explode."

"Sounds like a plan," McCoy announced. He looked around for a likely place for him and Tarang to fire from without being murdered in turn. He spotted one; turned and showed Brack. "Give us two minutes to work our way over there and then you're on your own."

"No problem, just like Mexico City!" the immortal exclaimed. McCoy sensed that Brack was genuinely enjoying the firefight. He watched Micah scamper away then turned to Gupta. "We'll cross over through that culvert." The edge of the terminal's pad was lined on one side by a permacrete drainage system. McCoy had always thought that no rain fell here. He had imagined Vulcan as being much the same as Frank Herbert's mythical Arrakis.

He felt Gupta seize his arm. "Sand worms like to hide in these drainage areas for the moisture Frank: Be careful."

"Maybe you have gone native old son," he answered. He had just been thinking that very thing. He ignored Tara's questioning look. "Do these…do these worms eat people?" He led the way toward the permacrete ditch despite the rising fear of creepy crawlies.

"Why yes they do Frank," Tara answered. "They'll give you a very bad shock and perhaps spray acid on you afterwards; helps to dissolve your flesh so they can consume you." McCoy crouched down and stopped. He turned and looked sharply at Gupta. The youth was stoically serious, and then he broke into an annoying grin. "Okay; I made up the part about the acid." McCoy tried to look angry. He gave Gupta an ancient gesture that involved his middle finger. "I love you too Frank," the lieutenant commander replied.

The machine pistol spat out another round of super accelerated death. McCoy crouched lower and dived into the culvert. It had not seen moisture in some time. He scrambled along after first ensuring that Gupta was alright. They took a little more than two minutes but Frank had no doubt that Brack was watching them. He was glad that the long-lived Brack was on their side. They were in position. Frank peered over the lip of the drainage chute.

Electric blue laser fire lanced out of the shadows of the terminal; but it was not directed at them. The crawler was the intended target. The Vulcan skipper started his craft moving but too late: Their adversaries were directing fire into the crawler's prefire area. The concentrated buildup of hydrogen exploded when the metal was seared open allowing the gas to mix with oxygen under the presence of the laser fire. The front half of the surface vehicle shot straight up into the air. The burning wreckage came down to hit the remainder of the doomed vehicle.

McCoy tugged at Gupta's sleeve. "Now!" he shouted over the noise of the carnage.

They sprang up and fired into the area that Brack had indicated. McCoy caught plasma pistol fire out of the corner of his eye. A brief flare up from the burning bones of the crawler illuminated the silhouette of Brack. The immortal was firing and advancing toward the terminal. McCoy ejected his spent power pack. He loaded another one and continued firing. Frank guessed that it must be working: The machine gun fire was silent. An explosion rocked the terminal. McCoy threw himself to the ground. The sound of the firefight grew strangely muffled.

Frank heard the crackle of the burning crawler clearly, but little else. He was aware that Gupta's lips were moving but he could not hear any sound from his friend's mouth. He seemed to lie in the culvert for an hour. Finally he heard the sound of voices: It was Brack announcing that it was all clear. McCoy carefully peered over the edge. All was black outside the rings of fire. He motioned toward Tara. They both sprang over the lip onto the tarmac.

Frank watched Gupta run ahead. Syrran and T'Pol had taken cover in a small maintenance garage. He stopped before the Vulcan woman. They embraced and kissed. Frank looked away: He felt a pain in his heart. His thoughts returned to Eileen. When he looked back, the Vulcan demeanor had sank back onto his friend. The three—McCoy almost thought three Vulcans; he had to remind himself of his friend's humanity. The trio was calmly speaking among themselves in the melodious Vulcan tongue.

McCoy scurried along to join Brack who was finishing a sweep of the terminal. It had been a large stone building built with the idea of keeping the cool air inside. Its vaulted ceiling was collapsed into rubble and debris in the center of what had been a waiting area for passengers. A counter, with what Frank hoped was a communications' terminal behind it was still relatively intact. McCoy listened as his friend shouted something in Vulcan. Gupta, Syrran and T'Pol joined him and Brack.

"This is disturbing," Micah Brack announced clearly in Vulcan. "There are no bodies."

"Frank mentioned that their ground troops on Tarod literally burned up when shot," Gupta said. He was sure that Brack and Frank knew more about their adversaries than they were letting on. He supposed anything was possible given that Brack was carrying the katra from a Vulcan who had been on earth since the mid twentieth century.

"That is true," Brack answered. He stroked his chin while he looked away, obviously lost in thought. "Still; we should be on our guard here."

Brack made an exchange with McCoy in English. Frank and the mysterious billionaire would commence a more thorough sweep and patrol of the area while T'Pol and Gupta tried to communicate with T'Pau who was in the capital. The two humans stalked off.

Gupta surprised himself when he realized that he thought of Frank and Brack as 'the two humans'. He was human. He was also involved with an alien woman. Gupta wondered how his father would fair, if mother could read his deepest thoughts. He had taken intense pleasure in the deep feeling that revealed the passionate Vulcan heart underneath. That was, until his mind meld with Syrran. He had avoided T'Pol touch since then. He could feel her concern: They were connected.

Syrran declared his intention to go to the crawler wreckage and search for survivors. Gupta eyed the elder Vulcan with some concern. T'Pol made her way over to the terminal manager's panel. For a few seconds Tarang was alone with Syrran. He was quite surprised when the Vulcan seized his arm.

"Go carefully Tarang," Syrran said in a quiet voice. "You more than any other human know the nature of our enemy. Your name has come to their attention. They are not ones to relent."

"You almost seem," Gupta paused while he recalled the ancient word the denoted worry, "worried about me."

Syrran did not release his arm. "Our association has been most productive and honorable. Minister V'Las really does not see the potential of your people. It would be a loss were something to happen to you." Syrran released him; "that is all."

"I shall be careful Syrran."

"See that you do Tarang," the Vulcan answered. Gupta watched as Syrran turned away from him for the crawler.

"I can access the terminal manager's communication unit," T'Pol called to him. "But the High Command's protocols will only allow for limited transmission." Gupta walked over and examined the panel. It was far more complicated than PanPac's setup in his old Ri-Fainu City office had been. Still, after some direction from T'Pol he could see that beyond calling the local legate and making PA announcements the unit was useless.

Gupta held out the bloody data rod to T'Pol. "You don't think that V'Las' personal codes are on this?"

Her disgust was evident. He could feel her suppression lift ever so much. She accepted the rod, wiped it off and inserted it carefully into the terminal's access point. "It is possible although highly doubtful." She looked at him with her piercing eyes. "What has happened Tarang?"

She was not discussing current events and he knew it. "I cannot share it with you…not now." Gupta sighed. "I do not know how to begin."

"But you can share it with Syrran?" She looked hard at him. "Does he disapprove of our relationship?"

"No of course not," Gupta answered sharply.

"Then are you having doubts about taking a mate who is alien?"

"No!" How could he tell her that her entire life as she had known it was founded upon a fiction? He used techniques that Syrran had shown him to help close his mind and then embraced her. "I cannot tell you—yet; perhaps never. I do love you T'Pol, with all of my human heart. Do not ask me about this now."

She returned the embrace and kissed him lightly. "I believe in us Tarang. I would wish for you to do the same." She looked past him. "We have access to the planetary network."

He released her then turned to examine the board. As far as Gupta could tell, she was right. His human mind wondered why the minister had been fidgeting with the very thing that they needed now. Was this some sort of Romulan ploy? Gupta remembered the meld; remembered the guile of the Rihannsu. They were at an impasse: They had no communications without the data rod. Gupta nodded his assent.

"I'll try to call the ministry," T'Pol informed him. He watched as her fingers flew across the nondescript oddly colored buttons and touchpads. He was surprised when seconds later an image formed on the terminal's monitor; then even more surprised at who the image belonged to.

"T'Pau," T'Pol said formally. She quickly explained what had transpired. T'Pau showed no emotion at the news of an attack that would kill millions.

"That would be most unfortunate," T'Pau's voice responded crisply out of the unit's speakers. "The quorum of ministers is in disarray. The human fleet approaches with what V'Las has labeled the dissidents. I have only just convened talks with them. They are listening, but it seems unlikely that even were they to censure V'Las that the strike could be called off in time; especially with the minister being dead."

"Try to explain what is happening." T'Pol was equally calm. "At least the inhabitants of those provinces could be warned. Some may be saved."

"I believe that I can help," Gupta interjected. T'Pol looked at him. He guessed that he was out of range of the unit's pickup so that T'Pau could see him. He explained his scheme.

"It seems like the only way those provinces and my people there could be protected." T'Pau looked away from the viewer. Gupta could hear a brief muffled exchange. "A sympathetic High Command officer says that residual gas traces could be detected if your plan is successful. That could sway those who still have doubt." Her expression did not change. "This could also spark a final war between our races."

"We humans call it a gamble," Gupta declared. "I know that Vulcans are not adverse to games of chance."

"That is true Gupta," T'Pau answered. "Remember though; this is no game."

"I shall remember T'Pau."

"I'll have to change frequencies T'Pau," T'Pol said. "I shall reestablish communications after Tarang is through. We shall hope for the best."

"Hope T'Pol?" the image of T'Pau asked. Her right eyebrow was arched. "A human emotion is it not?"

"Right now it may be all we have."

"Agreed," T'Pau responded, much to Gupta's surprise. T'Pol switched off the image.

"Frank!" he called to McCoy who was milling about looking for unexpected dangers. His old friend walked over when he saw Tarang's beckoning gesture.

Converted Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen, in orbit of Vulcan, Feb 2158

"So you just happened on this data rod huh?" Captain Donald Townsend didn't bother hiding his skepticism.

"I admit that it is far fetched captain," the young Indian with pointed ears informed him. "But V'Las is dead. Would he set a trap that involved his own death?"

Vulcans were strange so it was possible. They were also coldly logical, Donald knew. "Possibly not, but the Romulans would."

"If you don't act millions may be killed," the lieutenant commander implored him. Townsend decided that he did not like these spook types. This officer had been among Vulcans for over a year now. Where were his loyalties?

"And if I do, this might be the spark the war the Romulans want," he responded. He sighed.

"It's my responsibility if I'm wrong," the intelligence officer told him.

"Yes, it is," Townsend answered; "but it'll be my responsibility if things go south." He sighed again and looked at Margaret Sadler. Her face was full of pity. "Okay, video surveillance shows very little moving in the skies over those areas I'll launch—,"

"The rod also contains flight plans and shuttle configurations for the fliers." The Indian stopped speaking. He suspected that this Gupta was reading his thoughts: This whole thing had trap written all over it. If he failed to act millions could die. If he acted millions could die. Townsend didn't like the choices.

"Okay," he answered at last. "Zip the data up. I'm in." He heard Sadler's sharp intake of breath.

"On the way," Gupta answered, "good luck to you sir."

"To us all my friend," he answered. "Townsend out," he said as he closed the voice and video transmission after noting that they had received the Vulcan data.

"The computer will crunch the data conversion," Sadler informed him. "Christ on a cross, forget putting me in for captain! Are you really going through with this skipper?"

"There's the fact that V'Las died. Maybe the Birds are setting a trap. I don't know." He leaned forward in the ready room's desk chair. It was one of the few areas where privacy was assured on the small raider. "I do know that our boys are out there and it sounds like they are getting their asses handed to them. I know it's a gamble Margaret." He drummed his fingers on his desk top. It was real mahogany taken from a desk that his parents had given him. "Call up the special weapons Margaret."

Sadler rose and issued Townsend a formal salute. He smiled and returned it. Townsend followed her out of his office and through the gangway to the bridge. The crew turned and looked expectantly at them. They all knew that a surface transmission had been received. Townsend was pleased that he had turned the watch over to his engineer Lieutenant Commander Marshall Davies.

"I kept the seat warm for you captain," the engineer declared as he vacated the command chair.

"Thanks Marsh," he responded. "We are preparing the special weapons. You know what that means."

Davies ran his hand through his crop of close cut curly brown hair. "You know this atmospheric entry profile looks great on paper. I'm not sure how it'll work in practice sir."

"Special weapons are alerted," Sadler chimed in.

"Order the crews to load Shrikes into the bays." Townsend wondered how much energy was just consumed in the head snaps of his bridge crew.

"You don't have it this time Georgie," Ensign Charlie Duckworth said confidently. Lieutenant George Riker was finding out that he liked poker. Anyway, he thought, it helped to pass the time on the converted freighter.

Riker stared down at his cards. He had nearly folded but he had won a pretty substantial pot thus far. He preferred drawing on the outside end of a straight but he felt that he was on a streak. He looked again at the eight of hearts. What were the odds that he would have drawn that card he wondered?

"I'm out," Ensign Sarah Kaufmann said. She threw her cards down disgustedly. Riker liked the way she filled out her flightsuit. But he was happily married he reminded himself. His thoughts drifted to fond memories of Carol and his children.

They had been on this freighter well over a month now. United States President Harris with the agreement of Congress had effectively transferred the majority of America's military over to Star Fleet. The army, navy and Riker's air force now only existed as ceremonial relics. George was surprised though that he had gotten to retain his flightsuit.

Initially told that he would train as an apprentice navigator given his skills; he was surprised when he had received these orders: Riker and several of his squad mates were transferred, F-309's and all to the Queen Bitch. George was pleased: Not in the least because he did not have to wear the oddly colored jersey and bloused black slacks that was the Star Fleet uniform. Riker liked his comfortable flightsuit. Most of the former US Air Force flyers still wore their US flags on their sleeves. Some like Riker had chosen to wear the stylized A-like delta of Shahar Rastan.

"I'm in," Lieutenant Ross Metheny said at last. Riker suspected that he had three of a kind and that was all. Some people just should not play poker he ruminated. He wanted to smile but dare not.

"It's back to you Georgie," Duckworth announced. Charlie had been a senior captain and Riker's wingman when they had worn the air force blue.

Riker smiled at last. He turned over his hole cards. He heard Metheny's moan of displeasure. Duckworth merely gave him a rueful grin. His two pair had not turned into a full house. Riker reached out and scooped in his winnings.

"I'll make sure that Marg tells Carol all about your good fortune there Georgie," Duckworth commented.

"That's all right my friend!" he answered with a grin. "I know she'll buy some of those negligees with the extra credits." Everyone knew that Riker's wife was still a looker.

"And a lot of other things too!" his wingman commented.

"As long as she lets me get a new pair of shoes I'm happy," Riker answered. He took a puff on a small Monte Cristo cigar. Carol allowed George a great deal of latitude, except when it came to cigars: She detested the smell.

Riker would not be allowed any continued enjoyment of the fine smelling tobacco: The Jade Queen's warning klaxon sounded followed by Commander Sadler's orders for Riker and his people to man their planes. George bolted up leaving his winnings on the table. He was the first out of their common area and into the Queen's narrow passageways. Star Fleet crewmen pressed themselves against the hull to allow the pilots to pass. They were at the shuttle bay in less than a minute. Half of his squad ran past him for the Queen's other shuttle bay.

Busy crewmen were running the final checks on Riker's Condor. A female technician uncoupled a liquid oxygen line while another tech closed up a panel. Riker spit his cigar out on the floor. He forgot it when he saw his weapons load rise up into the Condor's bay. George threw on his helmet checked his mask then mounted the side of his plane. His crew chief had followed him from Langley. The sergeant, now petty officer, gave Riker's regulator and survivor suit a brief but thorough going over. He gave George a reassuring nod then tapped the top of his flight helmet.

"Give 'em hell maj!" the former airman exclaimed. Riker gave him a thumbs up.

The canopy closed down as Petty Officer Weaver scrambled away from the Condor. Riker initiated the engine start sequence. He watched the engine indications while he established a private link to the bridge. He had a question before he commenced with this madness.

"I know what you are going to ask Riker," Captain Townsend answered before George had even spoke.

"Nuclear weapons?" he asked without ceremony.

"The Shrike has a blast radius of about fifty meters," Townsend answered. "Anything in that sphere is pretty much residual atoms. We need a weapon that makes things hot. You'll see target profiles on your flight computer. The big fliers are supposed to be packing a type of nerve gas. If you don't incinerate them that gas will disperse."

"Okay that is the why," Riker answered. "I hate to ask this sir…"

"Upon my personal authority as captain of the Jade Queen, full nuclear release is authorized lieutenant." Townsend's recitation was chillingly mechanical.

"Yes sir," Riker answered.

"Use your eyes and ears down there Riker," Townsend said. "You understand that we won't be able to recover your planes, but Intel thinks that people flying live weapons gives us more freedom of action."

"Well," George replied slowly, "we'll try not to let you down."

Townsend closed the connection. Riker felt the freighter pitch and yaw. The artificial gravity was off. The last of the technicians cleared the bay. The shuttle bay doors rolled opened revealing a broadening red sky. Riker switched over to the battle net. Two rockets strapped beneath the wings of his jet would kick him out of the bay. The seven pilots of his abbreviated squadron checked in. They were ready. Riker pressed a touchpad firing the rockets. He gave the order to launch. Beside him Charlie Duckworth's plane leapt out into the Vulcan atmosphere.

Riker jettisoned the rocket pods. His airspeed was good. Their targets were just over four hundred kilometers off. George ordered a gentle turn to the right then kicked in the 309's supercruise. He was picking up solid returns on his search radar; exactly where the captain's information said their quarry would be.

Frank McCoy looked out into the lightening Vulcan sky. Syrran's trip to the top of this mountain seemed pointless to him. The late minister's last stroke might come to fruition. No amount of logic could prevent the deaths of those Vulcans. He scanned the area around the terminal for the umpteenth time. Brack had repeated in English his warning about the lack of Romulan bodies. McCoy wondered if they had done their little plasma dance or something more was afoot.

"Hullo Frank," Brack remarked causing McCoy to jump. Frank had neither seen nor heard the long lived Brack come from behind a corner of the blown out terminal. Frank had positioned himself away from the terminal to grant Gupta and the Vulcan woman some privacy.

"Geeze, this place is creepy enough without you scaring the bejeseus out of me Micah!"

"It is alien to you," his companion remarked. McCoy sighed inwardly. He was not ready for Brack's buried other half. He watched as Micah's usually hard looking face softened: A sure sign that Mistral was in control. He motioned for Frank to walk with him.

"It was my home," Brack/Mistral said wistfully. McCoy shuddered as he stared out into the blasted plains beyond. The growing light threw a deep red cast to the landscape; giving it an image of his grandparent's Baptist hell. Mistral caught the gesture. "Are you surprised that anyone could love a place like this?"

"I'm…well not really," McCoy sputtered until Mistral held up a hand.

Mistral pointed out beyond the tarmac where Syrran was standing looking out at the morning sun. The leader's travel robe billowed out as the wind picked up. McCoy wrapped himself in his cloak. Despite the cool breeze he knew that it would be inhumanly hot soon.

"Do you see how he interacts with T'Pol and Gupta?" his friend asked. "It is the Vulcan heart, the Vulcan soul. There is love there but it is deeply restrained."

"How can you people love? Or feel anything?" he asked.

"This desert that I love was once a garden," Mistral answered; "until we nearly decimated it when we fought the Romulans' ancestors. You find us strange, cold and hard. There is a reason. You humans were amateurs when it came to destroying yourselves. Your history shows that oftentimes you stumbled into war. My people pursued it with gusto."

Mistral sighed. "We had to restrain our savage nature. Alas, when we did that we also restrained our compassion, our sense of joy, our ability to show love. We saved ourselves but the price was high."

"I can't imagine it. I mean we had some crazy end of world cults and the like after the world wars but what you guys did takes the cake." Frank realized that he might've gone too far. "I didn't mean that your way of life…"

Mistral chuckled softly. McCoy had discovered that the laugh belonged to an ancient entertainer named Arnaz. "It is alright Frank. You are right. We were far more violent than your people yet we should have been able to solve our internal differences without the yoke of emotional control. Vulcans like V'Las and even Soval would dismiss why your people did that which ours could not. It was why I decided to stay on earth all those long decades ago. I thought that we were commissioned to explore. I thought that we might learn something from you humans."

"I never figured we had much to teach," McCoy answered wistfully.

"More than you can know Frank," Mistral answered. Mistral looked out into the blood red sky as the Vulcan sun climbed up over the horizon. "It was a good life." Frank watched as Brack's face hardened. Micah took a deep breath.

"You'll be glad to get that out of you?"

"The katra?" he answered. "I suppose so. Mistral has taught me that there are other things in life that make it worth living; things I'd forgotten Frank."

"Like what?" he asked. "You have everything or had it at one time or another."

"Like friendship," Brack responded. He clapped McCoy on the back. "Let's get something to eat before Syrran decides--,"

The shell of the terminal exploded. McCoy was knocked to the ground. He felt the air sucked out of his lungs. Spots danced before his eyes. He felt himself being dragged toward cover. His vision gradually cleared. Gupta and his Vulcan woman, he thought. Frank struggled to his feet only to be knocked down by Brack.

"Stay down you fool!"

"They were in the terminal!" McCoy exclaimed, meaning Gupta and T'Pol.

"If they were in there then it is too late." Brack closed his eyes for a few brief seconds. Despite his hardness McCoy could see the grief in his face.

Frank cautiously looked over the pile of rubble that they were concealed behind. The morning breeze was carrying away the last of the dust from the rubble. The back wall of the passenger area was all that remained of the building. Frank looked off into the distance. A shuttle roared skyward. A mighty rumble struck Frank's ears. The craft must have gone supersonic in its ascent. Frank snapped his head as he heard the crunch of rock.

Syrran was approaching them. The Vulcan's face was covered with the dust from the destroyed building. McCoy struggled away from Brack and stood erect. He started for the terminal area when Syrran took his arm. He spoke to McCoy in the typically calm Vulcan tone, but Frank understood none of the words. Brack grabbed his shoulders.

"They were in there Frank!"

"No! No!" he exclaimed. "I didn't go through this hell for that!" He shook his friend and the Vulcan off. He ran headlong toward the remains of the passenger area. But he realized as he looked around that except for some approaching emergency vehicles, they were alone. Frank collapsed to his knees. He bent forward until his forehead was almost touching the sand. He wept as he had when Eileen had died.

"Fighters away!" his first officer called out.

"Helm, increase impulse power and take us out of the atmosphere," Donald Townsend quietly ordered The Jade Queen's helmsman.

"Engines responding sir," Ensign Darrel McGavic answered.

"The Pointies are practically screaming their heads off for us to get out of the atmosphere," Margaret Sadler interjected. Townsend had decided that he needed her experience at communications. She was overseeing 'Captain' Kalin, the Denobulan officer who had volunteered to complete the Queen's masquerade as an innocent Denobulan freighter.

"I've told them that our attitude thrusters fired prematurely and that we are correcting," Kalin said in a voice full of tension. Townsend could see his struggle to interpret the Vulcan controller's words, the English of the Queen's crew and maintain his composure. "I believe that you humans have a saying: They aren't buying it."

"Pinging high speed inbounds sir!" Chief Paul Aarons exclaimed. He was bent over the hood of his sensors. "Spacecraft of some sort, small; they entered the atmosphere in pursuit of us."

"They probably scanned the 309's," Sadler remarked.

The Jade Queen pitched abruptly. Several red lights appeared on Townsend's armrest. Marshall Davies voice came over the comm system with a litany of damage reports. Townsend ordered battle stations. He wanted to laugh. The Queen was a converted raider. It could surprise its quarry in space but it was a large metal target in an atmosphere.

"Helm going unresponsive!" McGavic shouted. Townsend could hear a note of panic in his voice.

"Go to thrusters," he ordered in a calm tone. He shot a glance over to Sadler who carefully stepped over to the helm station as the Queen's deck pitched from another weapon's hit. She reached over and inputted some commands into McGavic's panel.

"Not enough to pull us out skipper," she declared.

"What's the book say about crash landing a Bison class freighter on a planet?" he asked.

"It says not to do it!" she answered as she resumed her chair.

Townsend hit a stud on his armrest. "Marsh, tell me that the impulse engine is back on line."

"The engine is fine sir!" the engineer answered. "We took a hit in the drive's primary ejection chamber. That is a two hour repair!"

"Status of warp drive?" he shot back.

"I don't need the book for that one skipper!" he heard Margaret exclaim. "We're in the atmosphere!"

"Direct those toward the outside of the hull into the protected center sections."

"Warp drive is nominal," Davies' voice announced out of the bridge speakers. "But the commander is right sir; the sweep fields can't push away that dense a gas. There won't be much of a ship—if any when we drop out of warp."

"There will be a lot of the Queen spread out over the surface of Vulcan if we don't get out of here. Prepare to go to warp on my order."

The freighter shook violently. Townsend needed a miracle. He looked sidewise at Sadler who was retrieving her emergency breather mask. Don hoped that she would need it after they emerged from warp. He hoped that enough of the ship would be intact so that they could escape. The few experiments that the Stellar Navy had conducted on warp entry from an atmosphere had been disastrous, but Townsend knew that nobody would survive the flaming reentry and subsequent crash. The bridge lighting flickered, came back on then went off. Emergency lighting illuminated the control area of Townsend's command.

Smoke rolled out of ceiling mounted junction boxes. An instrument panel on the navigation station exploded. Townsend breathed a sigh of relief that McGavic had been turned away dealing with his emergency gear. The ensign turned and sprayed the resulting fire with a small extinguisher. Townsend briefly wondered how many simulations the officer had gone through in the academy. The Bitch lurched again. Townsend was starting to think that they would not be in any condition for a suicidal warp entry at the rate that the Pointies were shooting up his ship.

"All sections report in place," Sadler declared.

A darkened light panel exploded, raining down hot sparks onto Townsend's gold command jersey. He wasted no time. "Engage," he said.

Four nondescript, flattened looking craft chased the Jade Queen across the sky. The raider's bulbous nose glowed red from the heat of passage in the Vulcan atmosphere. The small boxy ships fired particle beams at the freighter. Pieces of camouflage exploded off of the hull of the Queen. A lancing blast caught the Queen, blowing a small hole in the spacecraft's hull. Smoke rolled out of the rent in the hull for a few seconds then stopped. Plasma in the Queen's warp nacelles lit up casting a bright bluish glow. The freighter stretched away into subspace.

The following Vulcans became caught up in the vacuum where the Jade Queen had been. The ships reeled and for a few seconds lost control. The impulse driven, artificial gravity equipped ships quickly regained control, but only briefly. Air rushed in to fill the void that the raider had occupied. The Vulcan fliers were sent spinning. Two of them broke up in the maelstrom while the survivors tumbled to the desert floor far below. A tremendous thunderclap followed the Jade Queen's hasty exit.

UES Beagle, near Vulcan, Feb 2158

"Fire in the missile room is contained!" Captain Jospin informed Jocelyn Stiles.

"Lay down a staggered salvo toward Leevok's attacker," Stiles told Lieutenant Cruz. The Tellarite started programming in times to his firing solution.

"Agincourt is moving in along a z-plus approach," Jospin informed her.

"Move along a tangent that puts their starboard bow to us," Stiles told Lieutenant Martin Ward.

She would have liked to move in closer but it was death to draw to that close to a High Command cruiser. Zimmermann had adopted a strategy of using UES warships in a support role alongside the rebel Vulcan cruisers. He had established a radius of attack that was the best compromise between the range of Vulcan particle weapons and the range of Narwhals. So far they had held their own; barely: Bowen and Panther were out of the fight. Two squadrons of Minotaurs had been decimated. Apparently the feisty little fighters were one thing that the Vulcans seemed fearful of; if they felt anything like fear Stiles reminded herself. Half of the friendly Vulcan forces were destroyed. The Vulcan's fellow High Command captains knew that taking out the Sh'Raans and Suraks first should assure victory.

"Approaching optimal firing position," Cruz reported.

"Agincourt reports ready," Jospin declared. Stiles nodded toward him. She had been a little disturbed to smell liquor on his breath. She needed her people to be sharp. Stiles would have relieved the man despite his support of her except that the supply of first officers was pretty slim these days.

Jocelyn took a quick look at the bridge tactical display. "Fire missiles," Stiles ordered.

"Firing and away!" the Tellarite announced.

Stiles watched while blips showed her missiles approaching the target. They were joined by blue specks representing Agincourt's Narwhals. Stiles hoped that they could spoof the Vulcans into firing at the lead missiles. They had learned from their allies among the Vulcan dissidents that their weapons needed to recharge. Four seconds was not time to do much, Stiles reflected.

One of the lead missiles made it to detonate short of its intended target. The Sh'Raan blasted away one of the next pair. One missile struck home. Stiles turned expectantly toward Chief Morris. The enlisted woman lifted her head from her sensor hood, turned to Stiles and shook her head.

"Direct hit but minimal damage," Morris supplied. Morris returned to her sensors. "Inbound Thunderflash!" she practically yelled.

Stiles knew that Charger was still active. The Conqueror class vessel had lent firepower wherever it could. But its warp capable missiles were in short supply. Captain Archer had reported that their armory was near exhausted less than ten minutes earlier. Beagle's display showed a graphic for the Thunderflash. It appeared briefly as a data stream then vanished; along with the data representing their adversary. Jocelyn breathed a sigh of relief: One more Vulcan cruiser down, far too many left for them to make a dint in.

"Thirteen Sh'Raans and five Suraks remaining," Jospin said. "We have five battle worthy Sh'Raans with us."

"We need to turn this around," Stiles declared. "Comm; get me Zimmermann." The grain of a plan formed in Stiles' mind. "Sensors; show me a gravimetric analysis and presentation of Vulcan's primary moon." She turned to Cruz. "Guns; calculate a series of low orbit slingshots."

"Commodore Zimmermann is on the line sir," the Andorian Par announced.

Stiles instructed the officer to put Zimmermann on audio. She wanted the tactical display clear. Stiles outlined the shell of her plan to the commodore. She would have preferred to look him in the eye but the circumstances of the battle dictated otherwise. Stiles sent a Minotaur squadron on a defensive strafing run as Vulcan cruisers friendly to V'Las ministry attempted to enclose the three ships in a web of particle beams.

"Helm, prepare to execute a warp micro jump," Stiles broke her conversation with Zimmermann to continue the fight. She recited some coordinates for Lieutenant Ward. She turned to Cruz. "Fire a volley of Narwhals immediately after we enter normal space." She turned back to ward. "Execute a second jump at warp point five."

"That'll put us right in that Sh'Raan's range!" Jospin interjected.

"The fighters have had good luck in close." Stiles said. "We'll give it a try. If he does the same as the rest of the Pointies he'll take out our missile volley first. That should give us time to warp within ten kilometers of him."

"We'll never be able to reload before they can fire."

"Not Narwhals, no," she replied, "but we can rig some Spiders for proximity burst. They don't pack as much punch but at that range they don't need to."

"Course laid in sir," Ward interjected.

"I need your best Mister Ward," she told her helmsman. "Once we get in there I need some fancy maneuvering."

He rubbed his fingers with a flourish. "I'll have Beagle flying like a Minotaur commodore."

"We'll need it," she heard Jospin mutter.

She shot him a reproachful glance. "Engage!"

Beagle vanished into subspace. Seconds later the converted Bison class freighter returned to normal space amid a hit from a particle beam. The Bison lurched. The hull plating crackled as it tried to recover from the hit. An ugly burn spot formed on the craft's hull near the UE wreath. Two Narwhals rocketed from the ship's keel. Beagle extended into subspace again. It emerged with a flash less than a few kilometers from its target.

Small Spider area defense missiles careened out of a lower weapons bay. They corkscrewed toward the spear shaped Vulcan ship. The Spiders detonated in small blossoms of atomic release. The Sh'Raan's shields became visible as they absorbed the punishment that the small warheads were inflicting on them. The attack was stunning but the Sh'Raan was undamaged. Beagle maneuvered behind the Vulcan ship—and closer. Invisible beams of laser energy burned at aft section of the Sh'Raan's superstructure. The Vulcan's shields absorbed that as well.

"Is Agincourt in position?" Stiles asked. She guessed the answer from the tactical display.

"Negative sir!" her sensor chief exclaimed. "Looks like they got slowed down engaging another cruiser; wait, they are moving away on planned heading."

"They won't get to us in time!" her first officer shouted.

"We'll have to make time," Stiles said. "Lieutenant Ward; can you rub up against their drive ring?"

"You mean ram them?" he asked in obvious doubt about Jocelyn's sanity.

"Not ram," she countered, "just a little kiss to open up a hole in that damn shielding. Just a little one, not like we are going steady with them."

"Yes sir!" Ward smiled and inputted commands into his console.

Stiles' inner ear protested as Ward maneuvered the craft much like he had promised. A wave of nausea crashed over her. Stiles gulped and swiped at her brow. Her hand came away wet with sweat. Beagle's proximity warning alarm sounded. Stiles gripped her armrests tightly. A screaming noise made its way through the warship's hull. Stiles realized with a start that she was hearing the hulls scraping together. Despite the danger she was amazed that she would hear anything through the tons of hermetically sealed Beagle.

"Bridge, engineering, rapid d's in sections four and seven deck nine!" her engineer's voice belted out of the bridge speakers. "Smoke in the missile room!" he added ominously.

"Seal those sections!" Stiles ordered sharply. "Priority goes to weapons and targeting!" Jocelyn thought quickly; now was not the time to lose their sting. "Depressurize the missile room."

"Aye sir," Lieutenant Commander Vasquez answered in a calmer tone of voice. Her people were trained. They should be suited up. "Missile room depressurized," Vasquez informed her. "Whatever fire was there is out now."

"Status of load?" she asked Cruz.

"Agincourt in position," Jospin stated.

"Tell them to fire!" Stiles declared sharply.

"Narwhals loaded," Cruz informed her, "but we dare not fire at this--,"

"Target that cruiser and fire when ready!"

"Engineer reports that the plasma is too unstable from the consecutive jumps," Jospin said. "We won't have warp for several minutes." She nodded tersely at him. "Helm, move us out of here at maximum impulse," the Frenchman ordered.

The Bison shot out from behind the Sh'Raan. It was a perfect target except for the incoming Narwhals launched from Agincourt. The Vulcan chose to deal with those. Twin particle beams shot out dispatching both of Zimmermann's missiles. Beagle continued limping away. Two Narwhals lurched out of their firing tubes. Their chemical motors gave them an initial push.

The two deadly canisters twisted around. Their main engines fired, pushing them up to half the speed of light. The evidence that they had hit their intended target was the twin orbs of light that blossomed. The Sh'Raan was overwhelmed for a few brief seconds. When the fireballs subsided, the Vulcan ship remained, but only for a second: It too erupted in a final nuclear pyre.

Beagle was black silhouette creeping away from the blinding backdrop. It continued along its way as the explosions of its Narwhals subsided; too slow however to escape the blast of the doomed Sh'Raan. Beagle's hull plating reacted to the blast. The ship reeled and rolled over end to end. Its running lights turned off. Beagle drifted without power.

The sun turned the night sky blood red as it climbed up to claim the day. Riker had seen pictures of Vulcan of course, but the strangeness hit him in the air where he thought himself master. He pulled himself back to his instruments. There were precious few minutes before they came to IP with their targets. George used the time to study Townsend's data.

His squadron's main targets were two large box-like shuttles. Riker could make out the some piping along the bottom of each flier. He guessed that their normal function on this world was for spraying crops. He had read that Vulcans were slowly reforesting their world. The fliers were escorted by large square looking craft that looked like a flattened arrowhead to George. Those unremarkable looking spacecraft were dangerous.

Artificial gravity coupled with impulse engines were a leap over the twenty-first century American Condors. It was hoped that the jets would have an advantage: Vulcans had not fought an air battle since man had built Stonehenge. George's personal bet was on aerodynamics. Gravity webs and powerful engines aside he thought that when those flat plates turned, they would slow. Maybe they were lethal in space: It would be another story in an atmosphere he hoped.

"Contact at fifty klicks," Duckworth's voice breathed over Riker's helmet mounted speakers.

Riker confirmed the radar returns. There were two groups splitting up to attack separate targets; that was if Townsend's data was correct. Riker ordered Kaufmann's element to pursue and engage the second group. He notified Charlie that they would go after the group that was dead ahead.

"Going right," Kaufmann announced.

"Good hunting Condor Five," he replied.

"Condors three and four have CAP," he instructed the pilots of his element. "We're going after the primary Ducky," he told his wingman.

"Nerve gas huh?" Duckworth asked. "Good thing I wore muh rubber gloves."

"Get a good VID before you fire," Riker advised his group. He had some latitude over his squadron and he intended to use it. He didn't want a blind shot. They were probably shooting at a converted ag sprayer. They might be shooting a shuttle full of orphaned Vulcan children for all he knew.

"Tally four," Duckworth snapped. Riker looked out of the canopy into the Vulcan dawn. A black speck was barely visible on the horizon. "One large ship and three babies," Duckworth concluded as Riker made out the small specks.

The specks were not changing position. They were getting bigger. "Here we go," Riker mumbled under his breath.

George pushed the stick forward and accelerated. A bright blue beam passed over his canopy. He pulled up leaving his stomach about a hundred meters below. The black square was now a well defined flying machine. Riker jammed the stick to right and threw in some rudder. He could see the flat nose of the Vulcan pivoting to find him. His 309 crossed the Vulcan's path for just a second. The flier fired and missed him again.

The Vulcan pilot tried turning to engage him. Riker smiled: It was a lethal mistake. George's Heads' up display showed the flier's speed bleeding off. It grew in size as he closed. Riker kicked his rudder sharply and grunted at the g-force. The target reticle was lined up. Riker squeezed the trigger on his control stick.

The front right corner of the square was shredded as a dozen high velocity duranium alloy slugs ripped through the spacecraft. Riker had little time to watch the demise of his opponent as another beam lanced past his canopy.

"Stay in tight and force them to turn!" he spat out through the weight being imposed on his body. They had been correct: The Vulcans could pivot those fliers but they had to succumb to aerodynamics when they presented a large flat surface to a high speed stream of air.

Metheny's 309 roared past him. The flier shooting at Riker's ship pivoted to engage the new arrival. Riker had a second to think that Ross was playing it too close when the Vulcan flier exploded. Cam Petrowski's 309 executed a wild victory roll as it flew past the ruin of the Vulcan High Command ship. Riker scanned the horizon. The sprayer was about thirty kilometers off.

George shoved the 309 over in a hard left. He accelerated slightly. The distance started closing. George reached down, opened a red guard and pushed the stud beneath. The nuclear tipped Shrike was armed. He took a deep breath and hoped that he would not be the man who opened up another front in this bloody war. The dot of the bulk flier changed to the distinct image of a flying ship.

Riker was inside of ten kilometers. His threat warning alarm went off. The radio screamed with warnings of inbound bogies. George looked out: The sprayer was as advertised. He pushed a stud atop his control stick. He briefly saw the Shrike fly out, its engine ignited. He felt his weapons' bay door close. George pulled back hard and turned.

It hurt. George grunted and sucked in air when he could. The small gravity harness offered some protection. He was pulling over eleven g's. Without the harness he would have long since gone unconscious. His helmet visor blacked over. The Shrike had done its work. Vision returned to Riker just in time for him to negotiate the shock wave that hit his Condor. Riker corrected, let the nose drop then powered out. He was panting and thirsty.

"Large number of inbounds!" he heard Duckworth's voice announce.

"The second target is splashed," Sarah Kaufmann announced. "Condor Six is gone." Riker bowed his head slightly. Ernesto 'Lucky' Marquez had not lived up to his nickname in this instance.

"Where to now?" his wingman asked.

Where to indeed? So far no communication had come over the frequency that Townsend had told him to monitor. Should they escape and evade? Riker wondered how long his people would last on that oven rack of a surface. He called the Jade Queen. Riker waited almost a minute without a response. He made out fifteen inbound unknowns on his search radar. They would be on them in three minutes.

"Pointie prison camp probably won't be so bad," Duckworth's voice proclaimed with its usual sarcastic tint. He might as well have been reading George's mind. "Anyway they are vegetarians; not like they will eat us or anything."

"Let's land these birds," Riker said at last. He instructed his flight to follow him. Riker pulled the power back and pointed the Condor's nose down. What awaited him down there he did not know.

The shuttle barely made it out. Donald Townsend examined the wreck of his ship from the copilot's video monitor. The Queen's forward section was gone for the most part. Townsend realized that another five meters of torn metal, him and his bridge crew would not be here. The Queen's warp nacelles were gone. Townsend made out one of them rolling through space, spewing plasma as it went. Atmosphere vented out of great tears in the hull. Aft of the torn bow sections the exterior hull plating was gone. The Jade Queen looked like it was undergoing some sort of sadistic refit.

Tears ran feely down Donald's cheek. Their home of so many years was gone. He would have been embarrassed but beside him he saw Sadler freely weeping. Behind him one of Doctor Phlox's animals was issuing forth with a high pitched call. Somehow the Denobulan had evacuated with his entire menagerie.

"I lost her Margaret," Townsend said.

She squeezed his arm. "You gave us all a chance skipper."

He looked again as the video revealed a venomous looking Vulcan cruiser taking up a position behind his wrecked ship. A single beam spat out from beneath the Surak's hull. Townsend looked away as the Queen Bitch was blown into two pieces. The flash of the monitor, picked up out of the corner of his left eye told him that his ship was gone completely.

"Vulcan cruiser on an intercept course with us skipper," Sadler announced sardonically.

"Mister President, Sub Commander Z'Tel informs us that he wants to take the remnants of his forces and retreat," Captain Jonathan Archer told Christophur Thorpe.

"Beagle is out of the fight," Commander Bill Walters told Archer. Thorpe looked on from the auxiliary station that they had assigned him to. "Commodore Zimmermann is requesting permission to withdraw."

Thorpe felt the ship rock. Archer had explained that he was feeling the artificial gravity and inertial compensators attempting to keep up with changes in the ship's structure caused by weapon's fire. Archer glanced expectantly at him. The Vulcans had never even asked them to withdraw. Several of the ceiling lights exploded throwing hot sparks and pieces of lighting material everywhere. He hoped that one of the new plasma conduits would not explode.

"Evasive starboard!" he heard Archer roar. Thorpe swallowed and clutched at his stomach as Charger maneuvered. "It doesn't seem like they want to talk sir."

How many lives were gone because of this foolish adventure Christophur wondered? He looked at Archer. The tactical image displayed in the bridge viewer seemed like so many lights and numbers. Thorpe could make no sense of it. He did understand enough however to know that the information was not good. Thorpe was about to ask for more time when he felt the ship reel beneath him. A blinding explosion lit up the back of the darkened bridge.

A fire broke out of the plasma junction transfer area. Thorpe watched as several crewmen ran to the fire. He stared in horror as a young lady stepped away from the carnage; both arms were reduced to burnt stubs. Thorpe had recalled speaking to the crewman. She was nineteen and had just signed on a few months earlier. He could not remember her name just that she was proud and happy to be assigned to an area that would return to exploration after the war.

The bridge crew was preoccupied with extinguishing the fire and repairing the damage. No one was helping the horribly disfigured girl. Thorpe unbuckled, stood up and walked over to the crewman. She laid the burnt stumps of her arms on his chest. Thorpe realized that she was oblivious of what had happened to her.

"I want to go home now," she told Christophur in a morbidly deadpan tone of voice. "I want to go home now," she repeated. She seemed to realize what had happened. Thorpe saw horror mirrored in her eyes. "I want to go home now!" she shouted and screamed.

Walters took her in hand. Medical technicians emerged onto the bridge and forced her to sit on the deck as they administered hypos to her. Thorpe looked down at his suit jacket. Some blood mixed with the girl's burned flesh remained there.

"Mister President!" Archer bellowed. "Time to cut our losses and go!" he concluded. Thorpe turned and nodded. He had gambled and lost.

The highly accented voice had told him to home in on the radio signal. George Riker had done as the voice had bid. He saw no other options. Riker did not want to escape and evade down there. He saw little point to doing so. The low fuel warning sounded over his earpieces. He spied a large permacrete triangle on the outskirts of a great city. George reckoned from his study of the desert world that the city was ShirKahr, their capital. He wondered if they would be paraded down the streets as downed flyers had been on his world.

"Follow me," he said simply as he started in on a vertical landing. It would waste fuel George knew, but he doubted they would fly again.

Riker saw the small group of aliens. He set his fighter down less than twenty meters from them. George performed what he thought would be his final shutdown sequence and then removed his helmet. He opened the canopy as Duckworth touched down beside him. He knew it was early morning here but he guessed that it must be at least forty eight C. His temperature gauge confirmed his guess. Riker unstrapped and rose up. He took a last longing look at his aircraft. He patted it affectionately.

"One last hurrah for the US Air Force," he said as he scrambled down the jet black skin of the 309.

His pilots joined up with him. The group of Vulcans remained where they were. Riker led his group over to them. He made out twenty or so of the aliens. They were assembled about a small female. Even without markings or badges of rank Riker could tell that she was in charge. Her bearing was regal. He tried to gulp but could not because his mouth was dry. Riker stood before the woman who stood more than a head shorter than he. George had decided early on that if it came to capture he would start off on something of a right foot. He extended his hand, licked his lips and spread his fingers apart.

"_Dup dor a'az Mubste," _he said as clearly as he could.

The woman's expression did not change. George saw that she was about to return the gesture. Instead she stopped, looked at him and then at her hand. She extended it. He was confused for a second then realized what she was doing. He took her hand and shook it.

"Thanks," she said to him.

A child ran up to Charlie and looked up at him as if he were, Riker almost laughed; looked at him as if he were from another planet. Duckworth looked at the Vulcan boy, who George would have said was no more than five were he human, then at Riker. Duckworth shrugged, tore the delta of Shahar Rastan from his shoulder and handed it to the boy. The child took it and ran off.

"Did something happen here today George?" Riker thought that it did.

"Warp plasma regulator has been hit!" Thorpe listened to O'Brien's voice pouring out of the bridge speaker.

"Try to get us out of here on impulse!" Archer told the helmsman.

Christophur Thorpe coughed and hacked. He knew that he should be wearing the mask that the Star Fleet crewman had instructed him in their use. He buried his face in his hands. He wept not for himself but for his people; for their future. His failure would be suffered by them. Thorpe wiped at his face.

"Jesus Christ!" a voice rang out. It was Commander Walters. Thorpe looked up. Charger's first officer was listening intently to information coming over his earpiece. "Jesus Christ," he said again, "they are surrendering."

"Incoming transmission from the Point—Vulcans sir," the communications' officer said. "Voice in the clear," he concluded.

"Put it on speakers," Archer said.

Thorpe stood up. "On behalf of Prefect T'Pau, Vulcan Space Central extends greetings to the president of the United Earth government. Welcome to Vulcan."


	34. Chapter 34

Star Trek: Dagger

Star Trek: Dagger

Book IV: The Neutral Zone

Mustang, Oklahoma, the old United States, earth, Mar 2158

Pearl Decker buttoned up his jacket as if he were a child. Phil wanted to shrug her off but he realized the corollary: She could be sending him on his way without giving a damn about what happened to him. He had made a good choice those many long decades ago when he had asked her to marry him. He seized her hands in his.

"Don't worry Pearl," he said. "These are just a bunch of hoodlums. In a sense they are probably more scared than the people they are trying to scare."

"Why do you have to be the one to do this?"

He looked out the windscreen of his warm utility vehicle. The little truck's seldom used autopilot maneuvered it easily along the straight Oklahoma roads. Last week's snow had melted leaving the bleak, brown Oklahoma winter landscape. Decker hoped that he would not be buried under that; not yet anyway. At sixty years of age Decker still had another forty years with today's life expectancies. He sucked in some air.

"Someone has to step up. History teaches us--,"

"Bull; you don't know history. Phil Decker, don't lie to me: You fell asleep during history and civics' class. You got your freshman Earth History paper off of that little guy with the glasses." His wife snapped her fingers trying to recall their college years.

"Artemis Gill," he supplied. Gill had written the paper with the stipulation that Decker set him up with his sister. Melanie had found her brother's request to meet the shy Gill strange but she had acquiesced. They had never hit it off but Phil had a passable paper on the aftermath of Colonel Green's progressive movement. He had never read it until two nights ago.

"Yeah, that fellow," she answered. The truck was pulling up to the Mustang city hall lot. A few people were milling about. Decker had compelled the hotheads to stay at home. She grabbed the sleeve of his drover's jacket. "Don't distract me. You still haven't answered the question."

He sighed. Decker recalled Gill's passionate explanation for the rise of fascism under the guise of helping the disadvantaged. Arty hadn't been much in the socializing department Decker reflected, but he had been one hell of a writer. He had been chilled to find that the Sons' of Terra were using rhetoric that had been born in old Germany. Decker was sorry that he had thought some of his more politically astute friends were overreacting.

"This has to be nipped in the bud now Pearl," he answered at last. "I read that old paper. The Americans of last century waited too long. All the while government was getting bigger and more nosy they didn't do nothing. They were afraid to appear radical or be labeled some kinda extremist."

"Extreme what?" she asked. She shook her head. "Okay forget I asked. I think I know what that means. So you mean to walk in there and do this?"

"Yup," he answered somberly.

"And if…if you don't succeed then Tommy Drayton is going to be next?"

"That's the plan." Drayton was almost eighty but was as tough as nails. His wife had passed last year prematurely. He had wanted to go first but this was Decker's half-baked scheme.

"Well; screw the plan!" his wife proclaimed with an uncharacteristic curse. "If…if that happens then I'm going next!"

"Now wait a damn minute!"

"No you wait a minute! You're right. I just have a hard time admitting it. But the thing is if its right for you it has to be right for me. Stephen and Matthew are grown men. They'll understand; that's why they are out there in space fighting for us. It's up to us though to fight for them here. It's time to send these antiwar nuts back under whatever rock they crawled out from under!"

Pearl seldom showed her anger but when she did she got it on with a full head. Phil knew that there was no stopping his wife. He embraced her hard. They kissed. He looked past her, to his cohorts out in the cold Mustang morning air. He smelled Pearl's hair.

"It'll be fine," he said. She nodded. Her eyes were wet with tears. They separated and then exited the vehicle.

"I still say I should be first!" Tommy Drayton exclaimed. The rancher was almost as black as a piece of coal and a full head taller than Phil.

"Don't worry none," Decker assured Drayton. "This will be a piece of cake." He smiled and faked bravery. Drayton seemed satisfied but he knew that Pearl was looking right through him. "Well let's get this recall going!" He turned for the city hall. Decker needed a few seconds to quell his fear.

He walked up and banged on one of the large double doors. He looked back. Gavin McCarthy was there with Drayton and Celia Ward. Several other locals; Phil and Pearl's friends going back to their childhood looked on. He banged again. Phil knew that the two Sons' of Terra toughs were in there. Li Chen's small motel was booked full though not a ground or aircar sat in his lot. The door opened revealing the burly male.

"You again!" He remembered that the man was named John. The couple had only spoken to Chen who had told them to find lodging elsewhere.

"Yes me again."

"Don't try nothin' funny pops." John hefted the laser at him. "I don't see all of those guns you were talking about. You know you're gonna lose those if you try anything."

"I don't need no gun." Phil figured now was as good a time as any. He barged past John into the hall. John's pudgy female companion who had been slinking in a shadow behind the door backed away from Decker. She leveled her rifle at him. Decker saw that she was trembling. Decker barreled past her for the voting machines.

"Stop…stop you crazy bastard!" she called out.

He stopped but not before he was standing before the master voting machine controller. Decker had once served as a poll watcher and knew the drill here: He inserted a card and electronic control wand that Salvador Campanella had loaned him. The frail poll warden was not up to this task. Decker punched in a code and confirmed that the machines were on and communicating with the network.

He turned to confront the angry Sons' of Terra couple. Both of them had there lasers pointing at him. He eyed the male half of the team. The woman he thought was near hysterical. There would be no reasoning there. Decker stood before John pressing himself against the rifle's emitter.

"You gonna kill me for voting?"

"We've heard enough from your kind!" the woman shrieked. "You want to take our rights--,"

"Lady you are the ones with the guns telling me I can't exercise the one thing that is a right!" She started to yell again when he hastened on. "You are confusing your not getting' your way, with rights. This count—this planet is free. We're free; but that means free to fall on our asses as well as succeedin' at things. It also means free to be wrong about a issue."

"You think the Birdies just happened to kill all them people on the colonies because of things we did? You think all them people in Florida had it comin'? Well that is your bailiwick I guess. Personally I think you're damn fools. But the way to disagree is over there on those machines, not by making yourself special privileges with guns and phony courts and callin' them rights!"

He stepped back. "I'm going over there and vote; then I'm goin' home. If you plan on killin' me do it now. I'm old and I have to piss."

Decker turned his back and walked over to the machine. He went in and closed the curtain. The machines had retained that centuries old peculiarity. For some damn reason it occurred to Phil that Arty Gill could explain the whole thing to him. Decker inputted his vote. There; you pompous son of a bitch, he thought. He didn't like Hawkins. There had been something about the man that just rubbed Phil the wrong way. There was a clatter outside. Well; he wouldn't have to worry about pissing anymore, Phil thought. He opened the curtain.

The man had the woman in a restraining embrace. Her hysteria had gotten the better of her it seemed. Phil wondered how such a lady, one half of his age, could be in such horrible shape. Some people made one too many trips to the buffet table he thought. He walked over to them.

"It's over Katy," he heard John tell her.

"We…we can't let the warmongers win," she blubbered. "We are right here…aren't we?"

John had dropped his rifle as well. He looked up at Phil. "You're a bastard, you know that."

"My wife has informed me of that fact a few times," he answered with a smile.

John cracked a smile in return. He took both rifles and handed them to Phil. "I'm done with mine and Katy's…" He cast a warning glance to the disheveled woman on the floor. Phil started to refuse when John added: "I need my hands free." Decker took the lasers.

He followed John with his eyes as the SOT man went in the voting booth and closed the curtain. A minute later he opened it up.

"There; I think you're wrong about this. Hawkins is a good man." He looked down at his feet. "Guess this means we are growing up; people I mean."

"Yup," Decker answered; "that is one way to think about it."

"I'm not sure I like it," John said.

"There's good and bad to everything." Decker extended his hand.

"You'd do that after what we did?"

"Just shaking your hand," Decker answered. "Not like I'm asking you to date my daughter."

John returned the gesture. He gave his partner a glance. "I'll gather her up and we'll be out of your hair."

Decker nodded. He went about the business of opening up the polling place. Phil threw the double doors open admitting his friends and a blast of cold air. Pearl stood upon the walk outside. He went to her and hugged her close to him. They stood thus for a minute then kissed.

"Go in there and vote," he told her, "then let's get home: I have to change my pants."

Kiev, the Ukraine, earth, Mar 2158

The snow was caught in the tops of Fred Watson's boots. He regretted again not interviewing this witness by vidcomm. It was all so pointless anyway: This Malcolm Reed seemed to be slipperier than an eel. Watson liked fishing. He had caught his share of eels from the Mississippi basin. He knew where to go to catch the creatures. That was what brought him here.

Watson had narrowed down to two; the number of off world junkets that Naval Intelligence had participated in during Reed's missing time. He was beginning to doubt that the major had even gone off earth. That left the question: Where had Reed been?

Watson stepped carefully. There was ice in places beneath the snow. He found the address that he had been seeking amid a more modern neighborhood. The houses here were designed to look like eighteenth century Eastern European houses. Fred thought that like many decorating revivals the reality was probably that the Ukrainian peasants of that time lived in dirt floor hovels rather than these heated, air conditioned computer controlled marvels. People liked the romance of the past but Watson chuckled when he thought of what would happen if they had to live like people from that century.

Watson stood before the door and banged on it. A short thin, balding man answered the door. Fred judged that the man must be in his fifties. Watson turned on his pocket translator and started speaking. The man held up a hand.

"I speak English," he said.

"Dmitri Yegorovich?" he asked. The man nodded. Watson showed him his credentials. "You were the passenger control officer for off world travel in '56?"

"Come in agent," the man waved him into his house. "I was. I would still be such but I retired just prior to the start of the war." Watson followed him into the small home. It smelled of cabbage. "I thought that I would be recalled but there was little need to send naval investigators and civilians to other worlds after the shooting started."

"Do you remember some of the people you processed?"

"Of course," Yegorovich answered. "There was more to it than plugging names into a database. I had to interview each one to see that they--,"

"I'm sorry," Watson interjected. "You personally saw the people you sent out?"

"Da," Yegorovich answered. "I had to confirm that their inoculations, wills and such were up to date." The man guided Watson to a comfortable chair. The room was a memento room crammed full of award plaques and old holophotos.

Watson reached into his trench coat and produced a holo still of Reed. "Did you ever see this gentleman?" Yegorovich took the photo. Watson took the opportunity to look around. As a policeman he considered himself a student of humanity and their habits. Pictures showed the Ukrainian with former navy buddies but little else. Watson started to guess that Yegorovich had very little in his life besides the navy until he spied a holophoto of the older man with his arm around a pretty young girl. There was little around the small living room to indicate that the relationship had gone anywhere; there were no feminine touches to the décor.

He turned back to Yegorovich. Watson thought that the man was asleep for a moment. He stretched and produced a manufactured yawn. Yegorovich still did not move. He seemed frozen with the photo in his hand. Watson leaned forward and waved his hand before the man's eyes. He snapped his fingers. Yegorovich jumped. He seemed to see Watson as if for the first time.

"No, I don't recognize the man."

Watson nodded at the picture of the Ukrainian and the girl. "Nice looking lady," he remarked.

A cloud seemed to come over the man's face. "Yes she was; very beautiful, very kind to bestow her love upon a man much older than she."

"You speak in the past tense--,"

"She was one of those killed on Alpha Eridani." Watson watched as the man buried his face in his hands. "I discovered the body myself. There was nothing I could do. I could see the terror in her dead eyes."

"I'm very sorry," Watson said in a consoling tone while making a mental reminder to check the Ukrainian's story further. "You were off planet?"

He raised his head and nodded. "My retirement gift if you will. Thirty years of naval service and I'd never been off world. I was sent on a security junket to Eridani; more of a vacation and a chance to see the final frontier. I thought at the time how lucky I was that Allison got to go with me."

Yegorovich sighed. "All of those security people there and yet all those murders happened." Watson took a proffered holo still from the Ukrainian who went on to explain that the people in the photo were members of the security team that he had traveled with. Watson gave the captioned photo a casual perusal, started to hand it back to Yegorovich then stopped.

"Did you know Adolph Rademacher?" Watson had spied the deceased investigator's name in the caption.

He looked puzzled for a moment. He seemed to recall the name after a moment. "The photo was run through the official database. Rademacher never made it on the trip. His name is there but he was not."

"Anyone take his place?"

The blank look came over the Ukrainian's face once again. Watson wondered if the man had been earthbound his entire long career because he was some sort of daydreamer. Would the navy have permitted that? Yegorovich's face seemed to clear.

"There was…somebody else," he said. Watson thought that the reply seemed forced. He definetly planned on investigating the man further. Yegorovich closed his eyes tightly. "I…can't remember…but there was someone else."

"Err alright," Watson said. He was trying to break the man's strange mood.

"I'm very sorry," Yegorovich declared. "It is cold out. Would you like some tea?"

"Sure thing," he answered. He asked the Ukrainian if he could scan the group holovid. Yegorovich consented. Fred ran his pocket computer over the image while he waited. Watson was unsure of where this was going. He understood Ebenstark's need to ferret out any secret organizations, but only on a slightly intellectual level. History, politics and moral education could lay Watson lower than the best sleep aide ever could.

He did understand murder. Watson didn't like it, but a small segment of the family of man still performed terrible acts. Rather this entire thing involved Reed he did not know. Watson knew that turning over stones sometimes led to unexpected discoveries. He debated telling Ebenstark about this side investigation. Watson decided that he would let it go for now. Ebenstark was interested in these spooks; not in murders committed far away.

Yegorovich returned with the tea. Watson sat and made seemingly innocuous small talk with the man. The more they spoke the more Watson felt that the Ukrainian was not a murderer. He would examine the folder on the Alpha Eridani investigation anyway. He listened with half an ear as Yegorovich rambled on. He did key in on something the Ukrainian said.

"Sorry, what was that?" he asked in a pleasant tone.

"My mother, her mind is going." Yegorovich sighed. "We've learned so much but I suppose that some things are still in God's hands. What I said was that she knew that something serious had happened when I returned. She couldn't guess what it was. I finally told her about the murders. I did not have the heart to tell her that the killer had claimed Ally." Yegorovich gestured at his head. "They tell me it is a form of Alzheimer's that even the Vulcan derived medications can't fight."

"Yes," he agreed. "It's a damn shame. I'm really sorry your mother has to suffer like that."

"Thank you," Yegorovich answered. "I must be bad luck for the women in my life!" Stated in an attempt at gallows humor it struck Fred in the heart. He thanked whatever higher power there was that he had his wife and children.

"Anyway she said that it was the work of redjac." Watson shot him a look that showed his ignorance. Yegorovich smiled. "An old story made into a children's song. You westerners do the same thing! Ring around the rosy?"

"Actually that is just a children's song, the connection to a plague is a misconception," Watson countered, "but I get where you are going."

"Redjac will get you when you are alone in the dark," Yegorovich continued. "It sounds better in my language, agent. Local history; don't you know? Redjac was some sort of killer here in Kiev." Watson shook his head. "He—or she committed the crimes during the twentieth century. Horrible murders such as was done to my Allison."

"I'm sorry it's not something I ever looked at." Watson shook his head. "I studied the twentieth century as part of my criminology curriculum of course. But frankly the thing then was to find a time when people weren't murdering one another."

"That is true," the Ukrainian nodded.

Watson thanked him for the tea and got up to leave. Yegorovich made him promise to contact him if he needed help with rosters or anything else. He was not a killer Fred realized. No killer would make pathetic attempts at begging a policeman for a return visit. Yegorovich was just an old man that life had delivered one too many kidney shots to. Fred assured him that he would contact him periodically. It was a lie, but a lie born out of pity. Yegorovich bid him a farewell. Fred walked out into the frigid Kiev night. He would buy Roslyn a bouquet before he got home.

The Klingon world of V'hAch'c, earth year Mar 2158

"I'm not sure that you're better off down there Kirk," the voice of Captain Marissa Morgan announced out of the laboratory communication panel.

He looked around. His friend David Rand was oblivious to Morgan's words. The doctor along with his Klingon counterpart G'Nar was close to a cure. So they said, Kirk reminded himself. There seemed to be an animated discussion between the two. Augustus was surprised at how much of the Klingon language his friend Rand had picked up.

"I suppose that our friend Ma'aQ has an attack fleet on the way?"

"We've scanned them," Morgan replied. "They are less than an hour out."

"Rand says they are close," Kirk responded. "I'm gathering that the cure may be worse than the disease. Anyway; what makes you think we'll fare any better up there?"

"I'll assist Kaluch's forces as promised," Morgan told him. "But my prime mission was to recover our people. If we survive this encounter then I'll set a course for Rura Penthe. If the Chancellor defeats us I believe from what Kaluch has said that you can expect orbital bombardment."

"You'll whip their asses," Kirk declared in a nonchalant tone. "We'll stay down here." He looked at Soval and Soong. The Vulcan gave him a human nod. Soong shook his head vigorously.

"I'll take my chances up there!" the billionaire yelled.

"What was that?" Morgan asked.

"Just some noisy lab equipment," he quipped. He sighed. "Best of luck to you captain. I know we'll speak again."

"Count on it Augy!" she answered crisply. "Serendipity out," she finished. He hoped that it would not be for the last time.

"You summon me before a battle!" Kaluch barged into the lab with his entourage of guards.

"We are near to a cure!" G'Nar bellowed in turn. "You might engage the chancellor over nothing!"

"This matter between the houses," Kaluch grumbled; "it is time that it is resolved."

"You'll be weaker for it," Kirk interjected. "The only ones who will win are the Romulans."

"Even now these humans propose this federation," Chang interjected. As much as Kirk liked the young Klingon there were times that he wished that he would shutup: This was one of those times. "A rose by any other name, or a galactic empire; the Romulans would be our natural allies. They are hunters."

"Seems to me like they are backstabbers," Kirk countered. "Where is Klingon honor at Chang?"

"Speak to me of this cure G'Nar," Kaluch said. The Klingon eyed Kirk. "The old human is correct: We will only weaken the empire in fighting the chancellor."

"We have ascertained that the virus is age limited." G'Nar continued with his explanation. "We have a possible anti-virus."

"The effects of which may be damning to an older Klingon!" Rand exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" Kaluch asked the human doctor.

Rand started an explanation in what Kirk had labeled pigeon Klingon. He finally shot a glance laced with frustration at Augustus. Kirk acted as translator. He explained that the vaccine had reversed the effects of the human genes in all of the Klingon DNA tested so far. The trouble was that in Klingons over a certain age and for select others the cure could cause massive cellular damage.

"We can test for that factor but it is safe to say that those who enter K'Arc'D'Cha," Kirk stopped. "What is that?" he asked.

G'Nar explained for Rand. The Klingon spoke directly to Kirk rather than through him. "When Klingons age to the beginning of their maturity. There are certain physiological changes."

"You mean like out of…" Kirk couldn't think of the Klingon translation.

"Puberty," Rand added. The human doctor then inserted the Klingon term.

"Can they survive this cellular damage?" Kaluch asked.

"The effects are severe," G'Nar explained taking up the conversation. Augustus was glad for the break.

"Then you have no cure!" Kaluch roared. "The majority of my house is over that age."

"We can test for those who would be affected," G'Nar countered. "It is an involved procedure but it can be done."

"More important though is that after G'rTou the anti virus can be introduced with no ill effects."

"We would then remain this way for most of our lives?"

"Yes Kaluch."

The leader of the House of Kaluch banged his fist down upon a table top. The noise resonated through the lab. "We have little choice. Has this been tested?"

"On a live Klingon no," G'Nar answered. "The process takes some time." He gave Kaluch what he called his best guess.

"Ma'aQ will be here by then and this place will be glassed over."

"The agent must be tested on one of those changed. That is why--,"

"Wait!" Kaluch commanded. "How much time do you estimate, if you give a test treatment starting now?" G'Nar gave him the estimate. "Then I'll be your first subject."

"But…the effects on you Kaluch," G'Nar answered slowly.

"Foolishness!" Chang spat. "There is no magical cure. This is more delays while you ready your forces against the chancellor's fleet. Have you become so human that you stoop to subterfuge Kaluch?"

Chang was standing over an arm's length from Kaluch with Kaluch's guards between them. Yet Kirk did not even see the older mutated Klingon strike out. He did see Chang reel from the blow. Kaluch's guards drew their swords.

Chang rose slowly. "_Let every eye negotiate for itself."_ Kirk was surprised to Chang smile a toothy grin and back away. "We shall conclude this another time." He turned and stalked off.

"Will I be a Klingon again before the chancellor arrives?"

"Provided you live, yes," G'Nar answered.

"Get on with it then!"

"This really is madness," Rand said at last. Kirk knew that he was piecing together what was happening from the Klingon he had learned and his observations.

Kaluch and G'Nar proceeded with the course Kaluch had chosen. G'Nar injected the head of the House of Kaluch with the anti viral agent. Kaluch ordered his guards to establish communications with the chancellor's forces in the meantime. Kirk looked at the Klingon leader and waited for changes. He supposed he expected some kind of Jekyll and Hyde type change; or in this case Jekyll to Jekyll.

"Nothing will happen for a few minutes," Rand whispered to him as if reading his mind.

Kaluch promptly vomited after that. That didn't bother Kirk after nearly a month of Klingon food. He merely smiled and looked at David. "A few minutes huh?" Kirk wanted to chide the doctor further until Kaluch started convulsing violently.

"Open communications with the chancellor!" the Klingon managed to say amid shudders.

An alarm sounded. Kirk looked around. He had hung around the lab long enough to know that it was an automatic system that locked the facility down in case of contamination. Rand went about an examination of everything in the medical laboratory. Kirk stood by anxious to do something. He listened while G'Nar split his attention away from Kaluch long enough to express his bewilderment over the automated warning.

"The seals are in place," Rand said helplessly. "None of the samples are broken. I don't understand it."

"Call out to the main compound!" G'Nar snapped.

"Better yet, establish a subspace link with Ma'aQ's forces," Kirk snapped his fingers and interjected. He had been working the comm system and had familiarized himself with its operation. Kirk moved to do as he had suggested. One of Kaluch's guards looked over his shoulder as he inputted commands into the alien control panel.

Kirk stopped and cast a puzzled glance at Klagh. He recalled the guard's name. Klagh was the one who had warned him about the powder puff creatures. Kirk guessed that the pleasant sounding creatures shot deadly quills out or something on that order. That could be the only explanation for the Klingon's avoidance of them. Klagh returned the glance and reached past Augustus to try the panel. He grunted and smacked his hand down on the controls.

"Is there another communications' station Kirk?" Klagh asked.

"By the cryogenics lab," Kirk answered. He felt useless around this place and decided to go with Klagh and try to get some contact with the world outside. He turned to Soong and spoke in English: "I might need your knowledge of electronics in case there is some kind of malfunction."

"You go on without me Augy old boy," Soong said. "There really isn't much to it; just remember not to stick in your finger in a power supply." Klagh must have been able to read Kirk's human expressions for her strode over and took Soong by the collar.

"Okay, okay!" Soong protested angrily. Klagh released Soong when Kirk gestured to do so. "Watch the threads crinkle head!"

Kirk fell into step with the bigger and younger Klingon. Soong followed as they wound their way through the complex. The trio descended in a lift to the cryogenics area. The lift door parted revealing a darkened stone passageway. Kirk and the Klingon cast a wary eye upon one another: Kirk knew that this section of the research facility was usually well lit; even by Klingon standards. They proceeded out of the lift and down the corridor at a more cautious pace.

"This is where Dracula comes out of the--,"

"Shutup Soong!" Kirk hissed. They rounded a curve into the larger area that housed the cryo lab and containment computer. There was movement. Kirk was knocked off of his feet.

He saw Klagh pull his sword and engage another Klingon. He saw boots running at the Klingon. Kirk rolled into them knocking the attacker onto the floor. It suddenly occurred to Augustus that these Klingons were unaffected by the retrovirus. The warrior that he had tripped struggled to his feet. Kirk launched himself at the Klingon. There was a sound of swords clanging together. The warrior swung his arm at him. He easily knocked Kirk away. Augustus felt his face go numb. He tasted the tang of his own blood. Kirk was determined to continue fighting until he felt the harsh, cold edge of a blade against his bare throat.

"_This was the unkindest cut of all,_" a familiar voice announced. Chang stepped before him. He was holding the short Klingon sword at Augustus' throat.

"What's the meaning of this?" Kirk asked. It couldn't be good. He saw Klagh's lifeless body less than two meters away. The pinkish Klingon blood made a growing pool beneath Klagh's lifeless body.

"Kaluch cannot be permitted this course of action." Chang withdrew the blade and turned to the other Klingons. "There is another human; find him!"

"Who're your friends?" Kirk asked.

"Klingons like me who are interested in the supremacy of the empire."

"You said the Romulans were hunters back there in the lab. How do you know that?"

Chang smiled showing an impressive mouthful of teeth. "Your enemy was always right beside you Kirk."

"You mean the Vulcans?"

"Their distant cousins; they are far more…interesting, shall we say, than their Vulcan relatives."

"You mean to align the empire with them."

"You subscribe great abilities to me—no. I am part of a cadre of ambitious warriors who see the empire becoming the predominant power in this quadrant; perhaps in this galaxy."

Kirk rose to his feet. Chang seemed unconcerned. That was no surprise: Augustus was an old man; he could not hope to defeat the small, powerfully built young Klingon. Kirk knew that he could stall though: He knew that Chang liked to talk.

"The Klingon Empire could ally with President Thorpe's federation."

"Traders and teachers?" the Klingon asked in reply. "We would never ally with the likes of those. Listen Kirk, whichever side wins, we will be in a position to absorb these Romulans. If we stay neutral then we wait while the victor and loser rebuilds their forces. We will face both empires."

"Not if we occupy Romulus."

"Really Kirk, you don't understand military matters. I doubt even the leaders of your alliance have considered an occupation of Romulus. It is a journey of human _months _for your ships to get there. You will have to constantly resupply your occupation force. The Romulans will not sit idly by while you walk on the surface of their world. Your forces will be involved in a constant struggle there."

Kirk had not considered that. He did not know if President Thorpe had either. Then there was the niggling question: What would happen when it was discovered that a relationship existed between the Vulcans and Romulans?

"Your people will decide finally upon some sort of diplomatic answer."

"You figured out all of that from your time as a scholar of intergalactic politics?"

"That is the assessment of those who I am doing this for."

"Kaluch and Ma'aQ's forces will fight. You won't have much of an empire left."

"Kaluch is a traditionalist: He would have the empire stand alone. The cold facts are this Augustus: The chancellor will win by sheer weight of numbers. Kaluch will be swept aside. Ma'aQ is not adverse to new ideas: He will see the potential of the Romulans. True we shall be weaker—for a brief time. It is likely that the Romulans will be weaker though. They will accept us as allies. Eventually we shall become the dominant force."

"Chang; no one can predict the future," Kirk argued. "It isn't the first time I've heard someone taking the long view. On my world the augments took that view: They're gone. Thorpe's federation isn't an empire. You would keep your sovereignty."

"You are wrong Augustus. We are the future and we need room to grow. It will be glorious. I only regret that I shall not live to see it."

"What do you mean?"

"Even if the cure works we shall hold this part of the compound preventing anyone from leaving or speaking to the outside. Ma'aQ will batter through and bomb this world into dust."

Kirk gulped. He did not like the way this was going. All men ended in dust: He just had not planned on it this soon.

"Report!" Captain Marissa Morgan snapped the one word inquiry.

"The Klingons are deploying two attack wings," Major Lasuda answered. "This chancellor seems to be using the vaq'a approach." Morgan shot him a glance of consternation. "You call them bulls. Ma'aQ is charging in like one. He has arrayed his forces in an offensive half sphere."

"Any word from our Klingon friends?" she asked.

"Chatter coming over linguacode." Lasuda answered. "I think it implies that we should just stay out of this because they are better warriors."

"Chief Chicosky," she turned to the medium built red headed man who was sitting at the helm. "Take up a position near the starboard attack wing." She was surprised at how arrogant these Klingons were even when they were receiving help. Morgan turned to her gunnery officer. "Ensign Wong, load Thunderflash and Narwhal missiles and launch fighters."

"Aye sir!" the ensign responded.

Serendipity had two Minotaurs in its launch section as opposed to the standard five. Morgan had been told that her new command was primarily a diplomatic vessel. The new Star Fleet had seen fit though to ensure that their diplomats were well protected. Marissa wished they could make more ships like this but cost was a prohibitive factor.

"Missile room reports loaded," Wong snapped crisply.

"Fighters away," Lasuda added.

"Thirty thousand kilometers until contact, sir," Ensign Karen Lockley reported.

Morgan turned her chair slowly. She liked this bridge design: Gone were the darkened alcoves where the bridge staff performed their individual functions. In place of that design was the circular bridge with the captain's position occupying the center. It was good that Marissa liked it: This was the future, according to the engineers.

Morgan remembered Kurn's advice concerning Klingon tactics: Amongst themselves they preferred close-in fighting using rail guns and lasers. Morgan ordered the display switched to tactical. The Klingon had not been lying: She watched as the ships closed past ten thousand kilometers. Were their missiles limited in range she wondered?

"Two D-2's making a run at us, sir," Lockley advised. "Missiles on the fly!"

"They don't seem reluctant to use their missiles on us. Lasers and Pitbulls!" she ordered.

The new anti-missile missiles intercepted the threats with terrifying accuracy and speed. The old Spiders were fast but not that fast Morgan thought. Four of the data streams showed peaks in energy then they dropped off to zero. Lasers finished off the remaining two threats. Alarms sounded. Lights flashed on the engineering status board. Morgan hit a stud on the armrest of her chair.

"Bridge, engineering, damage report!" she snapped.

"Hull breaches on decks four and seven, outer sections," Lieutenant Commander Karla Swenson announced. "They must be raking us with rail guns!"

Morgan watched three D-2's close past five thousand kilometers. Her lips pulled back in a feral grin. "Deploy starboard Merculite rocket battery."

Three bat-like D-2's broke away from their support group. They made a pass against the Star Fleet cruiser. Three pockmarks illustrated by escaping gases showed where the Klingon weapons hit Serendipity. A large door slid open on the side of the Star Fleet ship. Merculite rockets blasted out of the compartment. A concentrated barrage of small rockets tore through the three attackers.

The first D-2 was obliterated within seconds. The second tried turning away only to suffer the same fate. The last of the three managed to turn away exposing only an aft quarter to the deadly projectiles. Small explosions blossomed on that quarter. The D-2 tumbled out of control through space.

Pitbulls shot out from under Serendipity to intercept three more inbound missiles. One Klingon device exploded, incinerating the Pitbulls. A missile emerged through the blinding explosion. It detonated short of Serendipity causing the cruiser's hull plating to spark. Two D-2's manned by Kaluch's warrior's engaged Serendipity's attackers. The ships pivoted, ejecting smaller missiles and rail gun fire as they fought. A D-2 split from its thick neck to its stern. The two halves rolled through space.

Serendipity fired again, this time destroying a D-2 with a Narwhal. The forces of Ma'aQ, superior in number managed to hit the Star Fleet ship with another proximity burst. The two hundred and thirty five meter long behemoth reeled. Serendipity's port nacelle leaked a trail of glowing plasma. A single enemy D-2 evaded Klingon and Star Fleet weapons in an attempt to make a close pass against Serendipity. A Minotaur shot between both ships firing an Amazon. The smaller nuclear armed Amazon missile turned the D-2 into a short-lived fireball.

The battle raged on but it was apparent that the chancellor's fleet was winning. Five D-2's accompanied by a smaller number of bat-winged ships wheeled on one of Kaluch's D-2's. The D-2 evaded but at a terrible price: The craft slowly shredded itself. When a missile finally exploded it destroyed only twisted wreckage. Kaluch's ships destroyed many of Ma'aQ's but the loss of a single ship from Kaluch's house was worse than the loss of five of the chancellor's.

"You want to wipe out a third of the Klingon Empire," Augustus Kirk argued. "Aren't you interested in seeing a cure instead?"

"The move will consolidate power among another group." Chang leaned casually against a wall. Kirk saw his older son Sam for just a moment.

"The chancellor is as much a pawn in this as Kaluch is." Kirk said it more to himself than to the Klingon youth.

"The empire is on the threshold of becoming a galactic power." Chang stood erect as if to make a presentation. "Kaluch and the chancellor are mired down in council politics. We shall guide them in another direction."

"Your group and the Romulans?" he asked. "Tell me Chang; did it ever occur to you that these Romulans might end up on top?"

"That is absurd." Chang replied. "I will tell you this Augustus: I've met some of them. Their admiral believes in some mystical reunion with their Vulcan brothers as they call them. Like many beliefs it denies the pathetic nature of what lies beneath: It is a drug to keep the lesser of their people in line."

"And Klingons have no such beliefs?"

"We have legends and stories. They guide us, but not toward foolish dreams."

"Stand ready Chang!" one of the Klingon's cohorts announced. "The lift is moving again."

"Ah," Chang said and smiled. "Some of your friends are concerned about you Augustus."

Kirk knew that those coming down the lift would be ambushed as had he and Soong and Klagh. Where was Soong he wondered? The man did have a penchant for saving his own skin. Kirk heard a noise that did not fit in with the planned ambush. Chang pulled his pistol as one of his warriors staggered back into the lab; his abdomen was torn open from his chest to his stomach. Blood and gore spurted in a sickening trail behind the Klingon.

Kirk threw himself at Chang's gun hand. He and the Klingon wrestled. Chang twisted away and gained the upper hand. He spun and kicked Kirk. Augustus gasped. He was slammed against a wall where he slid down to the floor. He had heard a harsh snap and knew that some of his ribs were broken. He felt a fire in his chest. He looked at Chang who was pointing his pistol at Kirk's head.

"_I go and it is done, the bell invites me," _the Klingon quoted.

"It ain't over till the fat lady sings!" a voice spat out in rough Klingon

Kirk saw a shadow behind Chang. Adrik Soong swung a large object at the youth's head. Kirk realized that it was some kind of beaker. It exploded in a shower of smoking glass. Chang collapsed in a heap. Augustus realized it was not smoke: It was condensation from something cold. Despite the fact that Chang had been about to kill him, Kirk still wanted to go to him. He got up and started toward Chang when another warrior came at them. Soval rounded a corner just behind the Klingon. Kirk was not sure but somehow the Klingon seemed to faint after the Vulcan grabbed at his neck.

"What took you so long Smiley?" he asked the Vulcan. Kirk winced in agony.

"You are hurt," the Vulcan declared. He moved to help him.

Kirk held up a hand. "Don't worry about it; nothing that a few shots of Jim Beam won't help; or a visit to the doc," this last he mumbled. G'Nar joined the group as Kirk knelt beside Chang. Kirk saw the bloody batleth that the Klingon scientist held.

"Shouldn't you be tending to Kaluch?" he asked the scientist.

"The treatment was a success." For the first time Kirk saw what he thought was sadness, expressed by a Klingon. He wondered what had happened. He looked at Chang.

The youth's head and face appeared burned. Kirk touched the burnt flesh. He could still feel the cold of whatever was in the container that Soong had broken over Chang's head. Most of the Klingon's proud mane of hair was gone. Pieces of glass protruded from the ruin of Chang's left eye. He asked G'Nar if he could attend to the Klingon's wounds.

"Kirk, he tried to--,"

"Shutup Soong!" he hissed. Augustus took up Chang's gun and leveled it at Soong.

"Chang sabotaged--," Soval began.

"No!" Kirk spat. "Chang was working against this…" He looked at the dead and unconscious warriors. G'Nar went about the deadly business of taking care of the warrior that Soval had pinched. Kirk wanted to know how the Vulcan had done that.

G'Nar moved toward Chang. "Wait!" he exclaimed. "Chang was trying to stop the saboteurs. When you got here I managed to get loose. I don't think Chang knew who I was in all the confusion."

Augustus didn't know why he was protecting the Klingon—yes he did: Chang did remind him of Sam. Headstrong and independent; his oldest son had been the cause of many sleepless nights for Augustus. It wasn't until Sam moved away after one of many explosive arguments that Kirk came to understand the source of the friction: He and Sam were too much alike.

"Very well," the Klingon lowered his lethal blade. "Communications must be repaired."

Kirk lowered the pistol. He saw Soong's appraising look. Soong knew the truth. Much to Kirk's surprise he offered an apology and admitted a mistake in identity. He didn't understand this sudden aid from Soong but he decided it was not the best time to ask why. "Can you fix whatever," he started in English.

"You have it," Soong interrupted. "When the blood started flying I squeezed into a ventilation shaft. I've been working on and off down here; skulking and poking my nose where it doesn't belong." Kirk had accused Soong of that on occasion. "The crinkle heads route some of their tertiary control circuits through there. You should be able to talk to anyone you want."

"Then we should inform the chancellor that a cure has been obtained." Soval was as somber as ever. Was that a gleam of suspicion directed at him from the Vulcan, Kirk wondered? Had Soval seen or heard anything? If so, he was keeping his mouth shut too.

"Minnie Two had to eject their missiles!" Lieutenant Commander Russell Hargreaves shouted. An environmental transfer line had ruptured sending a hissing blast of steam onto the bridge of Serendipity.

"Tell them to use their remaining antimatter packets to jump for allied space!" Morgan retorted.

They had torn a hole into the number of Ma'aQ's ships. But Morgan knew that it had not been enough. Kaluch's appointed squadron commander was dead: He had gone to warp directly in the path of two of the chancellor's D-2's. Kavon's successor had actually opened a dialogue with Serendipity. Kaluch's fleet was reduced to a quarter of what it had been. Morgan knew that this was the final stand; no use in sacrificing the crew of Minotaur Two over a lost cause.

"What are your plans, captain?" Major Lasuda asked without ceremony.

"Status of the redshirts?" she asked.

She waited patiently while Hargreaves called the shore party. "Ensign Patel reports that they ran into an ambush. The Klingons didn't look human she said. Some of Kaluch's warriors helped our people, but now there is another problem." Morgan waited while Hargreaves listened. "Our people are in the lab but it is sealed up."

"Could have been some of Kaluch's people who weren't affected," Lasuda interjected. She looked sidewise at her first officer. "Perhaps not," he added. Morgan knew that the Tellarite was gathering a status report. It was not long before he delivered: "They had better get Kirk and team up here fast. The chancellor must not appreciate the beating we just gave him: His forces are assembling behind a screen of patrol craft."

"We'll give Kirk a few more minutes," Morgan declared. She studied the position of her ship: She didn't plan to fight against a gravity well. In making what was essentially a battleship class of vessel Star Fleet and Micah Brack's engineers had sacrificed maneuverability. Serendipity was a deep space vessel, not an explorer. She saw her opportunity. "Chief Chicosky," she said, addressing her helmsman. "Prepare to warp between those groups at 176 mark 15. I want to enter normal space at a minimum of eleven thousand kilometers from that main group."

Morgan had determined that one of those D-2's was acting as a command cruiser. Rather the chancellor was aboard or this Kurn was in command she did not know. She had spoken to Kurn. She would regret having to kill him; he was a noble warrior, but that was the nature of war. All sections reported ready. Morgan planned on giving them her last volley of Merculite rockets when Ensign Lockley chimed in.

"Communications from the surface sir!" the ensign said. Morgan snapped her head around. "Voice and video in the clear," she added.

"Show me!" she snapped. Morgan flipped the intercom. She regretted sending Soval to the surface but the green Orion woman had demonstrated knowledge of Klingon. Marissa would have liked to have her on the bridge but the Orion but she had proven to be somewhat of a distraction for her male crew members. She had instead assigned her quarters and put her on a restriction. Morgan called Miasa and started to inform her of the situation. She stopped abruptly when an image appeared on the bridge viewer.

She heard Lasuda ask who the Klingon on the viewer was. Morgan had wondered the same for a few seconds until she realized who it was: It was Kaluch. The warrior was changed. His proud ridges were back; beneath a mane of silver hair. Morgan tried to recall Rand's explanation of Klingon aging—normal Klingon aging. She did some calculations: Kaluch looked like he had aged at least a human century. He was speaking. Morgan prompted the Orion to translate.

"He says that they have reversed the effects of the retrovirus." Morgan put her voice over the bridge speakers as Miasa translated word for word.

"The cure will act as inoculants for the young and a cure for older Klingons. Those of us who were effected between the ages of K'Arc'D'Cha and Da'ChA; you see the effects of the cure. G'Nar says that it can safely be administered after Da'ChA but you see what happens if it is given too early."

"This war between the houses must cease. Ma'aQ, we've had our disagreements but we must not permit them to destroy the empire. There is no retrovirus. You have no reason to press forward with this attack. Those of my house who must bear the scars of the retrovirus will pledge ourselves to the empire. We shall be at the leading edge of expanding Klingon power in the galaxy."

Kaluch fell silent. Seconds later Lockley reported that the chancellor's ships were holding station. That was something, Morgan thought. She continued with preparations for a counter attack however. Marissa wondered how killing the Chancellor of the Klingon High Council would look on her military resume. A moment later Chief Calloway notified her that a response was being sent out.

Once again a Klingon face filled the viewer. Once again Morgan called upon the Orion as the Chancellor of the High Council rendered his response. She sat back and breathed a sigh of relief as Ma'aQ called a halt to the fighting. Morgan knew that at some point the chancellor had to be looking at his overall military picture: This battle had weakened the empire.

Morgan's personal assessment of the Klingon Empire was that every so often they battered one another to pieces over who had the most honor. Except that they seemed to find ways around that honor on occasion. She was wondering at how different they were from humans at the same time that she was thinking of how similar they were to humans. At least the shooting seemed to be over.

"Send a subspace message to Minotaur Two asking if they have enough anti matter packets to warp back to us," she ordered. "In the meantime we'll remain at battle stations until things really do quiet down."

San Francisco, California, the old United States, earth, Mar 2158

"They are going to vote me out," President Pro Tempore Mark Hawkins declared in a sad tone. His people were walking away for the most part, after that damning episode in Oklahoma. Hawkins wished that his enforcers had shot that old bastard.

He was looking at a portrait of the original signers of the World Charter. They had signed the document in this very underground office; so great was the fear of further nuclear attack. History mattered little to Hawkins who saw the figures on the canvas as rich, spoiled brats. He wrung his hands and crumpled a piece of old writing paper that was on the desk top.

"You still have options to implement against Stiles and her lackey." Dominique Catères looked out of place in the dry musty smelling underground bunker. It was she who had advised him to operate out of here after the assassination attempt against him. She sat opposite him dressed in a revealing evening gown.

"I've put those into action," he answered. "The authorities tracked her to France but she escaped from them. Some kinda whacko in a souped up aircraft pulled her and her gimp campaign manager off the ground there."

"This world is far too free," Catères said. Hawkins noticed how she did not nod or shake her head. She was odd that way. Come to think of it she was strange in many ways. He watched her stretch. Hawkins could not help but to see the movement of her highly articulated fingers. They were almost alien looking. She noticed his glance.

He felt a curtain of dread descend over him. It was as if young Mark was receiving one of his mother's periodic belittling rebukes. He jerked away and fixed his eyes elsewhere. Hawkins felt the terror subside. It was replaced with a warm blanket of security. He turned back to her reluctantly.

"We…we agree about that," he answered. "The fools aren't even afraid of authority anymore."

"With the way that the polling went it will be a few days before Stiles replaces you," she declared coldly. "There is time to accomplish some things. You must expedite the return of your home fleet. It is apparent that the delay in its return is deliberate."

"That goddamned admiral or whatever he is doesn't even speak English! He is some kinda Frenchman."

"French Canadian," Dominique corrected him.

Hawkins had been frustrated by the big naval officer. He had even tried to dismiss the officer. Much to Hawkins anger and dismay the officer…Goulete if he recalled properly, Goulete had smiled and babbled away in his native language. He had cut the circuit on his end as Mark screamed into the comm.

"The fleet issue is marginal. A few simple orders can speed things up," Catères said. "What is your progress on the other situation that I asked you about?"

"Nothing!" he retorted angrily. The signers of the World Charter had been careful to make sure that no one governing body had too much power to abuse.

Hawkins had thought that by being president he had now only to waggle his fingers to get results. He was discovering that he didn't have much more power than when he was breaking his back in Georgia. He had pushed the military as far as possible. The Sons' of Terra primary legal expert had told him that anything more and he could be removed from office.

He shook his head. "Thorpe was conducting investigations into rogue spy agencies through the Unified Intelligence Service. I went through every goddamned memo, paper and data. There just isn't anything there! They cain't find anything. I don't think that anything is there."

She sprang lithely out of her chair, reached over his desk and slapped his face. His hearing went numb on that side. He started to pull back when he felt himself frozen in place. He realized that he was panting like an animal. He felt wetness on his face and thought that he was sweating. He wiped at it and discovered that blood was dripping out of his ear on the side that she had struck him. His heart was thumping madly. She reached out and stroked his hair gently.

"There now," she cooed, "I need you to compose yourself." She smiled at him. "I know that whoever tried to kill you was someone…special. That individual is far more dangerous than you realize; perhaps even more than his keepers know."

"Is that why you wanted an inquiry into mass murderers?" he gasped out at last. He was starting to calm down.

"Yes," she replied.

He sighed. "There were a lot before the Third World War, but you asked about more recent times. The worse case was on Mars at the beginning of the century; eleven women were for all intents and purposes, gutted. They never figured out who did it." She asked him for the official record. He handed her a paper copy. He waited while she looked through it. There wasn't anything in a decades old report he thought.

"The official record tells of an officer chasing a suspect over the surface." She looked from the report to him. "The suspect was incinerated in the explosion of a hydrocarbon ejector."

"So?" he asked. "That was a long time ago."

"Did you not read this?" she snapped. He recoiled as if she had struck him again. She took a breath and continued: "The officer, who was carrying photographic equipment, got to within ten meters of the suspect, in a pressurized area where neither was suited, and yet never recorded an image of this possible killer or could identify the person. This naval officer couldn't even say if it was a man or woman."

"There was some kinda power outage," he mumbled quietly. "Maybe it was too dark."

"Further," Dominique continued as if he had not spoken. "The naval officer escaped from an explosion made by the ignition of hydrocarbon vapors: An explosion that burned away all of the suspect's remains. Yet this officer was unhurt."

He shrugged his shoulders. Hawkins winced as she shot a glance toward him. "I'm sorry," he answered haplessly. "I just don't see what murders that happened over fifty years ago, has to do with anything today."

"Perhaps nothing," she smiled seductively at him. He was beginning to feel relaxed. She handed the file back to him. "I've left it open on the name of that officer. Use what resources you can and pull up his service record and personal data. I wish to know where he lived after this incident and…who his descendents are; if any."

"Sure thing," he answered. He grinned at her.

"We must plan the next steps," she said.

"The warmongers have won!" he spat out in return. "The fools on this here world buy everythin' that Thorpe says hook line and sinker!"

"That may be so," Dominique stood up and strode over to a map of the world. "But say this assassination was engineered by this Star Fleet? The people have a reverence for the military. Were that reverence called into question then the Sons' of Terra could gain some momentum."

A chime sounded. Hawkins looked to Dominique. "Let him in," she commanded.

The door opened admitting Joshua Grant. He gave a tight-lipped smile to Catères and Mark. Mark liked the twentysome ex-actor despite Grant's wealth. He supposed it had to do with Grant's portrayals of the downtrodden. Grant had come to the movement after sales of his holovids had dropped off. But he was dedicated and wanted to do something for the cause of peace.

"There is news," Grant declared dramatically. Hawkins always wondered how, when Grant's characters sounded so forthright and brilliant the actor himself put Mark in mind of a simpleton.

"Don't keep us all waitin'!" Mark exclaimed.

"The deep space receivers have picked up a transmission from Thorpe's entourage." Grant looked down at a piece of paper he was holding. "Those dumbasses in the army couldn't get the whole message," Grant continued. "They must let the stupidest people in there."

"We know that," Mark interjected. "What did they pick up?"

Grant turned to his recitation. Hawkins was somewhat surprised that he seemed to have trouble reading. "Vulcan…per…prefect…I can't read these stupid Pointie names! Anyway this person says that Vulcan won't be neutral anymore. Something about shunning violence but they will give our ships a port. Also something about opening up some college?" he asked in a puzzled voice.

"The Vulcan Science Academy?" Dominique asked sharply. She hastened over and seized the paper from Grant's hands.

"It's just some college," Grant objected; "just another place churning out engineers and science majors. That is the trouble with those people; if they taught drama classes--,"

"You fool!" she exclaimed. "The Vulcan Science Academy started to gather knowledge over four thousand years ago. Humans were urinating in their water supply and wondering why they fell ill during that same time in history. The Vulcans have never opened the academy to any alien race they've encountered—never until now."

"This is serious?" he asked. Hawkins was as puzzled as Grant over Dominique's agitation.

"Thorpe seems to have done what no other world leader has," Catères said softly. "We must move quickly!"

UES Salamunga, near Sol, Mar 2158

"It is a beautiful sight sir," Crewman Elaine Scott declared softly. Her eyes were pressed against the sensor hood.

Chief Georgi Tatlin had directed one of old Sal's telescopes so that the crew could make a close examination of their native sun. He was pleased to find that he still had the same awe of the view as did his younger crewmen. Tatlin heard the hatch of Sal's bridge slide open. He walked the two meters to the hatch to meet Chief Lou Baxter.

"Giving the kids a little show?" Baxter said softly. Most of the crew had already filtered through the small bridge to see the video images.

"Why not; that is what we are out here for."

"Who knows, Cap'n Pudgy?" Baxter leaned against the metal frame and struck a cigarette. "Maybe this war will turn out to be a good thing."

"Русский," Tatlin mouthed the Russian word denoting a mentally ill person.

"Not as crazy as you think Georgi," Baxter replied. "What if this war hadn't happened? The pols were all ready to dismantle what was left of the navy in '56. What if they had succeeded?" Baxter continued, answering his own question. "We would have been out here with a few lasers and little else when we ran into someone else who wanted to fight."

"Ironic isn't it?" Tatlin declared. "I remember the anti exploration crowd crying endlessly about how man shouldn't be out here because of our warlike nature. We seemed to be the fault of every ill in the galaxy just because it is our nature to go out and overturn stones."

"Well Georgi there is a grain of truth there," his old friend said. He drew hard on his cigarette. "There will be many who want a bigger more aggressive fleet after this. I hope we don't inadvertently cause the next war because of a few hotheaded notions left over from this adventure."

"Hopefully this Star Fleet Academy will strike a balance between explorers and fighters." Tatlin motioned at his fellow chief petty officer.

"I thought you swore off smoking Georgi?" he asked handing Tatlin a cigarette.

"I just swore off buying my own!" he smiled as Baxter lit the smoke. Tatlin drew in a long draw of the sweet tasting tobacco.

"Don't forget about the alien influences!" his friend interjected. "It seems like the Andies and Tellars like looking under rocks too."

"Captain Tatlin," Crewman David McKidd's voice sounded tinny coming out of the small overhead speaker. The youth sounded nervous to Georgi. "Utopia Planitia just issued an attack warning."

"Christ!" Baxter exclaimed. "I thought that the Birdies were pushed back for awhile." Tatlin caught his old friend looking at him. "We aren't in any shape for a fight."

Georgi's mind raced. A few days ago he had been an enlisted man on the edge of retirement. Today he had a fleet of warships under his command. He came to a decision that he felt that any officer would arrive at:

"Sound battle stations," he said.

"We only have four working Amazons Georgi," Baxter whispered. The chiefs could see Scott and Crewman Geeta Dutt listening intently to their conversation. "The rest of this," Baxter sniffed, "taskforce is not in much better shape."

Tatlin never liked being on a ship where secrets were kept. He turned to Dutt and Scott as he flipped on the ship's intercom. "This ship has received notice of an attack on our shipyard over Mars." He looked at his young charges and then at Baxter. "I know you'll want to jump into the fight—so do I. But we have our orders." He nodded at the dusky skinned Dutt who was seated in the pilot's chair. The crewman initiated the alarm as ordered.

"I'll get to the engine room captain," Scott declared in a heavy brogue. He nodded as she scrambled by him.

"I'll code this over to the rest of the force sir," Baxter said. There was no sarcasm attached to the honorific.

He took his fellow chief's arm. "McKidd can send a coded dispatch. I need you to ramrod things in the engine and missile spaces. Scotty is competent but she lacks experience."

"You saying I'm an old fart, captain?" Baxter retorted with a smile.

"Why, you're not old at all number one."

Star Fleet heavy cruiser Hastings, moored at Utopia Planitia, Mar 2158

"Sons a bitches came in on one of the twists of the heliospheric current sheet," Lieutenant Commander Kelvin Merrick proclaimed. Oulette had almost asked for Lieutenant Talas. The pain was an empty spot that was still raw. Merrick was a capable officer. Oulette just wished that he had not been pushed so far so soon.

"Sensors readings are still garbled sir," Lieutenant Aroz stated. The Tellarite Defense Force had replaced Chief Traz. Aroz struck Grizzly as slightly odd for a Tellarite. The lieutenant was quiet and downright conciliatory. Oulette guessed that there were all sorts of types of Tellarites as there were humans.

Commodore Pierre "Grizzly" Oulette shelved his thoughts concerning alien psychology as he studied Hastings's tactical plot. He had ordered the bridge lighting subdued despite advice that the command center should be brightly lit. Old habits died hard.

He spun around slowly and soundlessly in his new seat. Hastings was a Tannhauser that had adopted the circular bridge module design rather than the old system of control alcoves. Grizzly missed Fearless. But the new Naval Construction Catalogue didn't call for a Fearless in any of its specs save for a hull designation that Oulette thought must be pure speculation: Daedelus. Oulette had been unable to find any information out about the proposed class of vessel.

"Thermopylae and Shalki report in position," Merrick reported. "Feuerstein and Weehawkin are maneuvering. They should be in pace before the Birds scan us, commodore."

"Tubes are loaded and decoys are in place, sir," Lieutenant Sylvia Moran advised him.

Oulette could see Merrick looking at the tactical display. He could see that his first officer was disturbed. "You want to go out and meet them?" he asked about the thirty plus enemy ships approaching the red planet.

"I'm sorry sir, no we should stay here."

Oulette knew that he had some time to indulge young Merrick. Besides, the navy needed officers who asked questions. Mindless marionettes were everywhere and likely to lead a crew just enough to die with them.

"No, voice your concerns Kelvin."

"Sir, with all due respect, our strategy has been to go out an engage the Romulans first hand."

"Yes,' he answered slowly, "it has been," he emphasized his last two words.

"Do you think that the Birds are here for a system wide attack Mister Merrick?"

"No sir. They are angling for Mars. Especially since the reports are that the--." Merrick stopped abruptly.

"Are that the bulk of our heavy cruisers were redeployed about earth?" he asked completing his first officer's statement.

"I wouldn't say that sir," Merrick answered. "That would imply that someone in our government was lending support to the Romulans."

"That remains to be seen," Oulette answered. He sighed. "It is not our place to ask of such things."

"Solid contacts on sensors and radar," Aroz declared.

Oulette pressed a stud on his armrest. "Engineer, bring up the mam reactor."

"Engaging start-up sequence," Lieutenant Commander D'Arcangeles replied. "Full power available on the fusion reactor commodore," the engineer added.

"Romulan taskforce consists of thirty-three Cabbages and fourteen Jellyfish." Aroz's face was pressed against the hood of his sensor screen. "They have gone to warp—estimated time until they are in plasma cannon range is four minutes."

"Very good, this is the time that our poor human sensors should have gotten good resolution on them. Let us begin the show." Oulette strapped in his seat as he ordered Crewman McGivers to take Hastings away from the yard and out beyond the orbit of Mars. He had read in the _Journal of Space Power and Exploration _that seats in ships of the future might do away with restraining harnesses. Oulette thought that that was madness.

"Helm answering, clearing umbilicals, sir," McGivers announced. "Two minutes until we leave orbit," he added.

"Vincennes is maneuvering with us," Aroz stated. "Portsmouth is leaving the yard."

"They have to have a manufacturing facility on Topaz," Merrick said quietly.

"Nothing has been scanned along their expected deployment lanes. I would tend to agree with you Kelvin," Oulette said.

He raised his voice to cover the entire bridge. "Let us keep up appearances here. We need to engage them for at least thirty seconds."

There was a chorus of ayes in return. Easier said than done Grizzly knew. They were facing a far superior force. But he had to go out and meet them. As his first officer had pointed out that was something that the Romulans would expect. Grizzly hoped that was so.

. The Tannhauser class cruiser moved silently through space. Its supporting Powhatons took up formation with the big ship. Behind the ships the great disk of Mars dominated the sky. Utopia Planitia formed a great network of support structures and mooring points creating the appearance of a great spider web over the red planet. The ships moved steadily.

Thousands of kilometers away the Romulan group flashed into normal space. They immediately maneuvered to establish some distance between each. The first exhaust trails of missiles, a brief creation of their small chemical thrusters, were visible as the green ships fired at their outnumbered foes. Plasma cannon fire outraced speeding Romulan Mambos and Moolahs.

Nuclear weapons exploded in the space between the two hostile groups. Most of the plasma beam fire was consumed in the reaction of the blasts, still some made it through. The Star Fleet ships maneuvered to escape with only Vincennes taking a glancing blow of plasma fire. Electric blue discharges ran down the Powhaton's hull. The ship launched a spread of Spiders and Narwhals as it turned back toward Mars. The Romulans followed.

One Narwhal launched by allied ships made it near to a Romulan ship. Plasma spewed from the nacelle of the damaged Sabinus. The Romulans continued in their tight formation defeating yet another volley of Narwhals. Allied missiles, perfected since the outbreak of war flew corkscrewing courses designed to evade enemy laser fire. The projectiles' flight path did not render them immune from neutronium pellets. Most of the Narwhals were turned into so much space debris after impacting the dense pellets.

Hastings and her escorts continued a steady retreat. The outermost pursuers turned about and started laying down sequential plasma cannon fire against oncoming Hercules missiles. One Veronus was engulfed by a detonation from one of the big antiship missiles. But Romulan counter measures and tactics seemed to be uncannily accurate when it came to defeating the Hercules'.

The great red disk of Mars filled the sky. The web of Utopia Planitia seemed to be breaking up. Small pieces of it floated apart against the backdrop of the great Martian canals. The pieces seemed to move slowly then they accelerated and took up formation. The distant sun shined off of the apparent debris.

The sun illuminated the speeding deadly shapes of Star Fleet Minotaurs. Painted garishly and with pride by their maintainers the Minotaurs quickly formed up and proceeded toward their intended Romulan prey. The four pulse lasers protruding from the stubby ships' noses started about their deadly business. Romulan Aeons exited their launch bays in great droves to counter this new threat.

"How in the hell are they taking out our Hercules's like that!" It was one of those rare times that Oulette's mild first officer raised his voice.

Almost like someone had passed along specifications to the Birds. Oulette did not give voice to his thought. The United Earth Government was on shaky ground right now. He didn't want to add to what was becoming an increasingly unsettled situation at home. James Leonard had sent a long letter to Grizzly just after his dismissal from the command of earth's home guard. The letter had apparently been about the problems that Jim was facing with a particularly nasty gopher that would return every spring to wreck havoc on his wife's garden. Oulette knew that Leonard and his wife had no such problems.

The suspicion that the acting president was actively aiding Romulans chilled Oulette. He worried after his family, his fiancé and adopted daughter. He had felt that he could protect them so long as earth had a leader determined to fight the enemy. That was no longer true Pierre lamented.

"Fixed fortifications died when artillery came about," he said quietly. "I expected the Romulans to adapt." Somewhat of a lie; he was sure that their enemies had information from the highest levels. "We shall see how they adapt to the extra Minotaur squadrons."

"They've already lost two cabbages commodore," the Tellarite Aroz announced. "Our ships are moving according to your orders." Oulette was no expert on Tellarite moods but he detected that something was troubling his sensor chief. He would have appreciated a little Tellarite candor right about now. He asked Aroz what was wrong.

"Three of the Sabinus class ships are returning strange readings," Aroz answered. "I have been conducting narrow beam scans on them. They are reading as more massive than ships of that class should be. Their hulls seem to be thicker."

"Show me!" Oulette snapped.

The Tellarite caused three of the data streams to become larger. "As you can see sir if we highlight the z-axis and extrapolate--," Aroz began.

"Stop," Oulette interrupted. He eyed his sensor chief. "You don't happen to have any Vulcan relatives; do you?"

"I don't believe so sir," the chief answered.

The bridge lights flickered. The standby engineer reported minor damage after a plasma cannon hit. The hull plating was vastly improved over the old Pioneer class. Maybe giving up restraint harnesses in favor of better shielding and structural integrity fields would not be such a bad idea. Grizzly would read the article again: Provided he lived. Still; all of this new technology could not survive repeated attacks. Oulette turned his attention back to the viewer.

Three of their intended targets did indeed read as being several metric tons heavier than the average Sabinus class cruiser. Grizzly did not know why. He did know that he did not like it. The Romulans had split the Andorian forces according to the first sketchy reports that were filtering in over subspace. Oulette wanted to make sure that did not happen. He had only to convince the Birds of his intent.

"Sir, they are making for point near the starboard hemisphere of their defensive sphere," Aroz said. "Utopia Planitia is adding to the defensive fire."

"Mister Merrick, order two squadrons of Minotaurs to attack the Romulans from that position," Oulette ordered.

"They are moving away," Aroz stated. "Power buildup! Warp field forming!"

"Direction?" he asked. Oulette had a dreadful feeling in the pit of stomach that he already knew.

"Cabbages jumping to warp, on a direct heading for the shipyard," the Tellarite declared.

"We shall see," Oulette said in a grim tone.

The tactical plot showed the three Romulan cruisers making for the great bulk of the shipyard. Smaller readings, showing high speed compact objects appeared opposite the approaching enemy ships. The swarm of outbound Hercules missiles were about to overwhelm the Romulan cruisers when Oulette watched the cruisers' power usage graph go off scale.

Hastings artificial gravity burbled. Grizzly reeled in his seat. The lights went dark for a few seconds. When power was restored sparks and flames shot out of several instrument panels. He was aware that the detonation was powerful: The Bird ships had been over eight thousand kilometers away. Oulette watched Lieutenant Takuya Han examining the engineering reports while he fought an electrical fire at his station.

"Mam is running at one hundred percent commodore! Weapons and sensors are coming back on line. Secondaries have picked up the losses." the engineer reported. "There are sporadic electrical fires on several decks, but they are under control." Han extinguished the last flames at his station as if to make that point.

"Counting fifteen pirate ships going to warp!" his sensor chief exclaimed.

"Heading?" he snapped.

"Angling across the system on an approximate heading for earth," Aroz answered. "Sensors are obscured by…a large expulsion of drive plasma."

"Notify the taskforce to form up," Oulette spat out instructions. "Order a pursuit course--,"

"Sir!" Han interjected. "Alf is reporting that we can't form a warp field in this plasma!"

"Full impulse to a location where we can," Oulette ordered.

That was it: They weren't going to throw themselves against the shipyard. The Birds must have realized that was a losing proposition. Perhaps Pierre had exposed the concealed missiles too soon. Perhaps this had been the Romulans plans all along. He reminded himself that two years into this war they still did know the face of their adversary.

"Ensign Wilson," he turned to his comm officer. "Open a channel to Star Fleet Command on earth."

Master Chief Petty Officer Georgi Tatlin sat between and behind Crewmen David McKidd and Geeta Dutt. Salamunga's bridge was that, only in name. It was fashioned more like a large aircraft cockpit. Tatlin was seated in the slightly higher captain's chair. The seat offered immediate access to helm and weapons. It was a cramped fighting ship but that was no problem for Georgi who had served almost a decade aboard the little patrol craft. The crews tended to be closer than on larger vessels.

One thing that did bother Tatlin was his itchy head. He wished that he could do something about it but his helmet precluded that. His balding head of curly salt and pepper hair seldom itched until he put a space helmet on it. Tatlin knew that his small force was no threat to the reported number of Romulans. Yet he felt it his duty to go through the motions. Commodore Oulette, he knew, had some surprises for the Birds. That was why he was surprised when he heard Lou Baxter's voice over the private command network.

"Georgi," Baxter began. His voice was hushed and tension filled. "The taskforce is reporting that around a dozen Romulans broke away on a heading for earth. Their escape vector would put them along a close path to where we are."

Tatlin had chosen to hide his Currans at the top of the sun's gravity well. The fold that created in subspace limited the new sensors and the old subspace radar. The sun's heightened electromagnetic signature played havoc with conventional sublight systems. In fact; the _Sol System Navigation Journal _had specifically listed the coordinates of Tatlin's ships as a place not to go.

"The orbital batteries around Terra will take care of those," Tatlin replied. He had been careful to turn command over to McKidd and step back toward the rear of the bridge.

"That's another reason I called you capt'n," Baxter replied. "I sent a tight-beam crypto transmission toward the Star Fleet C n' C net." His old friend's pause sent a chill up Tatlin's spine. "Nothing," Baxter concluded in a somber tone.

He was about to confirm that Lou had run through all the code packets, but he knew that he had. Georgi went from chill to warm. "Is their carrier wave energized?" he asked.

"Yes," Baxter answered. "I checked that after I ran through the codes. They are up and running: They just aren't listening. I tried Star Fleet HQ direct at San Francisco; same result."

"Why aren't they listening?"

"Remember your time as a file in the radio room Georgi? What are the three instances that the emergency network can go down?"

"Broken codes," Tatlin started to recite. He knew that a coded seeming random pulse would be generated if that happened. He asked Baxter about that. His friend answered that that was not the case. "The network was attacked and is gone," Georgi ticked off.

"I've been scanning the vidnet. If there is an attack the news people aren't saying anything about it. By the way: Denmark beat Russia and Casper and Kristin are reunited, but that is not Casper's baby she is carrying."

"Romance dashed upon the rocks!" Tatlin chuckled. He appreciated the humor given how serious things were becoming. He took a deep breath. "The emergency network can be shut down by executive order."

"What do you bet that wingnut Hawkins didn't do something here?"

"Even if he did the navigation controllers would read the approaching bogeys," Tatlin protested.

"So?" his friend asked. "There are dozens of allied convoys in and out of this system, Georgi. And you know that the president holds the keys for any orbital nuclear weapons."

Tatlin gave the problem some thought. He needed some time but McKidd's voice told him that time was to be denied him:

"Sir!" the young man spoke up. Tatlin could hear his excitement. "Fifteen unidentified contacts have entered radar range. They aren't squawking--,"

"I'm aware of them crewman," Tatlin said calmly. A sudden thought seized him. "David; do you have time to run calculations on an arcing missile shot designed to bring them out of warp?" The crewman thought about it for almost a minute. Tatlin wanted to rush him but dare not. Finally McKidd spoke up:

"Taskforce 25 did that at Hell's Gate." McKidd was thoughtful. Georgi knew that the crewman had been a mathematics major before the war. "The missiles would have to detonate within five hundred kilometers of one another to generate that big a subspace resonance wave. Amazons warheads have smaller yields; we'd need to fire at least twenty or thirty of them to be effective."

Tatlin did some mental math: That would leave his small taskforce with twenty or so missiles. He looked at Dutt and McKidd. No one had forced them to sign up. Yet they could not know what combat was like. Too often kids at that age had a romantic idea of war. Georgi had shared that notion longer than most. But even in the absence of war the reality of modern space travel: Accidental radiation exposure, pressurization accidents, single small mistakes that were instantly fatal; those things acted to take the romance out of the whole thing. He had inherited command and an attack was aimed at earth. Tatlin made his decision.

"Run those calculations Mister McKidd," he said as he resumed his chair. A quick look at the tactical plot showed him that the Romulans would approach to within three hundred thousand kilometers. He ordered Dutt to deploy them to a new position that would put them under five thousand kilometers from their enemy. He passed his orders through Baxter to the rest of his taskforce.

"They are counting on using this blind spot Lou," Tatlin said over their private channel. Baxter grunted his assent. "That may be what saves us. We'll get a shot in on them before they know what hit them."

"You have the tally captain," Baxter replied. "I heard over the common what you are planning. That won't leave us many offensive missiles."

"We just need to get them out of warp," Tatlin said. "The taskforce should be able to get here by then."

"I'm getting garbled transmissions but I think they made it into warp about ten minutes ago. That is just time for the Romulans to blast us to pieces and continue to earth."

"We'll hold them Lou," Tatlin answered. His voice carried a note of conviction that he did not feel. "We have too."

"In position Captain Tatlin," Dutt informed him. He asked the Indian to ensure that the rest of his group was in the proper formation.

"Calculations complete, sir," McKidd announced.

"Taskforce is in formation and ready sir!" Dutt barked out.

"Zip up your data and have Mister Baxter shoot it out to the group."

"Contacts one minute away and closing," McKidd informed him.

"Firing solution is downloaded sir," Baxter's voice came over his helmet speakers. "All ships answer ready."

"Let's look sharp," he announced. It sounded like something a command officer would say; just a silly reminder for people doing a job to do that job.

"Targets approaching position sir," McKidd announced.

Georgi looked at the small viewer that sat less than two meters from his helmeted head. It was near time for launch. Despite the technology of super computers and subspace sensors there was still something to be said for instinct. He listened with half an ear as McKidd reminded him that the Romulans would pass the critical point. Not yet Tatlin thought; now.

"Fire," he commanded. His voice went out to the other Currans and Archers of the group.

"Firing and away!" Dutt squeaked. Tatlin knew that he was afraid; so was he.

The small taskforce was barely visible against the backdrop of Sol. Missiles belched forth from the keels of the small patrol craft. The darts accelerated away in the silence of space. The flight of nuclear tipped Amazons curved gently as they continued along. Their explosions, fifty kiloton yields, appeared as small dots before the great nuclear furnace of the sun. They appeared insignificant.

But not to the Romulan group. The green hulled ships flashed into normal space. One of their number trailed glowing plasma and debris behind before itself erupting in an explosion. The Currans and Archers sped toward their larger opponents. Despite canisters of metallic particles ejected before them and the erratic maneuvers possible only in space, three of the earth ships fell to Romulan missiles. The rest continued on, firing as they went.

A Veronus and Sabinus class ship each fell to Amazon shots. The deadly exchange of missiles stopped as the Currans and Archers closed to less than twenty kilometers of the Romulans. Invisible laser fire crisscrossed the black void. The only evidence of the fire was red hot tears opening in the hulls of the Romulan ships. The attackers paid dearly though. Heavier more powerful cruiser mounted lasers fired from Romulan ships cut one Archer into two. The two halves twisted wildly as their vented atmospheres acted as thrusters. The Currans and Archers were fighting a valiant but losing struggle.

Tatlin had swung his visor before the battle had started. That was lucky as it hadn't taken long for the Birds to hole his ship. He was angry but happy that his crew had been suited up. They lived to continue the fight.

"Missiles exhausted!" Baxter exclaimed. His old friend continued the conversation on the command net. "We are being hacked up here Georgi!"

"Any replies to our messages?" he asked, hopeful of the answer.

"Birdie jamming has us stifled," Baxter replied. "I can't say if we'll see relief or not. Georgi the rest of your taskforce has shot their missiles off. We can't inflict anymore damage."

Maybe not, Tatlin thought. He looked at the small viewer. "Maybe so," he mumbled.

"Sir?" his pilot David McKidd asked.

"Set course three-oh-one mark fifty four and engage at full impulse."

"Sir; that will take us out to where they can use their plasma cannons on us!" McKidd fed the necessary sequence into his board and sent Salamunga on her way.

"I sincerely hope so Crewman McKidd." Tatlin continued: "Head out to a point nine thousand kilometers from the Cabbage we've been attacking. Start to slow out there."

McKidd did as instructed. It wasn't long before Dutt chimed in with the information that energy readings on a Veronus indicated an impending plasma cannon shot. Tatlin put the rest of his scheme into motion.

Salamunga seemed to be alone although it lay at am apex of a triangle completed by two Romulan cruisers. The little ship changed its vector creating a slight curving turn. It approached a bright point in space that grew into the shape of a Romulan Sabinus. The sun blazed off of the garish bird of prey emblazoned on the primary hull of the Romulan ship. The small Curran avoided several missiles as it made a close approach to the cruiser.

Plasma ejected from the Veronus hit Salamunga a glancing blow on her portside aft. The Curran's aft section disappeared but the plasma continued on: Directly into the Sabinus' bird of prey emblem. The Sabinus briefly separated into two pieces before its fusion power plant consumed it. Salamunga spun out of control.

Between Tatlin and McKidd they managed to stabilize the Curran. Georgi could see that his ship was severely crippled. He was proud to see that Dutt, the greener of the two crewmen, had gone about the task of depressurizing the rest of Salamunga. Georgi listened as Scott spat out a stream of bad news. The magnetic containment for the antimatter packets that powered the Curran's single Ergomesh warp nacelle were deteriorating. With a packet jammed in the breach there was nothing she could do.

She had rigged a magnetic field powered from Old Sal's fusion reactor but that was rapidly dying as the automatic shutdowns had kicked in. Tatlin knew a losing proposition when he saw one: It was time to leave. He sent McKidd and Dutt to the airlocks while he found a Romulan Cabbage that was still firing. The Romulan was well over ten thousand kilometers out but it was heading along a vector that would intercept Sal's course. That was with a little help from Tatlin and Sal's thrusters.

Georgi set a time delay into the guidance and navigation controls. He had read that this new Star Fleet planned on building star bases out in the black. Stellar Navy bases on earth frequently had streets and buildings named after those killed on active duty. Tatlin finished inputting the sequence, gave himself a minute then floated out of his seat. He did not plan on having a building named after him. Georgi propelled himself off of bulkheads until he arrived at an airlock. The lock was open. Tatlin pushed himself out into space and away from Salamunga.

There were no lifeboats on Currans and Archers. Tatlin knew that their suits could provide environment for several days. The trouble was that the self-contained pressure suits lacked a large water supply. Tatlin knew that he could stretch things out for perhaps three days. He wondered what would come of them. He did a brief roll call. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard all of his crew report in. Tatlin waited and grew apprehensive when one voice did not answer. Where was Lou Baxter? Had his fellow chief and old friend died in the evacuation? Tatlin reached into a pouch in his suit. He removed his great grandmother's rosary and prayer beads.

Tatlin muttered the ancient words under his breath. Did they mean anything? He didn't know the answer to that. He knew that he would find out in a few decades. Perhaps sooner if there was no rescue. He prayed for his friend nonetheless. Georgi finished and put the rosary away. A glint of light had caught on it before he had stuffed it in his pouch. Tatlin turned over slowly. The Sinjan class shuttle sidled silently up to him.

"You looking for a ride gorgeous?" a female voice asked over his headsets. The pilot had matched speed and direction exactly. Tatlin seized a line thrown from the Sinjan's small airlock.

"About time you wake up Capt'n Pudgy," a familiar voice declared.

"So the Birds missed you Lou?" he asked in reply. "I tried to make sure they captured you too. Once they examined you they would have concluded that men must be crazy and given up."

"He's the last," the female voice supplied. "Hurry up! He has an appointment with the commodore."

"What is that about?" he asked sharply.

"Probably wants to give you a medal Georgi," Baxter said. "Something about delaying the Birds and saving earth; I don't know."

Tatlin sighed. Having a building or street named after him didn't seem so bad now.


	35. Chapter 35

Tortola Island, the Caribbean Sea, earth, Mar 2158

Tortola Island, the Caribbean Sea, earth, Mar 2158

Jeffrey Sutton kicked at the sand along the white beach. The weather here in the Caribbean reminded him of his days at Florida State University. That seemed so long ago although it had been about four years since his graduation. He reflected on a time when he had rose through the ranks of the Stellar Navy, saw it morph into a new entity called Star Fleet and fallen in love with an alien only to lose her. Now he was a scarred war veteran with a set of artificial lungs. He was also on the run from the authorities because of his assistance of the radical Kendra Stiles.

Sutton had to chuckle at the terms that the Sons' of Terra propaganda department chose. His attorney father would have labeled them simple minded hyperbole. Kendra Stiles had a sharp wit; he had discovered that early on. But Sutton simply could not assign the term, radical, to the kindly woman who had helped him work through his grief over Talas.

He took a deep breath of the warm salty air. His lungs and flesh were becoming attuned to each other. He no longer gasped like an old man. He would have like to head into the town and peruse the tourists' traps but he was a wanted man. This was the limit of his daily travel: A short walk down the beach property that was owned by a rather odd and Jeff thought slightly shady character.

Jeff walked from the beach to the edge of a large open hut. He chuckled at the sight of the Mark VI jump jet nestled under the fiberboard roof. The only other place that Sutton had ever seen one of the aircraft was on a tour of an old US Air Force base turned museum. He and Stiles had come here in this venerable old craft. The wild wave top flight was still very vivid in Sutton's mind as well as their somewhat eccentric rescuer.

Arnie Griffin charged out of the chill morning surf with the same exuberance that Sutton's eight year old nephew showed when he played in the water. The man gathered up a towel and ran it through his curly mop of brown hair. Jeff walked over to join him. He would have enjoyed a swim but the docs had said no to that. The fusion between flesh and blood was not prepared for that experience.

"You'll be back into it before you know it," Griffin told him. The man was wrapped in a towel. He nodded to Sutton. "Headed back up?" he asked, meaning the main building of Griffin's palm tree enshrined and vine covered estate.

"Might as well," Sutton answered.

"Prosthetics are frustrating," Griffin said as if reading Sutton's mind. The man rapped sharply on his very human looking legs. "I know."

"I guess I'm feeling sorry for myself," Sutton said.

"It happens," Griffin answered. "You're lucky though: You had someone pull you out of it. After it happened to me I nearly went off the deep end. A good friend pulled me back."

They made their way back to the estate. "Why didn't you ever explore new technology or anything?" he asked nodding at Griffin's legs.

"I get used to things, then I hate to part with them. When something works why throw it away?" Griffin shrugged his towel covered shoulders. "Besides; these make good icebreakers." He thumped his legs again. "Did I ever tell you about the time I stuck a fork in my right leg? I was trying to get a free lunch because this restaurant was probably the worst eatery in Moscow. I told the owner that I had stabbed myself trying to fork a roach."

"That got you a date?" Sutton was incredulous.

"Hell no," Griffin answered. "I was with a girl then and she was naturally sickened and disgusted." Griffin chuckled. "But another girl, cute Russian, sorta chunky but in all the right places; she felt sorry for me and wanted to hear all about my military days and the accident."

Sutton shook his head and laughed. Women were a sore point for him. He thought that he would never want to be with another although Kendra had assured him that he would be whole again. Between the older woman's assurances and Griffin's enthusiasm for life he thought that she was right. His heart still ached. Sutton sniffed at the air as they drew closer to Griffin's home. The smell of bacon caused him to salivate.

The two men found Kendra Stiles setting down a plate full of fluffy yellow eggs and crispy bacon. Griffin's house had a large marble tiled patio leading directly out of the kitchen. Sutton wondered again how a so called junkman came to own a mansion in the tropics. Griffin sat down, dished out some eggs and picked some bacon from the platter and proceeded to eat. Sutton followed suit but did not take the same monster size portion that Griffin had.

He winced in pain as Stiles rapped his knuckles with a wooden spatula. "Ouch! What do you do that for?" he asked in outrage.

"You don't eat enough," she answered.

"That's right," Griffin agreed through a mouthful of egg. "He really is too thin."

Sutton was pleased to see Arnie receive the spoon treatment on his hand. He chuckled.

"And you eat too much!" Kendra exclaimed. "Really; a man your age should know better."

Griffin looked like he was about to argue. "I think you better give it up Arnie," Sutton told him.

Jeff watched as he nursed his hand while reluctantly returning a large portion of his uneaten food to the serving platter. Griffin gave them a sullen look and mumbled something about this being his last rescue. The surliness lasted all of three seconds before the man's characteristic easygoing grin reappeared.

"It's all good," Griffin proclaimed. "Anyway it's been awhile since this place has had a woman's touch, Miss Stiles. Thanks for that." She nodded and smiled.

The three of them talked while they ate. Jeff appreciated the warm breeze blowing in from the sea. But as much as he liked it here he knew that it was time to leave. So did Stiles. He knew that beneath the pleasant motherly attitude that she was seething over Hawkins' allegations and strong arm tactics. He also suspected that she disliked the man. Sutton found this amazing because he thought that anyone who could earn the contempt of Kendra Stiles must be someone who was vile indeed.

"Getting into the United States these days isn't easy," Griffin commented. "President Harris is a virtual prisoner in the White House ever since he filed a protest over the election. Hawkins knows you have to go back there to claim your seat."

"He also hasn't acknowledged the election results," Sutton interjected. "Even if we get to Georgia there is no guarantee that he won't just have you arrested ma'am."

"So you'll take over as president?" Griffin asked Stiles. "Provided we get to America," he added.

"No; it'll go back to Raj Modi after the no confidence vote is taken," Stiles said. "Can we get home Arnie?"

Griffin chewed the remaining piece of bacon on his plate while casting an envious eye toward Jeff's meal. "It ain't gonna be easy," he answered at last. Sutton followed his gaze down the beach toward his private jet. "I was thinking of ways to sneak you fellows in but it hit me: Why not go in under a commercial flag?"

"What do you mean?" he asked Griffin.

"Fishing catamarans and skimmers," Kendra Stiles supplied.

Griffin nodded. "Excursions and such too; we could come in with an identifier for one of those. Those sort of things go on all the time around these islands."

"How do we turn your jump jet into something like that?" Jeff asked.

"I can pull back to a speed and put us into ground effect," Griffin explained. "Remember your history: The Mark VI was made to drop troops off on a distant shore among other things."

"That part I know," Sutton countered. "But surely SOT is looking for us to try to come into the United States. I'm sure they are careful to keep a list of who they issue transponder codes to."

"Well," Griffin smiled as he drew the word out. "I just happen to have a friend in the excursion business." Sutton groaned. "Hey; junkmen get around." Griffin gestured around him. "You're here."

"I know it's risky but things aren't going to change with us sittin' around here drinkin' coffee." Kendra stiles downed her cup after she finished speaking.

"It'll take us a few hours to make the crossing," Griffin declared. "I figured you were getting antsy ma'am; so I checked the weather. That is okay. I have to go into town and talk my friend into an arrangement."

"Can he be trusted?"

"Sure," Griffin answered agreeably. "I introduced him to his second wife." He paused as his face took on a guilty look. "Of course it was while he was still married to his first—but hey; we've always had a tight relationship when it came to business."

Sutton watched Stiles roll her eyes and smile. He had a feeling that she was enjoying all of this in some perverse sort of way. Griffin finished his breakfast and excused himself to go into town to make final arrangements for the trip. Stiles poured another cup of coffee then offered Jeff the same. He held his cup out.

"What happens when we land?" she asked.

"Hawkins is trying to make everything an emergency or security issue," he explained. "I have a few friends too. It should be possible for us to break in on one of the entertainment networks."

She seemed satisfied with that. Jeff was not so sure although he did not convey that. Political opponents were frequently dealt with harshly by fascists. Sutton hadn't examined Hawkins' record at length but the president pro tempore's closed mindedness led Jeff to one conclusion concerning their defacto president's political leanings. Jeff thought that he could let Stiles' district know that she was back to claim her office. Rather they lived to do so was another issue.

UES Daedelus, nearing 40 Eridani, Mar 2157

"You've heard the transmission," Captain Michael "Oliver" Cromwell told his chief medical officer. "What do you think?"

Commander Gertrude Schultheiss folded her arms over her ample breasts as she considered the proposition. She shook her head. "I am glad that I'm not you, Herr Kapitan."

He knew that she tended to defer to his rank in her native German when the issue at hand was a difficult one. Daedelus was still almost a month away from earth but they had entered subspace radio range of allied space. Cromwell cursed the fact that the Romulans had destroyed the repeater network. Yet even without it they were able to receive some signals that had not folded over the long distances. Apparently diplomatic relations had been reestablished with the Vulcans. Cromwell wondered if they had discovered who the Romulans were.

"If this were strictly a military vessel the problem would be simple. I report our findings to the president and the rest of the crew remains silent under orders. I can speak for the Stellar Navy crew but not for our civilians."

"They all signed oaths to keep their observations under wraps, Olly," Schultheiss retorted.

"Which means what exactly, Trudy? I even agree with our esteemed Professor Bashir about secrecy."

Schultheiss was seated across from him at the briefing table. The triscreen viewer sat between them. Trudy was freer thinking than was Cromwell, but she understood his need to maintain professional decorum. Little good it did, he groused: He was sure that everyone on Daedelus was privy to their romance. He looked at her from across the table. Would he have went out in space had he met a woman like her when he was younger? Would he have met a woman like her any other place than here though?

"The government will decide in any case Olly," she said at last.

"That's where I agree with Bashir: He's right when he says that secrecy is the beginning of tyranny."

"He's a bit melodramatic," she answered. "He read that in a book and likes to go around quoting it." She sighed. "I suppose this briefing is of the persuasive type?"

He nodded. "Any common ground the president has found with the Pointies would evaporate the moment that humans and our alien allies find out that we have been at war with the Vulcans' long lost brothers."

"Perhaps," Schultheiss answered. The doors to the briefing slid open admitting Omar Bashir, Mariel Picard, Lieutenant Commander Taln and Lieutenant Marcel Dieulafoy. "You will have to work on convincing them Olly."

"You know my position captain," Bashir declared, not waiting for a formal commencement to the proceedings.

"I've called you all here because I've decided to alter course for Vulcan." He saw the surgeon's look. He had not informed her of his decision until this very moment.

"That is convenient," Bashir said in a surly tone. "Of course there won't be any terran news agencies there."

"Nor can I inform Andorian authorities of what we discovered," Taln interjected.

"President Thorpe is on Vulcan now professor," Cromwell said while looking hard at Bashir. "You may voice your concern directly to him when we arrive." He turned to his blue-skinned engineer. "You may be pleased to learn that there was some sort of border dispute between your people and the Vulcans while we've been away. It seems to have not only been resolved but Shahar Shran has asked permission to enter Vulcan space at the head of something called "The Great Blue Fleet."

Taln was clearly astonished. Cromwell thought that he had not seen the Andorian's antennae any straighter than now. "The Great Blue Fleet has not been assembled since the early time of our space exploration. It is symbolic of our unity. It also means that the Shahar has put everything behind this diplomatic effort. I cannot imagine what happened that would change Shran's opinion of the Vulcans."

"Obviously many things have changed," Cromwell supplied. He invited them all to take seats as he continued: "If we have reached an agreement with the Vulcans our information may be potentially damning."

"You do not believe in the maturity of people captain," Bashir angrily interjected.

"I believe that Captain Cromwell thinks highly of people, professor," Marcel Dieulafoy said. "But our history shows many times that mobs and emotionalism rule rather than individual reason."

"Exactly," Cromwell said. "Look Professor Bashir; we aren't some second rate military. We've stood behind freedom and the rule of law ever since the end of the Third World War. I agree with you: This information should be disseminated—at some point."

"Just not now," Bashir finished Cromwell's statement. The psychiatrist shook his head mournfully. "When will the people be grown up enough then? Who determines when that is so?"

"Will you take responsibility for the death and destruction that will occur should we go to war with the Vulcans as well as the Romulans?" Cromwell was surprised to hear Mariel Picard voice that strong an opinion. She looked older than her years as she looked around the table. "That is what we are saying here." She turned to Taln. "You were anxious to inform Shran, why? Because of the bloody history between your people and the Vulcans?" she asked. She continued before Taln could reply: "Make sure the Pointies—or how you say; soulless ones receive their comeuppance?"

"The Vulcans weren't even aware of this Reunification professor, Taln," Schultheiss interjected. "Professor, you yourself told me that you had discovered that part of the Romulan plans for Reunification involved limited military action on the surface of Vulcan and something that sounded mysteriously like concentration camps for those who didn't accept this Reunification. Are you going to make innocent Vulcans pay for something they had no hand in?"

"I wish I had a bloody cigar!" the professor exclaimed. "I am not making anybody do anything—,"

"Excuse me sir," Cromwell interrupted. "Words and deeds have consequences. I told you that I agree with you but the ancient adage of shouting fire in a crowded theatre applies, I think."

Bashir groaned and rocked back in his seat. A blue hand extended a metallic tube to the professor. Cromwell watched a flash of joy cross Bashir's face. "I will abide by the will of the Shahar this matter," the Andorian proclaimed.

"Where did you get it?" Bashir asked.

"You enticed me into smoking these fouls things," Taln replied. "When I realized that we would exhaust our supply, I vacuum sealed some of these and stored them near the outer skin of the ship."

"May I?" the professor asked as he waved the cigar around. Cromwell swore that a gleam of tears was in the man's eyes. The all nodded their assent.

"Just give President Thorpe's federation some time professor, please," Cromwell asked.

Cromwell watched as Bashir cut an end off the cigar, put it in his mouth and lit the other end. He sighed in joy as he took in a puff of the gray smoke. "I shall voice my concerns to the president sir." Bashir looked at Taln. "If he requires silence of me, then I too shall abide by the decision of my leader in this matter."

"That is good to hear," Cromwell said.

"Coffee?" the doctor asked as she went to the resequencer slot and inserted a data wafer in the terminal slot.

"The last time I tried the coffee I nearly vomited," Picard declared.

Cromwell had to agree: The protein resequencer was a new innovation but not a good one. He hoped the engineers would work out the bugs in the future versions of the device. It seemed to be having a particularly hard time resequencing the Ro'ha plant proteins. Coffee tasted like he imagined his aunt's weed killer would. He was surprised when Trudy produced a tray holding several cups of aromatic smelling brew.

"That smells like French Roast," Picard said as she cautiously took a cup and sniffed it.

Cromwell thought that it tasted like heaven. "Did you reprogram them Trudy?"

"No Lieutenant Quinn discovered this," she replied. "It is his mother's pea soup."

"What?" he asked as he eyed the beverage warily.

"Pea soup, captain," she replied. "The ugh…peas have been filtered out of course, leaving something that makes for passable coffee."

"Here's to pea soup," he declared extending the cup. The others raised their cups. "And to the federation," he added, eliciting a scowl from Bashir. They all toasted and drank.

He spent the rest of the briefing informing them of Daedelus' expected arrival time. They left leaving only him and Schultheiss. The two sipped at their coffee. He looked at her, realizing that she had an unpleasant question or bit of information for him. Cromwell soon discovered that he was right.

"What happens if the president takes our information and…," she trailed off.

A war with the Romulans and Vulcans both he thought. "We shall be at war for a very long time my dear." Michael reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "We must hope for the best."

The Klingon Imperial World of V'hAch'c, the earth year, Mar 2157

The Klingon physicians had told Augustus Kirk that Chang's left eye was gone. The liquid nitrogen had forever burned away his proud mane of hair. Rand had insisted that he could save the Klingon's eye but their physicians had dismissed the human doctor's attempts as what they termed puffery. Kirk stood beside Chang's; it was a metal rack as opposed to a bed. He watched with relief as Chang stirred. The Klingon opened his good eye.

"Good to see you awake Chang," Kirk said loudly. He spoke rapidly preventing Chang from speaking. "You fought valiantly against that assault team. The chancellor has been made aware of your bravery."

Kirk took a deep breath and waited. He hoped that Chang would not commit suicide. This was the Klingon's opportunity. If he wanted to live he had only to seize it. He watched as Chang took stock of his wounds. The Klingon remained silent.

"Why?" he asked Kirk at last.

Augustus looked around the room. "We are your natural allies Chang; not the alternative."

A long uncomfortable silence passed. "I would have killed you Kirk. I would do so again."

Kirk sighed. "I'd still save you Chang." He wished for no more harsh words between the two of them. "Good luck Chang." Kirk turned away quickly.

"_The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings,_" Chang recited. "Good luck to you Augustus Kirk."

Kirk exited the room and headed down the hallway. Adrik Soong fell into step beside him. "Look Kirk--,"

"Now is not the time Soong!" he spat.

Soong seized him by the arm. "That Klingon in there is not going to fix things with your son Kirk!" Kirk stopped and started to shake him off. He was about to say something when Soong rushed into speech. "I told you I have children Kirk. Probably younger than yours but they are grown. I know you think I'm a horse's ass but I have had the wherewithal to talk to my kids. You won't be accomplishing anything even if Chang would come around."

"I was in that lab Kirk. I saw what happened." He watched as Soong looked up and down the dark passage. "Chang is bad news. I have a funny feeling that we haven't seen the last of him. But even if you swung him over to your point of view what did you expect Kirk? Did you think that he would morph into your son and suddenly everything would be okay?"

Augustus gave it some thought. What had he expected? The differences between him and Sam had festered for quite a few years. Kirk knew at the core of it that they were both stiff necked fools. Augustus was an old fool while Sam was a younger version of one.

"You're right Kirk," Soong continued. "I'm a horse's ass and an arrogant fool in my own right. But don't you become one as well. Forget trying to win Chang over and think about talking to your son when we get back. He's a man with his own life. Maybe that is how you should approach him."

"Aw hell," Soong said in disgust. "I'm sorry I wasted your time Kirk. What I came here--,"

"Augustus," he interrupted. "You can call me Augustus."

"Not Augy?" Soong asked.

"Don't push your luck," Kirk retorted with a grin on his lips. Perhaps Soong was right. He would contact Sam when they got back to earth.

"Anyway," Soong paused, "Augustus; Morgan sent me to get you. Darth Vader wants to see us in his chambers."

That was the name that Soong had assigned to the Klingon chancellor. Kirk wondered what Ma'aQ wanted. He had set himself up at Kaluch's estate while his warriors were being inoculated. Kirk walked with Soong up the curving passage and out into the bright sunshine. The main estate was a large stone fortification that lay a few hundred meters from what passed for a Klingon hospital. The two humans walked in silence.

A few minutes later Ma'aQ's guards, after the customary snarling, admitted Kirk and Soong to the main complex. Kirk found Morgan with Soval and two red shirted security people in the main hall. She stood before Ma'aQ who sat upon a raised dais while Kaluch, gnarled and old sat on the chancellor's left.

"We have cured the retrovirus and given you our sensor technology," Soval said in unaccented Klingon. Kirk could tell that the Vulcan was acting as translator.

"You took sides in an internal Klingon dispute!" Ma'aQ roared back.

"You presented a scenario that led to a choice between you and the Romulans," Kaluch interjected. "We must remain Klingons. We choose neither. Both of your empires will be reduced after this war. We will use that time to prevail."

Kirk translated for Morgan. It was at the instant more than any other that he realized that Morgan was more the soldier than diplomat. She planted her feet apart and put her hands on her hips in a gesture of defiance. Morgan looked at Kirk at asked him to translate word for word what she was going to say.

"We offer our friendship and it's rebuked. Man, Andorians and Tellarites have never attacked anyone out of malice. That's fine if you want to go off on your own. We've traded some technology and cured your virus. We want our people back—no more games."

"You are in no position to demand anything Captain Morgan," Ma'aQ replied. "An examination of your ship would be very revealing."

"I have a certain time when I have to call Serendipity," Morgan said after Kirk rendered the chancellor's words into English. "If I don't then my first officer will deploy a twenty-five megaton nuclear warhead right on your wrinkled up head, chancellor."

"You…would do no such thing," Ma'aQ said as he rose ominously.

"As a countryman from my nation on earth once said: Make my day," she replied sternly.

Kirk translated and gulped then surveyed the hall. A mix of the humanoid Klingons and those unaffected by the retrovirus surrounded and far outnumbered Serendipity's shore party. There would be no way they could fight there way out of here. It seemed pointless in any case: Kirk suspected that Lasuda was even now loading a missile in the tube.

Ma'aQ roared with laughter. "You have Klingon blood in you captain," he said after his laughter died away; "very formidable indeed."

"See what I mean about Darth Vader," Soong whispered after he translated the chancellor's words. "Next he'll probably ask her to come over to the dark side."

Both Kirk and Soong jumped as the chancellor clapped his hands. The sound echoed in the large chamber. Large double doors parted. Several Klingons entered with some children in tow. No, Kirk thought; those were not children. His stomach rolled uncomfortably.

Augustus had seen video depicting the relief of the camps in Oklahoma. The survivors had looked like these people: Walking emaciated sticks; their powder blue Stellar Navy jumpsuits hung in tatters on their unnaturally slender frames. One man led the group of six men and two women. His full head of gray hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail. Morgan greeted the man.

"Captain Marissa Morgan of the Star Fleet ship Serendipity," she announced. The man stared back her. Kirk could se that he could not comprehend her words.

A thought occurred to Augustus. "We are here to take you back to earth," he told the man, using Klingon rather than English.

"Earth?" another of the survivors asked.

Kirk extended his hand and introduced himself. The man looked hard at him. "Kirk, you are from Iowa?" he asked in rough, halting English. There was a hint of an English accent. Kirk nodded. "My father is a farmer." He looked at Augustus, Kirk could see the uncertainty. Finally the man extended his thin arm. "Wiley Dunleavy, Commander Wiley Dunleavy," he told Kirk in a weak voice.

"You have your people Captain Morgan," Ma'aQ declared. "Now be gone from our space. Your people are no longer welcome here. The empire will be closing its borders; leave now. Beware our wrath and our reach captain."

"We'll be out there chancellor," Morgan answered.

Kirk filtered out with the survivors and the rest of their group. They proceeded out of the hall to the landing pad outside. Soval caught up to him.

"Your captain nearly started a war with the Klingons here. That would not be logical given the precariousness of your situation. You humans are indeed reckless."

"Oh, I don't know Smiley," Kirk answered. "I think our captain read their personalities and played them like cheap violins."

Kirk thought that Soval would misunderstand. "Yes," he said much to Augustus' surprise. "Yes she did."

The sunlit exit shown before Morgan's party, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows. They stopped as the warrior Kurn stood before them. The Klingon looked at Kirk. "Tell Morgan that she is a great warrior. I hope to meet her in battle again."

Augustus translated the statement. Morgan seemed lost in thought for a moment. "I would rather it didn't come to war between our peoples," she replied at last.

"War and conquest is a way of life for us. The struggle is everything. Without it we are nothing. But I did not mean as adversaries. Perhaps next time we shall stand together."

"Tell him I look forward to that day," Morgan instructed him. Kirk did as she bade. The Klingon extended his hand to her. Kurn must have done his research into human customs. Morgan returned the handshake. The Klingon bid them all a glorious death, something Kirk was not really interested in but he understood that was the warrior equivalent to have a nice day.

They boarded the Sinjan class shuttle and waited while their emaciated charges took their seats. It stung Kirk to see the man and women struggling with the simple harnesses. He started to help a woman when Morgan put her hand on his chest and shook her head. It was then that Kirk understood that these people needed to start down the road to recovery. Helping them, even out of pity, would not help them. The shuttle's outer airlock closed on the Klingon world.

ShirKahr City, the planet Vulcan, the earth year Mar 2157

Christophur Thorpe stood upon the balcony and surveyed the ancient city. The sun was sinking below the blood red horizon. The heat rose up to this, the thirtieth floor. Thorpe much preferred the cool, blue ice fields of Andoria to this desert inferno. Still it held its own kind of fascination. Thorpe tried to envision the city and plain below him teaming with jungle growth; as it was thousands of years ago.

"Syrran will arrive soon," the young Vulcan woman proclaimed from behind him. Her English was unaccented.

Thorpe turned to face T'Pau. "I wanted to meet the person who had brought about so much change to your society, prefect." He also wanted to know about the last minutes of Lieutenant Commander Tarang Gupta. He had briefly reviewed the officer's service jacket after Soval had requested him; that was almost two years ago; another young person whose life was swept away by this war.

"Change was logical," T'Pau replied. "It would have occurred rather Syrran was there or not."

"Perhaps," Thorpe answered. "A man on my world named Archimedes once said that given a long enough lever he could move the earth. One man can be the catalyst for change."

"Or one Vulcan," T'Pau agreed. "Yet Syrran refused the prefecture. He has eschewed political power."

"He has accomplished his goal it seems," Thorpe said. He was curious about something. "Tell me T'Pau; why did you accept this position?"

"The ministry was dissolved when it no longer functioned," she explained. "It is not logical to maintain a government that no longer serves it purpose. The system of allowing the elected representatives to appoint a prefect is an ancient one. It was one of our first attempts at organized government after our internal dispute."

"That doesn't explain why you accepted the appointment."

"Syrran did not and I was seen as someone who was palatable to the old ministry and our people."

"Including the High Command?"

For once Thorpe saw a chink in the Vulcan armor of logic. T'Pau paused in thought. "Our military must be relegated to its most basic functions. I know that while many in the High Command were in disagreement with Minister V'Las actions they have still reasoned that the military must be maintained as it is. There will be problems in relation to that belief."

"I must admit that my family lineage carries some distinction. It may be useful when it comes to dealing with the military."

"I see nothing wrong with a strong military, prefect," Thorpe said. "But I understand that as avowed pacifists you may have reservations about your military." He had almost said strong feelings but had remembered to whom he was speaking.

"Your federation, if it is as you envision, will offer us protection. We shall return to our role as teachers and scholars. We shall guide you in first contact so that this union of interstellar societies can be realized."

"But you won't join the federation?" he asked in a bitter voice. He shoved his feelings aside and continued: "From what you've told me the High Command may not agree with you."

"You see with a keen eye President Thorpe. But I believe that we each have a problem with a common solution--"

A heavy male voice spoke words of greeting in Vulcan. That was about all Thorpe knew of their language. He turned to see a tall Vulcan in a nondescript travel cloak. Thorpe guessed from the Vulcan's long mane of salt and pepper hair that he was over two hundred in human years. He eyed Thorpe as if taking his measure. Thorpe returned the gaze.

"Tell Syrran that I am pleased to meet him," Thorpe said in an amicable tone.

There was an exchange in their native tongue. "Syrran is curious why you are pleased since you have never met him or know anything about him."

"Let's be candid here," Thorpe said. "But first; do you mind if we go inside? I could use a drink." T'Pau merely turned and entered the former ministry chamber, Thorpe followed with Syrran in tow. "Without Syrran's influence quite likely the situation now would be different. I won't pretend that I'm not relieved to have a neutral Vulcan in this war. I would have much preferred a Vulcan ally, but neutrality is acceptable."

"Our philosophy of peace is antithetical to becoming directly involved in a war," T'Pau said. Thorpe poured some cool water out of a plain metal pitcher into a glass. He was appreciative of the fact that his alien host had thought to chill his drinking water. He was also aware that she had just expressed her sentiments and not those of Syrran.

"I appreciate your pacifism. That is a noble pursuit; would that all others pursued affairs in the same manner. The Romulans do not. The agents that Minister Soval requested that I place here report that the Romulans were in the process of conducting some sort of insurgency here."

Was that the lynchpin? Admiral Forrest was still some days away. Commodores Zimmermann and Stiles were both capable officers. Both harbored the theory that the Romulans had planned to neutralize the Vulcans, possibly in an attempt to seize their advanced technology. Thorpe supposed that could be true: His own security people had reported Romulan infiltration on earth. How could anyone counter what they did not know?

First hand accounts from Commander Bill Walters had indicated that the Romulans were bipeds. Walters had reported seeing armored figures deployed on the surface of Deneva. But the experts had told Thorpe that account was meaningless: They had suggested among other things that the Romulans might be operating a type of battle android. Thorpe had heard equally exotic ideas concerning their enemy, but one idea resonated: The Romulans were concealing their nature because they had a weakness. Thorpe wished that he knew what that was.

"You're officers seemed to have dealt with that problem Mister President; if it even existed." Thorpe wanted to burn through her Vulcan veneer to see what lay beneath. There was the report of Lieutenant Frank McCoy. Christophur knew damn well that the enemy had been here.

"We have had enough," T'Pau paused; "difficulties as it is Mister President. But they are of our own making and nothing else."

"So a Vulcan assassinated First Minister V'Las?" He asked. Skepticism dripped from Thorpe's voice.

"The death of the first minister is a matter under investigation. There is no reason to assign blame to these Romulans in an attempt--,"

She was interrupted by Syrran who, though he was speaking in the typical calm melodious voice that most Vulcans used, seemed quite adamant about what he wanted to say. T'Pau replied in a serene calm tone. Thorpe expected nothing less. He asked her what Syrran was saying.

"Syrran was…expressing…a theory concerning the Romulans." There it was: A pause from a member of a race that seldom made mistakes. "It is nothing President Thorpe." That was a lie. It was all Thorpe could do to keep his face from showing his shock. One thing he knew: A Vulcan would not speak just to say nothing.

"I believe that we should continue tomorrow," T'Pau said. Syrran was continuing to speak. Thorpe wished he had tried to learn Vulcan.

The chamber door opened admitting a Star Fleet petty officer in the company of a High Command officer. The chief snapped to attention and gravely saluted Thorpe. Thorpe returned the salute.

"Mister President," the enlisted man came right to the point. "Captain Archer wanted me to tell you that Charger received a message: The reflection of Mount Fay."

Thorpe blinked. It was obvious that the chief did not understand the message that he had delivered. It had taken Thorpe several seconds to comprehend it. He had effectively written off as dead those who would have sent that particular phrase. He realized that Syrran was still speaking and the enlisted man was uncomfortable.

He turned to the Vulcans. "I believe that an adjournment is in order." Syrran seemed to be growing positively, well, Thorpe thought emotional.

Thorpe hastily exchanged farewells with the Vulcans. Syrran gestured at himself and said: "Vulcan, Romulan." Thorpe wondered if the Vulcan was healthy. He was not aware of any mental disorder connected to older Vulcans.

Thorpe watched as T'Pau entered a downright heated argument with Syrran; at least for Vulcans. Thorpe departed with the chief. Daedelus was back. He hoped that Cromwell would have some answers for him.

Washington DC, the old United States, Mar 2157

Admiral Erica Soames picked her way carefully along the icy sidewalk. The eastern coast of the United States was experiencing a particularly cold and snowy winter. She was glad when she got through the doors of the venerable National Air and Space Museum. She looked up to see the Phoenix hanging suspended over the main floor. She could not bring herself to become jaded when she thought of how a crew of three had ridden atop a missile and then faster than the speed of light.

"Amazing isn't it?" the familiar voice asked her. Why did Malcolm Reed have to be one of her countrymen? She scowled at him and nodded. Reed smiled. "Also quite phallic if you think about it my--,"

"Don't call me my dear," she hissed. A harried couple walking past with their children looked at her and Reed. She continued in a more sedate tone: "What you did was stupid! You better be bloody thankful that our leader in San Francisco isn't that bright."

"Stiles' election went through," Reed countered.

"And now she is dead!" Soames exclaimed. She strolled nonchalantly toward the scaled down model of the United States' National Aerospace Plane. Scylla had been nothing more than the final modification of this type of ship.

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Her aircraft was shot down trying to penetrate US territory." Erica sighed. It hadn't been on the vidcasts that long so his lack of knowledge was understandable.

"That makes it imperative that we remove Hawkins then," he said.

"Your," she almost said the word assassination then realized where she was. Some children ran past her. They seemed more interested in the prepackaged Stellar Navy rations, sold as treats that their parents had bought them. "Your venture has done more harm than good."

"No problem is insurmountable my dear," he said. She scowled and he smiled. "We must come up with a new idea."

"No!" She led him away from the NASP to the old European Hegemony's Space Agency's answer to the American's last orbiter. "We have to stop this madness."

They were alone under the stubby wing of the EHSA's Hypersonic Scramjet. Soames smiled at the Royal Air Force regalia emblazoned on the wing's underside. Would that mean anything to people living a hundred years from now?

"There is still a Romulan agent here," Reed countered. "We need to kill it."

"It?" she asked.

"Talk to your little pregnant friend, Erica," Reed answered. "This was not your normal Romulan." Reed was leaning against a handrail looking into the crowd below them.

"Are you saying you have some kind of mental ability?" she asked. He continued staring down into the crowd. "Can you hear me?" she asked after several long seconds had passed.

"He's here," he said. She followed his gaze but all she saw was the crowd. He described an older man, tall and balding wearing a trench coat. "He has been following me for quite sometime. I thought I lost him in the shuffle after I got off the Metro." She thought that she saw the man Reed was referring to. "Persistent bugger, I'll say that for him."

"Arnie told me about him." She peered down at the UA agent. Reed started melting back into the shadows. Erica followed him.

"His name is Watson," Reed informed her.

"Did some computer snooping?" she asked.

He nodded. Soames decided that it was time to leave. She had toured here after she had taken the assignment to intelligence. She figured that they could work their way around and come out behind the agent. Soames drifted away from Reed while remaining in earshot of him.

"The trouble is that there is no active investigation file," he remarked. An older couple stared at Reed, thinking that he was talking to himself. Erica had paused to examine a cutaway of a warp drive engine. The couple walked away. "That means that whoever ordered the investigation is doing so without official sanction."

Soames wasn't operating with official sanction or legal authority behind her. How far was this thing going? It seemed to be spinning out of control. They had dealt the Birds a severe blow here on earth but had not finished them off. Erica had had reservations about interfering with the political process. Reed's botched assassination attempt and the subsequent crackdown seemed to have vindicated her position. Stiles, their only real hope was dead.

The election would have finished Hawkins. That was until Reed had tried to kill the president pro tempore. The heavy handed use of security forces, often hired Sons' of Terra thugs, had seemed justified to a populace that could only view assassinations through the lens of history. Acts like those simply didn't happen in the twenty-second century.

"So we have one renegade hunting another?" she mumbled at last.

The couple had worked through several displays until they arrived at some lifts. They took separate tubes to the ground level. They had observed Watson on the second level. Soames rode the short trip down with a rowdy family. The children, a precocious boy and girl collided with her several times. She merely smiled. She was glad when the doors parted. She met Reed beneath the upper level deck. She guessed that they had precious few minutes.

"I can't go to the capital," Reed said in a soft voice. "My feeling is that she—it, is trying to decapitate our leadership. I've been considering what would happen if the Pan-Indo Alliance compound were to be hit."

"The Western Democracy bloc would do the same thing," she said. "Why did you pick out the Pan-Indies?"

"The parliaments of their member states can appoint councilors should anything happen to one. Both Kashmir and New Zealand have in their majority parties people who are nothing but fronts for SOT."

"The Western Dems aren't riddled with Sons' supporters." Soames realized where Reed was going: Killing those councilors would tip the council in favor of the Sons' and their agenda.

"We can't allow that," Soames said flatly.

"You and Nayyar did well removing the cell that we know about." Reed scanned the building as they talked. "My guess is that this Reman is…call her a special weapon. I don't expect she'll do anything on her own. But she could use her ability to force someone who is weak minded to act for her."

"Weak minded?" she retorted. "That would make the list of possible assassins every member of the Sons'." A thought occurred to Erica: "How do you know what this Reman can do Reed?"

"Dear Kanya has said as much," he replied quickly. "The point is that Nayyar needs to pack her cute bum up and go out to the capital. I can't do anything with my shadow."

"Don't kill him Reed!" she spat out. Soames looked around to see if anyone had heard her outburst.

His trademark, shark-like grin was pasted on his lips. "I would rather find out who is at the end of our dear Agent Watson's leash. If we are to continue this endeavor we need autonomy."

She realized that he wasn't speaking of the immediate future when he had spoken of continuation. "I told you Reed: Once this is all over, this stops."

"The Romulans were well on their way to conducting mass attacks on this planet my dear. Last year such an attack would likely have rekindled the old hatreds left over from the last war. Those fools Sheibani and Glenn would have liked nothing better than setting upon one another as a means to consolidate their power. Think of yourself as a good shepherd, Erica. This federation will consist of a variety of races and cultures. It's absurd to believe that it'll last a decade without some guidance."

She wanted to argue the issue but Reed nodded at the lift, told her to send Nayyar to San Francisco then turned and left. The doors parted to reveal Agent Watson. Soames casually turned to admire the old Bell X1 hanging above her. The agent hurried past her. Erica sensed that he had no interest in her.

Was Reed right? Soames hated herself for even considering the possibility. How many security organizations had started with good intentions only to turn into the enforcement arm of a tyrannical government? Man had done well since the last war. Erica knew that the same could be said for the Tellarites. They too had fought a brief atomic war among themselves. Were the same old pitfalls gone after the carnage of the last century; could earth and the federation make it without Reed's sort of guidance? Erica decided not to think about it right now. She would work on the immediate problem. She pulled out her handheld and called Nayyar.

Joshua Grant hastily broke the circuit of his comm call. He repeatedly slammed his fists down upon the desktop. He took up a desk lamp and threw it against the wall where it broke into several pieces. Grant got up and kicked at his chair. The wheeled office chair hit the back wall of his small presidium office and rebounded to strike him in the shins. He was panting and his heart was beating thunderously as he started to gain some control over himself.

Thomas Grant always had always had that effect on his son Josh. When Josh had shied away from technology courses at college his father had been there to tell him that he had only pursued the arts because of his inadequacies in dealing with math and sciences. When Grant's acting career had blossomed Thomas Grant had used the opportunity to remind him that he was not only a second rate performer, but a second rate fool as well. That had not sat well as his rising star was rapidly flaming out.

Their latest argument had come from his association with the Sons' of Terra. Grant had been attracted to the movement by the larger than life firebrands that headed up the Sons'. He came to understand man's heinous role in this war. It had become obvious that the Vulcans were right about one thing: Humans weren't ready for the stars. The Sons' had explained how average men and women needed to be cared for by the more compassionate, knowledgeable among them. That suited Grant who had always favored playing morally superior, warm hearted people. He saw himself that way although he often asked himself what he had accomplished during his twenty eight years.

The knock at the door stirred him from his torturous revelries. Joshua took a deep breath and pushed the button beneath his desk causing his office doors to slide open. He was surprised and then excited to see Dominique Catères. Grant was a man used to having women at his whim. That made Mark Hawkins' confidant all the more enticing to Josh: Her interests seemed to concentrate around the rather toad like Hawkins.

"Can I help you?" he asked. He placed his best leading man grin on his face. She did not smile back. Instead she stared at him. Grant got a terribly uncomfortable feeling; like a bug beneath a magnifying glass.

Her scrutiny was replaced with a smile. He relaxed. "I hope that you can." Rather than taking a seat she sauntered over to set herself upon his desk. "Things are, how do you say it; at a turning point."

"Stiles is dead; that is one good thing." As much as he hated saying the words he understood that these extremists sometimes had to be dealt with harshly.

"The navy is still acting against the president's orders."

"That is too bad about the Romulan peace envoy!" Grant just knew that the Romulan ships that the Star Fleet had ambushed were here because they understood Hawkins' peace overtures. Who could have foreseen this Oulette playing a shell game with those ships; or that filthy enlisted man holding the Romulans while Oulette moved in to kill the last of the heroic aliens off?

"Mark is moving to have several of those people arrested." Dominique motioned for him to move closer. "Our position in the council is perilous. We need to do something about that." He stood close to her. Grant could smell her perfume.

"I'm not sure what that would be," Grant answered. He was as frustrated as she must be.

"I have a task in mind for you." Dominique told him what that was. "What do you think?"

He thought that she was insane. Grant sputtered on about the wisdom of the plan while reeling inside. He enjoyed playing heroic characters, not being one. Josh had once played Alfred Lindermann, the German farmer that had perfected the decontamination process during the Post Atomic Horrors. Grant had conferred with several actual farmers to school himself for the part. While Lindermann's pursuit had been a noble one he found dealing with actual farmers distasteful: One of them had had dirt under her nails and that had bothered him.

"I…can't get explosives…I'm--,"

She touched the side of his head gently. "I shall tell you where you may obtain the items ready made." She stroked his face. "Brave Joshua," she added and he did feel that. He would be a real hero. Grant thought that he need never feel guilty again about the fortune that acting had brought him. "You will be vindicated before your father."

He saw the ceremony; what it would be like. His action would be applauded. Grant would be remembered as a hero; not like the false heroes of this day. His father would rue the criticism that he had heaped upon him throughout his life. Her plan was not insane. In fact it was quite rational. Grant smiled at her. There was another knock. As if in a dream he moved back behind his desk and admitted President Pro Tempore Mark Hawkins.

"Am I interruptin' anything?" Hawkins asked. His eyes went from one to the other.

Catères remained silent. "Dominique has been telling me about the Pan-Indian situation."

"Oh, that," Hawkins replied disgustedly. "It's too damn bad that Carmody or Howard would not just up and die! Let's see how them uniformed bastards feel when I order their purse strings cut and the council backs me!" Grant watched as Mark seemed to regain his composure. He wanted to tell him of his great mission but dare not.

"Well, I'd rather meet with those warmongers anytime over these goddamned pig snouts!" Grant remembered that Mark was scheduled to meet the Tellarite ambassador and Grern's entourage. "I'll be glad to see the day when we can kick their ugly, furry asses off of this planet."

"Soon Mark," Catères said soothingly. She vacated Grant's desk to take Hawkins' arm.

"You comin' Josh?" the president pro tempore asked.

"Joshua is going to take care of an errand for me Mark," Catères jumped in before Grant could say anything. Josh smiled and nodded. He noticed Hawkins looking strangely at him. Grant was in a state of bliss. Dominique took the president's face in her hands.

"Well," Hawkins said slowly. "You take care, Josh." He smiled. "You ain't missing nothing but a bunch of dirty aliens anyway. I'd rather be goin' with you."

No; Josh thought, it was best that Hawkins did not go with him. He bid ado to Hawkins and hastily took up a jacket. He remembered Dominique's instructions as if they were imprinted on his mind.

Star Fleet cruiser Charger, in orbit of Vulcan, Mar 2158

"Remarkable progress," Shahar Shran said as he exited Charger's engineering spaces. The Shahar turned to Captain Jonathan Archer. "I know that you are looking forward to leading the United Earth Space Probe Agency, captain. I can think of no one better."

"The captain would like nothing better than to command a ship after this war Shran." Christophur Thorpe watched as Archer started a polite protest. He held up a hand. "I hope you'll get your chance captain. But the goal, after the war, is to combine the Stellar Navy, Imperial Guard and Tellar Defense Force into one entity. The agency will integrate our navy into Star Fleet."

"As the Imperial Discovery Bureau will do for the Imperial Guard," Thorpe shot a smile toward Shran. The leaders of each of the federation's prospective members were using this architecture to create the impression of each planet having autonomy over its forces. In actuality the Star Fleet would direct operations.

"Bridge, captain," a voice boomed out of the passageway speakers. Archer found an intercom box and answered the call.

"That company you told us about is on final approach sir," Commander William Walters informed him.

Archer shot Christophur a knowing look. "Tell them to dock with us commander."

"Daedelus is back," Thorpe announced. "Now we'll see if our secrecy and hopes have paid off."

"Even if Michael wasn't successful in discovering anything about the Birdies the Daedelus class will be the primary explorer ship for Star Fleet." Archer had finished preparations for the docking. Thorpe was rather surprised at his astute observation. He asked the captain why he thought that:

"I'm an engineer and military officer, but that doesn't mean that I can't read a balance sheet." Archer looked up and down the passageway of the two hundred and twenty-seven meter long Conqueror class ship. "Not even the three planetary nations of the alliance can afford to keep ships like this in space."

"Not for long anyway," Shran remarked. "The Caldonè is already chaffing at having to divert so much tax money to the war. But the interesting situation is the Vulcans. What have they told you Christophur?"

"They are willing to cooperate, but only so far," Thorpe started. He was still trying to take stock of the unemotional Vulcans.

"But they won't join the federation?" Shran asked.

"This T'Pau tells me that it would not be prudent for them to become part of a new empire."

"An empire?" the Andorian asked. He gave Thorpe a most human grin. "You would make an unlikely emperor Christophur."

"Oh, I don't know." Thorpe smiled. "I imagine I'd look regal in the purple robe that you are wearing Shahar Shran." He turned to Archer. "The captain here could be given shoulder boards and braid."

"Sounds snazzy, sir; I'd command with an iron fist of course!" Archer joked. He led them to one of Charger's docking ports. An ensign stood near an airlock. Thorpe took awhile to remember the piece of brass that the junior officer had in his hands. He remembered when the ensign brought the boatswain's whistle up to his lips.

Captain Michael Cromwell beheld the image of Stellar Navy ships in formation with Andorian and Vulcan ships. A few Tellarite vessels completed the mix. Cromwell realized that this was Thorpe's vision, his federation. It was a grand sight; one that Cromwell's explosive information could well put an end to. But, he had a duty to perform. Who could know the future?

"Contact," Ensign Kay Stansfield announced. "Thrusters to zero, relative motion to Charger, zero sir."

"Airlocks sealed," Lieutenant Taln added. "Positive pressure established, extending umbilicals," the Andorian finished.

"Good show number one," Captain Michael Cromwell told his first officer. "We'll piggyback on that behemoth's power and air for awhile."

Commander Lisa Somers smiled. "I just hope they have steak over there captain."

"Anything but that slop that the resequencers have been putting out!" the operations' officer Houck added. "My linga fish was more like a pudding."

"Remember there is still a war on," Cromwell advised them all. How he wished they were returning from a long exploratory mission. "We'll see what is about then I'll see about authorizing shore leave." He looked at Somers. "You drew the short straw number one. I'm afraid your steak will have to wait."

"Advise the shore party to meet us in docking port three commander," Cromwell ordered. He departed the bridge and took the connecting ladders to the lower decks. He was soon in the turbo tube headed for the engineering hull.

Michael smoothed his uniform over. He had changed since his experience with the Ro'ha: His prosthetic arm seemed a natural part of him now; before he would have been mortified that someone would notice it though it appeared real in all surface aspects. The lift came to a stop. Cromwell exited and hiked the short way to the port. Trudy Schultheiss was there with Omar Bashir, Marcel Dieulafoy and Mariel Picard. Cromwell had chosen these as his slate of experts to brief the president. They were also, with the exception of Taln, the only ones to know of the connection between the Romulans and Vulcans.

"Please keep your comments to yourself until we are in the proper environment with the president," Cromwell told them.

The airlock doors parted. Cromwell climbed down into the larger ship. A nautical whistle sounded. "Where's the bloody water?" he asked a tall uniformed officer. He knew decorum should be observed for the president but he had formed a bond with Jonathan Archer as Daedelus was being built. The two shook hands.

"I see you brought my ship back in one piece," Archer chided him.

"Blind luck old boy," Cromwell retorted. "Anyway looks like you haven't done too badly yourself." Michael looked around Charger's passageway. "Did you bribe that gentleman over there for this job?" Cromwell nodded to the president.

"It is good to see you captain," Thorpe stepped up and took a turn shaking his hand.

"It's good to be back sir." Cromwell came to attention and rendered Thorpe a formal salute. The president returned it. Cromwell started to introduce the members of his party when Thorpe stepped in and greeted them each by name. It was plain to Michael that the man was relieved to see them back alive. Thorpe looked old and careworn.

In spite of the obvious weight that the war was putting onto Thorpe his eyes were bright. He turned those eyes on Cromwell. "We won't speak out here but…"

"I can tell you that we made significant progress on our journey," Cromwell explained. He looked around the passageway. Were his friend Jon and the Shahar of Andoria privy to what he had to say? "It appears that part of the secret lies beneath our feet Mister President."

Thorpe looked sharply at him. They all did. The import of what he had said sunk in. Shran's antenna stood up straight. He had meant to observe security while piquing their interest. He realized that he had done that and more.

San Francisco Peninsula, California, the old United States, earth, Mar 2158

Bindu Raj Modi composed herself as the sun rose out of the eastern sky. It lit up Half Moon Bay with its warming, cheery rays. She had been all over in her eighty three years; all over this world and even to Andor. Through it all she had never seen a place that matched the grandeur of her native India. She wanted to go home. Modi pulled her shawl up around her shoulders and started her morning walk.

She was making her way around the corner of the compound when she was approached by two men. Muggings were rare these days since earth had thoroughly dealt with its criminal problems. Still there was some apprehension when one was approached where normally no one else walked. Modi decided to continue with her stroll. She did not look around to see if she was alone, she knew that she was.

The distance between her and the men closed to less than three meters. It was probably two new neighbors out for a morning stroll Modi thought. The larger of the two was a beefy man with a thick crop of curly brown hair. The second was a tall, grave looking young man who was somewhat pale. She noticed that they were purposely observing her. Modi had heard stories about a few roving bands of Sons' of Terra supporters. She tensed up.

"Did you want to be president again ma'am?" the younger man stopped and asked her. She stood dumbfounded for a few seconds. Were these men SOT toughs? If so, they had a funny way of showing it. They made no aggressive moves toward her.

"Who are you?" she asked. She used the same piercing voice that she used on the council floor.

"I'm Councilor Kendra Stiles campaign manager," the younger man declared.

"Stiles is dead!" Modi exclaimed. She felt a sense of joy though. Was there something to this man's story? And his partner; what of him? Beneath a red windbreaker the man was dressed in sandals, checkered shorts, and a brightly colored shirt adorned with images of seagulls and palm trees. He looked to Bindu like he was on vacation. He also was carrying a sidearm of some sort. "I saw her plane destroyed!"

"Yeah about that," the older man started; "I was hoping you could reimburse me for the loss of my Mark VI. Or at least since you are government people you could pull one out of the scrap heap for me? I have a way with junk."

"And who are you young man; her masseuse?"

"Umm…I'm sort of like a friend of the family," he answered. He stuck out his hand to her. "Arnie Griffin ma'am: I'm like the funny cousin that you never invite to family functions."

"I see," she said. She thought that these were not men from SOT. More likely the duo had escaped from a mental treatment center. She saw a smaller figure emerging from the stand of trees across the highway. The mysterious newcomer was wearing a hooded jacket. Modi gasped as she made out a familiar face beneath the shadow of the hood.

"How has this happened?" she asked.

"These gentlemen helped get me back into the US," Kendra Stiles explained.

"Autopilot works," Griffin chimed in. "We were never in that plane. Good thing I have friends in the tour boat business."

"I think your friend did more than conductin' tours Arnie," Stiles told the man.

"He's a legit businessman ma'am," Griffin insisted. His face assumed a mock look of innocence.

Modi smiled. It occurred to her that the method of Stiles' arrival was immaterial. The fact that she was here to take her seat was all that mattered. Once Stiles was sworn in Hawkins would have to leave office. A groundcar slowly crept up from the opposite direction. Bindu ignored it.

Griffin did not ignore the vehicle. He tapped the younger man on the shoulder. "That's Barry Morehouse," he said. Modi was confused.

"Yeah it looks like that actor," the man answered. Bindu remembered. Barry Morehouse had been an American presidential assassin that had lived in the early twenty-first century. A holovid play had been made attempting to portray the assassin as some sort of folk hero. Modi vaguely remembered it.

"Hawkins has an actor in his employ!" she exclaimed. She had a second of recall where she remembered the rude young man who had watched as she was escorted from the president's office. The man exiting the groundcar was that same person.

"What is he doing down here?" the younger man asked. He looked at her. "Sorry ma'am. My name is lieu—Jeffrey Sutton."

She remembered the name: The young man who had stood by to oversee the evacuation of the cruiser Fearless. Modi remembered that Sutton had been crippled in some way. Sutton was mentioning how strangely the actor moved.

The man didn't seem to have noticed them; sequestered as they were off the road among a stand of trees. Modi thought that perhaps Hawkins had sent him here with a hand carried message. Grant; that was his name she remembered. Bindu did not really follow the arts except where it involved her grandchildren. One of those had played a vid with this man in it.

"He seems to like what ever is in his coat," Stiles remarked.

"Yeah he does," Griffin said. The man had first struck Bindu as being somewhat whimsical. Now she heard a note of icy caution emanating from him.

"He does work for the president pro tempore," she added. Bindu wondered if they all weren't being a bit paranoid. "It is possible that he is here on council business."

"Does that happen a lot, ma'am?" Griffin asked. She could hear the skepticism in his voice. She confessed that it did not. Relations between the presidium and the council were cool at best; icy for the most part. She looked again at Grant who seemed to have noticed them for the first time. The young man got back into the groundcar, started it up and wheeled sharply toward the small group.

She felt Sutton's hand shoving her down. There were noises like pops from the car and several flashes. A small pine behind her exploded with a crack. The top of the tree fell to the ground in flames narrowly missing her. Her knees ached and her breath was knocked from her body from Sutton's push. She looked up to see Griffin taking a sidearm out from beneath his jacket. The car swerved to make another pass.

A tiny woman dressed in military style pants and a tunic adorned with a woodland camouflage pattern emerged from the bushes on the other side of the road. She charged across the permacrete highway in a matter of mere seconds. Bindu wondered how anyone could move that fast. Griffin seemed rooted to the spot although she saw a flash of recognition on his face.

"Don't shoot you fool!" she yelled. Her hand seemed to come from no where sending Griffin's pistol flying. Modi thought that she could have grown up in her native Pondicherry, although her accent was strangely neutral. She also noticed that the young lady was curved in a very telling way.

The groundcar bore down on them. Bindu gasped when the young girl picked her up as one of her grand nieces might pick up one of their dolls. "Grant is reading as a mass of heavy metal." She said as they raced behind some bushes.

Griffin ran behind them, diving just as more trees exploded. "Heavy metal?" he asked.

"A bomb," Sutton gasped breathlessly. Modi was old and battered but the young Sutton looked near to death.

"He seen Miss Modi here and decided to kill her in a way that he was sure she is dead," Sutton gasped out, "or else he probably would have planted that thing and been on his way."

"You've been out in space Jeff: The Sons' have resorted to wiring some of their people," Griffin spat out.

The woman rolled toward her. "Give me your cloak!" she demanded. No, Bindu thought, an Indian girl would not treat their elders thus. She became alarmed when the girl started peeling her shawl away from her. Modi could not get over her strength. The car was racing toward them as the young girl threw on Modi's shawl. Council guards were running toward the carnage.

"What the hell are you doing?" Griffin asked.

"No time!" the girl exclaimed. She stepped out from the brush into plain sight.

Modi heard a squeal of synthetic rubber against permacrete. The young girl was doing an effective job of walking like she would. Modi took a second to become offended: She did not walk like an old lady, she thought angrily. Fear and sympathy replaced the anger as the car made a line toward her nameless young savior. The girl picked up speed and swung over the fence that acted as a guard between the highway and the dead drop cliff over Half Moon Bay. Bindu's mouth dropped open in amazement as the groundcar burst into speed—so did the girl. She ran headlong toward the edge of the cliff stopping for a split second before lithely leaping off the cliff.

Joshua Grant had no time to correct his mistake. Bindu watched as the car's wheels dug into the earth in protest. The vehicle careened through the dirt, striking the guard rail and flipping over sending the car and Joshua Grant to the rocks below. The girl leapt back up and rolled away from the cliff. She shouted a warning. Bindu closed her eyes just in time as a blinding flash went off.

Modi's eyes strained against the glare despite the fact that her lids were closed tightly. She heard a roar that changed into a mighty blast. The explosion ripped the air from Bindu's lungs. She gasped and opened her eyes. Modi beheld a pall of dust and steam rising out of the bay. The council guards were running toward them.

"The president pro tem replaced our guards with Sons' of Terra members," she warned her new friends. She looked over at the young lady; now kneeling on the ground throwing up. Bindu pulled herself up shakily with some help from Griffin. Sutton seemed to need as much help as she had. Bindu started toward the sick girl.

"You there!" one guard bellowed. She knew that they knew who she was. "Stop!" he shouted.

Griffin collapsed in a heap and let out a loud moan. Bindu gasped when she saw a large knife sticking out of his left leg. He moaned as the guards came upon them. "My leg!" he yelled. The two security guards gaped at the protruding knife.

"Here, let me help buddy," one of them said in a sympathetic tone. The guard stepped in closer. Bindu watched in amazement as the leg with the knife imbedded in it kicked out. Griffin's foot connected solidly with the man's groin. Raj Modi, who had raised two sons, winced at the sight of the impact.

The girl, apparently over her sickness seemed to come out of no where to disarm the remaining Sons' of Terra enforcer. Griffin pulled the knife out of what Modi now understood was an artificial leg. The guard went to his knees as Sutton relieved him of his laser.

"That is for shooting down my plane!" Griffin snarled as he rolled then got to his feet.

"Who are you people?" she asked.

"Just some concerned citizens, ma'am," Griffin answered with a grin on his lips. She watched as he turned to the girl. "Put in a good word for me with…," he looked at Modi. Obviously, the person who Griffin wanted the girl to speak on his behalf for was to remain unknown.

"I shall do so," the girl said. "I do not understand what happened back there."

"You mean the sickness?" Modi asked her. The girl nodded. "I believe that is normal during some pregnancies. You should reconsider heroics until after your child is born."

"I did not think of that," the girl answered. She removed Modi's shawl and started to hand it back to her.

She raised her hand. "Keep it child. My husband bought it for me when we were stationed in Antarctica. I wore it while nursing my oldest. You might find the same use for it." Modi looked at Stiles. "It is time to end this charade. Are you ready to be sworn in?"

Stiles nodded; "Just as ready as you are to take back the presidium ma'am."

"It's been a pleasure Missus Stiles," Arnie Griffin said. "But if you don't mind this is enough excitement for a poor old junk man."

"I shall be leaving as well," the young girl said. With Bindu's shawl wrapped around her shoulder she did look like someone who could outrun a groundcar or survive a leap off of a cliff. She looked like a young woman facing a bright future.

"I'll miss your barbecued chicken Arnie," Stiles said. Stiles went to the big man and hugged him. "Thanks for everything." Small tears ran down her cheeks.

"Hey!" he protested. "I'm only going back to my island; not like I'm dying." He hugged her back.

Bindu watched the exchange between the friends. She also noted how the young girl had casually turned and walked away. Modi's eyes followed her until she vanished in the bushes across the highway. She realized that she should not ask too many questions. Griffin started to walk away after some assurances to Stiles that he would eat right and exercise more.

"Mister Griffin!" she called to him before he could leave.

"Ma'am?" he answered.

"Contact me when I'm back in office," she said. "I'll make sure that you get a new plane."

San Francisco, California, the old United States, Mar 2158

"That was Josh's car; that was Josh's car!" Mark Hawkins repeated frantically.

He was near hysteria. Worse yet Hawkins realized that fact. Catères was usually there to help him but she seemed preoccupied. The horrible images being disseminated on the net clearly showed Grant's car. Surveillance video from the Pan-Indian compound had been precise and damning. Journalists, not their hand picked propagandists but real journalists were already asking about Grant and his connection to Hawkins and the Sons' of Terra.

He watched with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as Kendra Stiles took the oath of office. His seat on the council was gone. Hawkins was in political limbo. Bindu Raj Modi spared no time in speaking after Stiles' ceremony was complete. She spoke using the nonsense terms such as freedom and the rule of law. She concluded by looking directly in the recorder's lens and demanding that Hawkins vacate the presidium.

"What do we do? What do we--,"

The open palm of Catères' hand connected solidly with his face. That side of his face stung and then numb. They were alone in the subterranean office. She told him to shutup and sit down. Mark did as he was told. His fear gradually changed from fear of the future to fear of her. She moved over beside him. Hawkins thought that she was going to comfort him in that way that only she could. Instead she struck him again knocking him out of the chair and to the floor. He tasted the tang of blood in his mouth.

"What are you doin'?" he asked emphatically.

"I should have dealt with the _drak'ha _before I went any further," she said. Hawkins realized that she was speaking to herself. He started to get up when she delivered a sharp kick to his rib cage. Mark gasped and went reeling. He had heard a snap. He looked up at her and tried to scamper away. His limbs seemed to turn to rubber.

"The cause is lost here Mark," she said without emotion. "Still, something can be salvaged from all of this. The cause needs a mystery and a martyr to breath new life into it."

"What the hell are you talkin' about you crazy bitch?" he spat out as he tried backing away. His arms barely worked but he was able to use one to lift himself up. It was as if its control had been restored. She kicked out at the arm. He screamed as it broke.

Mercifully, she turned away from him. "We can return to the office of the president on the private lift." She turned back and smiled at him, but it was a smile unlike any he had seen before. Mark felt wetness spread out from his crotch. He whimpered. "That way we shall be unobserved." She held an ancient pistol that had once belonged to President Chen; the first United Earth president.

"What are you going to do to me?" he cried out. For he now realized that he had been a tool for her all along.

"Popular support is overwhelming the Sons' of Terra. They need a rallying cry." Dominique stepped over him. He had briefly thought to roll and try to trip her but he had once again become paralyzed. She turned on her heel and the kicked the other side of his face. Catères had knocked loose one of his teeth. The woman reached down and forced him to close his mouth and swallow the bloody tooth. Despite the beating that he was receiving the only thought in his head was: She wasn't even out of breath.

"You humans create fear and paranoia where none exists," Catères explained. "You, dear Mark, shall take this pistol that I will give to you. You shall go to the upper office. When Modi and her people come for you, you will shoot through the door at them. Do not waste ammunition. Fire one shot at a time until the presidium guards return fire, whereupon you will put the barrel in your mouth and fire one last time."

"Are you--," his head snapped to one side as she kicked him again.

"Your supporters will believe that after being relieved you rightfully tried to hold onto the office. Modi staged a military coup where you were beaten and then murdered by Thorpe's military. This may incite some of the Sons' to react. During that time I will take care of the _drak'ha." _

"I'm not going to kill--,"

Mark felt a pain like he had once had from a migraine headache. But it only started there: His agony ratcheted upwards. His screams turned to something more like inhuman screeches. Mingled in with the agony were images from Hawkins' worst fears and imaginings. One of his mother's old boyfriends came at him. Mark had been terrified of the man who had hurt him in a most heinous fashion. The man faded away. Roaches were crawling over him, slowly eating his skin away; tearing at his flesh. Hawkins' mind snapped.

Star Fleet light cruiser Daedelus, in orbit of Vulcan, Mar 2158

Tas Shavma made for interesting company Admiral Maxwell Forrest thought. The Tellarite had tried telling Forrest dirty jokes. But with a limited knowledge of human anatomy the humor was made all the more absurd. Forrest laughed all the harder because of the errors. The Shavma had made for good company in the shuttle ride over from Trafalgar. They had decided to meet there and then shuttle over to Charger. Things had changed.

When Max had left for Corallis the Vulcan situation had been unresolved. Privately Forrest had thought that war with their former allies was inevitable. But subspace chatter seemed to indicate that that particular problem had been solved. Not only were the Vulcans opening their borders; they had a new government. That bit of information had come to Forrest a week earlier; just in time for them to divert to Vulcan space. President Thorpe's message had said that they were still in negotiations when Forrest had shown up.

"So you see Forrest," Tas Shavma explained. "The flashlight was still lodged in the man's appendix."

Max chuckled more at the joke's failings than at the actual punch line. The bemused crewman that had been assigned as their escort merely looked on. Forrest had studied the specs for this ship. It was a pleasure to see it embodied in metal and plastic. He had marveled at the space that had been allocated for labs. That was how they should be solving problems he thought; with analysis and reason, not with missiles and lasers. He silently cursed the Romulans.

"This is the conference room sir," the crewman stopped and gestured.

Forrest thanked him and started in the room. He was surprised that the door didn't slide open automatically. He found the intercom near the door and asked for admittance. The doors slid open. Max gestured for the Tellarite to go in first. He followed. Forrest had seen warmer receptions given for funerals. The group of humans and aliens sat around the room's single table. Max recognized most of them; some not.

Jonathan Archer sat beside another Star Fleet captain. Forrest guessed from his breast patch that the tall, thinly built man was the master of this vessel. Beside that man sat a tall striking woman with the star, cross and crescent moon of the Stellar Navy Medical Corps emblazoned on her jersey over her left breast. An older, shorter, compact man sat near her. He was dressed in a suit and sported a slight salt and pepper beard. The civilian held an unlit cigar in his hand. Across from the older man sat an attractive young woman with a mop of curly brown hair. Next to her sat a Stellar Navy lieutenant. Forrest did not need the new blue colored jersey to tell him that this officer was in the sciences. His very mannerisms and rolled over sleeves told Maxwell everything that he needed to know.

The dark haired young lieutenant was in exceptional company as the Shahar of Andor stood, rather than sat next to him. Beside the Shahar sat President Christophur Thorpe. The president turned slowly in his chair to face him and the Tellarite. Despite the war Forrest had always received a warm greeting from the president, but not today. Thorpe sat with his arms folded over his chest. A look of intense concentration dominated the president's face.

"Mister President, it is good--,"

"Sit down Admiral Forrest, Tas Shavma," Thorpe said curtly.

Forrest was about to ask what was gone on when he received a warning look from Captain Archer. Even the normally boisterous Tellarite officer was mollified by the situation. Forrest smoothed down the front of his jersey and took a seat. The silence was all encompassing. There was so little sound that Max worried that the sound of his breathing was carrying. He heard the background whir of the environmental system. Forrest started to sweat despite that system's efficient supply of cool air.

The conference room doors parted. The same Star Fleet crewman that had showed them to the room was escorting another party. "Sir, the Vulcan delegation," the man declared. He stood aside as a tall older Vulcan male in the company of a small, young Vulcan female entered. Forrest realized that the woman was T'Pau, the Vulcans' prefect. He wondered that someone so young could be put into a position of so much power. Then he remembered that Vulcans' comparatively long life often belied their true age. Max realized that he might well be looking at someone a few decades older than he.

Max started to get up when he noticed that the president did not. That was something he simply could not believe: This blatant breach of protocol from the otherwise polite Thorpe. There was an uncomfortable silence as the crewman departed. Forrest remained seated. Thorpe unfolded his arms. The president absently twirled a stylus in his right hand. He glared at the Vulcans; Max didn't have to be a telepath to read the contempt.

"Tell me everything you know about Reunification," Thorpe asked the Vulcans without ceremony.

There it was! Forrest had always been told that the logical aliens had emotions: They just restrained them. But he saw the flash of surprise and then a hint of embarrassment from the female. The male stood mute. Max guessed that he did not speak English. The male reacted a few seconds later. He must have gleaned from the woman's slip-up what had been said. He started speaking. The female held up her hand and interrupted him.

"My apologies President Thorpe," T'Pau said at last. "I wish to first say that it was my decision to conceal the knowledge of your enemy's origins from you. Syrran counseled me that your people," she looked at Shran and then at Tas. "All of you should be told. I had concluded otherwise; in this I was wrong." Max guessed that her companion was this Syrran.

"We did not know," T'Pau answered. Syrran had grown positively emphatic for a Vulcan, Max thought. She turned to him and replied in their common tongue. The Vulcan turned back to them. Thorpe had still not offered them a seat. Max realized just how dangerous this situation had become although he was still puzzled by the Vulcans role in the war.

"What are we talking about sir?" he said. Tas Shavma was equally confused.

Seeming to dismiss the Vulcans Thorpe answered: "This is Captain Cromwell of the starship Daedelus." The president indicated the captain seated next to Archer. "My apologies Tas Shavma, Admiral Forrest, these are unusual circumstances. Captain Cromwell, if you'll give them a short version of the briefing that you gave us."

The officer that Thorpe was speaking to stood up. "Captain Michael Cromwell," the man proclaimed in a rich English accent. He introduced the rest of his people. Forrest listened as the man related the tale of Daedelus' journey to the far edges of the Romulan Empire; their encounter with telepathic aliens who gave them the coordinates for a damaged Romulan Sabinus. Max listened with growing interest and outrage as Cromwell detailed the relationship between the Romulans and Vulcans; of their intent to reunite with their Vulcan relatives. He eyed the Vulcans in the room. They showed no emotion.

"This is the same race?" Tas Shavma asked.

Cromwell deferred to his surgeon. "I've had many months to examine the findings: The races are almost identical. There are some indications of genetic drift and some elements of something else in the DNA I examined. I believe that the Romulans are intermingled with another species; possibly Reman."

"What is a Reman?" Forrest asked. The German explained that the forensic evidence gave no answers for that. She called upon the officer that had been identified as an archeologist.

"I have no physical description except that they are a nocturnal species, admiral," Lieutenant Marcel Dieulafoy explained. "The early Vulcans—or Rihannsu as they called themselves," Forrest saw T'Pau bow her head at the mention of the word Rihannsu. "They were expelled from ancient Vulcan. They were decimated after their journey of many decades by our standards. I believe from my research that even given their degraded state the early Romulans invaded their sister planet and conquered the Remans shortly after arriving on Romulus. I conjecture that they interbred with Remans to expand a small gene pool."

"It's entirely theoretical," Schultheiss interjected. "But given the numbers that we extrapolated from historical records it seems that without fresh DNA the early Romulans would have gone extinct in perhaps less than one hundred generations."

"Too bad they didn't," the Tellarite declared. He looked sharply at T'Pau and Syrran. "Did they know?"

"We are Vulcans, we do not lie," T'Pau retorted.

"No; you merely hide the truth," Thorpe spat out. Max was taken aback by the man's open hostility. "You openly lectured us on so called savage behavior. Twenty-five million dead later are you going to continue?" Forrest watched as the man sprang to his feet. Thorpe was clearly enraged.

"Sir; if I may?" Cromwell said, breaking the tension. Thorpe allowed the captain to speak but it was reluctantly granted Max thought. "I do not believe the Vulcans were aware of what was to occur."

"The Rihannsu had been repudiated," Professor Omar Bashir spoke for the first time since Forrest's arrival. "They had made a difficult and epic journey. Their early days on Romulus were harsh. I suspect that Reunification became the tenant of something close to a religion for them; a hope for something better and a sort of redemption for their expulsion from Vulcan." He nodded toward the Vulcans. "Whereas I believe that the Vulcans tried to bury their savage past the Rihannsu did not. They never forgot what happened."

"We are not blameless," T'Pau said at last. She had been steadily translating the words of the various speakers for Syrran. She now translated his words to them. "Our ancestors did indeed search for the Rihannsu. As warp technology improved we searched all possible destinations that their starships could have made. We should have questioned the fact that we found nothing; not even ships full of corpses or debris. As time passed we forgot. My ancestors were busy trying to survive. Vulcan had been through a major nuclear exchange. It took generations to render a once green world to that which you see below."

"I'm not interested in your excuses," Thorpe said. He hardly waited for T'Pau's translation. "You could have told us. Karzai, Soval, Solkar; none of them even hinted at this."

T'Pau translated after a few seconds. "None of them knew. Those of us who did had only speculations and musings. I started suspecting something after V'Las exhibited what I knew was questionable behavior for one of my people. It was only after the coming of Gupta that my speculations were confirmed."

"This was the agent that we had ashore, sir?" Forrest asked. He had been briefed that a naval intelligence officer was operating on Vulcan at Soval's request. Max had never known the officer's name until now.

"Yes admiral," Thorpe answered grimly, "another person dead over this travesty."

"We deeply regret the death of Gupta," T'Pau translated Syrran's words. "He had a most Vulcan like quality. It is because of him that I wanted you all to know. I too had once concluded as T'Pau had that the secret was best kept; that your people would turn on us if you found out. My association with Tarang led me to reason otherwise. You humans are strange to us but have been most honorable. The same can be said of the Andorians and Tellarites. We are wiser because of you."

"Despite your words why should we not turn on you, Vulcan?" Tas Shavma asked. "Your silence caused this war. Millions were killed on Zandor and earth. The Iceheads are still counting the losses from the attack on their system. Why should we not eliminate the reason for the Romulans' attack?"

"Because not all Vulcans are guilty shavma," Forrest was surprised to hear this utterance from an unexpected quarter: Shahar Shran. "If I accepted that then I must base my actions on the bravery of Captain Vanik: His sacrifice saved millions on Andor. Still, was this secret to become known, many of my people would demand retribution against your people, T'Pau."

Shran left his place to stand directly before the Vulcans. "I once tormented one of your people for information. I wished you to know that so that you know all about me. The time for secrets is past." Max watched as the Andorian turned to Thorpe. "My people officially came to this war to honor our treaty. But I say we came at the behest of that human," Shran pointed at Thorpe. "It was Christophur that convinced Rastan of the need for unity among our peoples."

"The same can be said for us," Tas Shavma declared. "We Tellarites care little for words on paper. We believe in our families and friends; those are the things that say who we are. We came to help our friends."

"I would keep the secret Christophur," Shran told the president, "at your word. This federation was always in doubt. Even now it exists only on paper. It has always been your dream Christophur. But even I must admit that Vulcan membership could solidify it; a Vulcan uncompromised by the release of this knowledge."

"Mister President," T'Pau continued translating. "If the relationship between Vulcans and Romulans becomes known now, then it would fracture my society. Not to mention the destruction that would be visited upon us by other races. Forgive T'Pau. Surak's new teaching tells us that we must embrace the unknown if we are to continue to grow. Gupta convinced me of that which I had read but really did not believe."

"I am asking you to keep secret what you've discovered," T'Pau continued to translate Syrran's words. "In return I shall act to convince my people of the necessity to join the federation. We shall open the Vulcan Science Academy fully. We shall, reluctantly provide," T'Pau stopped and burst into speech with Syrran. After an exchange which Forrest thought was downright heated for Vulcans she continued. "We shall provide you military aid. But that shall be the last battle that the Vulcan High Command will engage in. That organization must cease to exist. On that I shall brook no compromise. Better that we be destroyed by your races then revert to the Rihannsu ways."

"You'd break with decades of policy to the contrary to do these things?" Thorpe asked. He had calmed down Forrest thought.

"We must change," T'Pau translated. "This war has forced that change sooner than it would have come."

"The secret might get out anyway," Tas Shavma declared.

"I am not in the military," Mariel Picard spoke up. "But I was charged with the translation of much of their documents. I believe that their society benefits from the secret being kept."

"So if we agree to do as you say," he began. Max saw the danger of where this was heading. "If we keep your secret then we have two choices Mister President: The first is that we prepare our societies for the news; because sooner or later, if we win, we shall land on Romulus."

"The second choice is that we don't go to Romulus," Thorpe supplied. The president looked mournfully at him. "Tell me Maxwell; how do we achieve victory and do that?"

"Some sort of compromise that is acceptable to the Romulans," he offered. "We would have to continue watching them; some sort of containment zone would have to be set up."

How would they do that Forrest wondered? It seemed likely that the Romulans' identity would be revealed before war's end. It had not so far but how long would that last? And how could they win the war yet allow the Romulans to remain holed up in their empire?

Max's mind started turning over ideas. The Vulcans would have to tell all that they knew of their ancestors and all that they knew or guessed about modern Romulans. They had the data from Cromwell's expedition. Perhaps finally with knowledge of their enemy they could do as the president wanted.

"The Romulans might agree to that," Omar Bashir stated.

"They will fight to the last," Syrran said through T'Pau.

"I believe that you are wrong sir," Bashir retorted.

"You've switched sides," Cromwell told the man. Forrest realized that he was hearing yet another chapter of an old argument.

"Being here listening to Syrran has made me rethink my stand," Bashir explained. "We are all free to decide. Perhaps there is a difference between a free exchange of ideas and something that would lead to the untold deaths of millions. I can decide to remain silent," Bashir said emphasizing the article. He continued: "Romulan society has become increasingly dominated by an organization called the Tal Shiar. Their government; an Imperial Senate headed by a praetor is largely in the process of becoming a figurehead. Forcing their praetor to accept a compromise might go a long way in helping this Tal Shiar. They could also use the mystique of Reunification to control the populace. This could only be done if the status quo was maintained."

"I said that you are the focus Christophur," Shran interjected. "If you do this and the secret becomes known it will fall upon you the hardest."

The room fell dead silent again. Max looked at the president who seemed understandably lost in thought. He watched as Thorpe looked at the Vulcans and then at everyone else in the room. Forrest, who had led many men, shuddered as the president's gaze seemed to look into him when his turn came. This was a dreadful decision. Max was glad he did not have to make it.

"I believe in the federation," Thorpe said at last. "Our futures are bound up together. I wish that you Vulcans had come to this of your own volition Syrran." This last was expressed with what Max thought was a voice full of bitterness. Thorpe sighed. "I shall keep the secret not for your support Syrran, that must be freely given, but because of the chaos that the release of the information would cause."

Syrran approached Thorpe who had stood up. "You shall have the support and allegiance of the Vulcan people President Thorpe. Our races shall walk the path to the future together."

Max watched as Thorpe extended his hand, as Zephram Cochrane had done many decades before. Forrest stood up. Everyone else in the conference room followed suit. Tas Shavma joined the president as the latter took Syrran's hand in return.

"When they find out I'll be torn limb from limb," the Tellarite declared. "At least I'll get a rest from my nagging mate after that." He extended a paw.

Shahar Shran joined the human Vulcan and Tellarite. "To the future then," he said simply.

"To the United Federation of Planets," Thorpe declared. The leaders shook hands in agreement.

Sinjan Class shuttle on approach for the primary Vulcan shipyard, Mar 2158

"Are they taking us back to earth on a garbage scow skipper?" Commander Margaret Sadler asked Donald Townsend.

"I have no idea," Townsend answered. It seemed fitting for him. Donald was still deeply troubled by the loss of the Jade Queen. He thought of a thousand things that he could have done and again a thousand things that would not have worked.

"Any idea why we were diverted here pilot?" he asked the medium built lieutenant. The officer shared Townsend's dark skin and his accent had proclaimed that he was from North America.

"All I know is that the orders came directly from Admiral Forrest, sir," the pilot answered. Townsend could not fail to notice the wings emblazoned on the man's crest. Every Stellar Navy officer and enlisted file around Vulcan was interested in the ship called Daedelus. Where had it been? What class of ship was it?

He watched as Sadler licked her lips. Donald knew that his first officer was curious as well. "So," she began, "you guys came from where?"

The pilot laughed. "We've been to the Romulan Empire ma'am. Captain Cromwell whipped their asses then we stopped by to help a race ascend to another plane of existence: Just going where no man has gone before commander." Donald watched as he checked his heading then turned to chat with them. "Honestly though we discovered a disabled Romulan cruiser in a nebula. I wish I could tell you a bunch of juicy secrets but the Birdie crew had been incinerated by discharges from the nebula. The computer banks were a wipe. We would have had the ship but the Birdies interrupted us."

"All that and you didn't find out what they look like?" Sadler asked.

The young man shook his head in frustration. "Nothing except what you have all been told: Humanoid, about our size, probably bipeds. Only a few people went over to the ship. I heard that it was pretty much a burned out shell. Our Andorian engineer barely got it under power."

"Damn shame there wasn't more," Townsend commented. "At least we probably have better reactor signatures to feed our computers. That should make tracking and targeting easier."

"There is that sir," the pilot answered. He turned back to his board as he altered course for a great spherical bay of the yard. "We're almost there!"

Townsend got up to stare out of the pane of transparent aluminum. The pilot maneuvered the shuttle into the giant bay where a Vulcan ship was moored. Donald heard Margaret let out a low whistle. He guessed that she was as surprised as he over the number of space-suited technicians crawling over the craft's two hundred meter long surface. The blinding flash of laser welding torches was everywhere.

The ship was an older design for the Vulcans. Townsend judged it to about fifty meters at its widest point. The bow narrowed but not too much; rather it ended in a box like structure that housed the ship's sweep field emitter. Also telling were the two warp nacelles slung on the aft section of the ship. Donald recalled that the Pointies had experimented with single line nacelles many decades ago. His attention was drawn to the installation of a third nacelle. Even Townsend, with only a passing knowledge of Vulcan ships could tell that the new nacelle was there for looks only: There was no way that it could be functional.

Their pilot slowed the shuttle as a large circular bay door opened like an iris. The lieutenant brought the little Sinjan to a relative stop gently setting it down with maneuvering thrusters. Townsend was aghast to see Vulcans and humans without open space helmets. Surely the bay hadn't pressurized that quickly? The shuttle pilot caught their bemused expressions out of the corner of his eye as he ran a turnaround check.

"That was something they briefed me on," he informed them. "Did you notice that little flash when we entered the bay?" Both of them shook their heads. "Vulcan ships have a force field built as a backup into their lock systems. It lasts for about three to five seconds. It makes offloading shuttles a lot quicker."

"We could use those force fields," Townsend remarked.

"I remember a junior classman that I used to torture," the pilot answered. "Jason Crusher; these force fields exist. Chances are that Crusher will build one and it'll be better than the Vulcan version. This is your stop sir!"

"Thanks for the lift," Sadler told him. "Any chance that we can tour Daedelus?" she asked him.

"Sure thing ma'am," he answered. Townsend wondered that he did not use the naval protocol of sir. "Just ask for me and I'll give you the nickel tour." He stuck out his hand. "Just ask for Lieutenant Carl La Forge," he informed them. They shook hands and departed.

Townsend stepped out into a bay that was positively frigid. He exhaled steam and looked around when he heard the bark of a familiar voice. Lieutenant Commander Marshall Davies was in the process of lecturing a young engineer.

"Look Jonesy," he told the young woman. She had not been a part of Townsend's crew on the Queen Bitch. She looked like she had been out of her service academy for less than six months. That would have been consistent since she had to have arrived with the Stellar Navy component of Star Fleet. Davies continued even after catching sight of his captain and first officer: "This is orientation. Don't try opening anymore access panels. Just do what the nice man with pointed ears," he pointed at a Vulcan, "tells you to do, okay?"

"Yes sir," she answered. "I just thought that was where a power junction would be located."

"I'm sure that we'll all make mistakes Jonesy," he consoled her. That was what made Davies the engineer that he was Townsend thought: He sympathized with his staff. The ensign joined the Vulcan as Davies turned to greet him and Sadler. "What do you think sir? It was the Vulcan liner L'Streva. I'm told that it means one hundredth series; romantic huh?"

"How many from the Bitch are here Marsh?" he asked. "Did they pull you to work on this?"

"That'll be explained shortly," a new voice added. Townsend watched as Davies came to attention. He and Sadler turned and did likewise as the voice belonged to Admiral Maxwell Forrest. The admiral was in the company of a Vulcan High Command officer slightly shorter than the human.

"At ease," Forrest instructed them. "I'd like you to first meet Sub Commander Z'Tel," he said indicating the Vulcan. "He'll be your liaison officer Captain Townsend."

Z'Tel nodded his head slightly. "Liaison for what sir?" he asked the admiral.

"This is your ship now Townsend," Forrest turned and indicated that they should follow. La Forge's shuttle shot out into space behind them. "Seeing open space like that gives me the willies! I don't mind telling you that."

Donald shuttered somewhat himself as the hatch irised closed. They followed Forrest and the Vulcan out into the liner's passageways. Forrest talked as they went.

"We are putting a maximum effort into outfitting this ship as a new generation of raider. The Vulcan control interfaces are being pulled and replaced with off the shelf SN technology. We are also getting a full Vulcan sensor suite. We'll be putting the Cachalot missile into your missile room and the new Pitbull anti-missile missile into your defensive array."

It struck Townsend: "The third nacelle; we're going to look like a goddamned Jellyfish!"

"Exactly!" the admiral replied. "You'll need to look the part where you are going."

"Topaz," Sadler declared without ceremony, "putting our heads into the lion's mouth again sir."

"You must be telepathic commander," Forrest said.

"I was not aware that humans were telepathic," Z'Tel spoke for the first time.

Donald did a double take over the Vulcan's accent. "Excuse me sub commander?"

"I did not attend the Vulcan Linguistic Academy prior to coming to earth, captain," Z'Tel answered, obviously understanding why Donald had asked the question. "I learned English while studying in Brisbane." Despite little knowledge of Vulcan ships Donald could not mistake the bridge. Forrest had led them to L'Streva's command center.

"Your office captain," Forrest informed him.

"The prefecture has ordered the High Command to release this ship to you, captain," Z'Tel interjected. "My apologies for the destruction of the Jade Queen, sir," Z'Tel said. "Your vessel's condition rendered it an orbital hazard. Going to warp in an atmosphere is a…most interesting maneuver."

"Your boys didn't see that one coming?" Townsend asked with a grin on his lips.

"No sir," the Vulcan answered simply.

"You have a month to arm and outfit this ship," Forrest told them. "Since the Jade Queen's crew is helping that'll cut down on shakedown time. I need you to be over Topaz no later than June."

"I suppose that we won't have one of the Vulcan's warp seven drives, admiral?" Sadler asked while looking at the Vulcan.

"L'Streva was never warp seven capable commander," Z'Tel answered. "In fact the matter anti matter core is not as efficient as the ones currently in use by the Star Fleet. The maximum speed of this ship is warp 4.1 at most. It was ready to be scrapped."

"Ah," Townsend said; "that is the first good selling point I've heard so far." He lazily spun the command chair around. He pushed on the seat's headrest.

"Is anything wrong sir?" the Vulcan asked.

"The squeak," Donald insisted, "I'm missing my squeak." His old command chair had an annoying squeak when he would first set in it.

"What was it like?" Z'Tel asked him.

He felt absurd describing it in front of the admiral. Townsend wondered if the Vulcan had a human sense of humor and was playing a practical joke. Z'Tel called a Vulcan technician over had stooped down to make some adjustments to the chair.

"Topaz, sir?" he asked while the technician worked. "What I've heard is that we could lose the entire Star Fleet there."

"We can't have an industrialized enemy behind us and in front of us," Forrest explained. "The threat from Topaz has to be removed."

"Maybe we'll sneak in and get a glimpse of what they look like," Sadler interjected. "I guess Daedelus turned up with zilch there."

Townsend had been somewhat preoccupied as Z'Tel told him that he could check his chair. But he had not failed to notice Forrest's hesitation. The admiral's mood seemed to have changed entirely.

"Yes, perhaps you shall," the admiral said at last. He seemed to return to the bridge of the Vulcan ship.

Z'Tel indicated that he should sit. Townsend did so. His squeak was back, not only a squeak but almost the same sound that his old command chair used to make. He nodded at the Vulcan. "Liaison officer, huh? I think we'll get along just fine."

He swiveled slowly in the chair taking in the confused scene of Vulcan and human engineers, frantically swapping panels and internal electronic control boxes. Townsend realized that there was a sort of rhythm to the whole thing when he took the time to look for it. A rectangular brass plate caught his eye. He looked at Sadler who looked away innocently. Donald got up to examine the plaque. The words Jade Queen were emblazoned upon it along with his old ship's date of commissioning.

He faced the aft wall to conceal the moisture that had welled up in his eyes. "How did you get it?" he asked.

"Chief Aarons was quick with a laser torch," Sadler informed him. "I went back to the bridge to make a final sweep and he had pulled it off by then.

"This can be the Jade Queen II," Forrest who had stepped up beside him said. They both turned after they heard a groan behind them.

"Something the matter commander?" the admiral asked Sadler.

"My father had a boat at South Padre Island, sir," she answered. "He always said: Margaret, never get on a boat that is the second or third of that name. If you do then you have to ask yourself what happened to the original. You might not like the answer."

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, the old United States, Mar 2157

The trouble with going bald was the need to still get haircuts. Fred Watson combed down what was left of his hair while considering shaving the entire mess off. Not really satisfied with the results he put his comb away and threw on his trench coat. He had decided upon waking that he would return home for a few days. Roslyn was a good woman who had put up with many absences from him. But he had been away for many days lately.

Watson took the lift down to the lobby. He carried his kit with him rather than leaving it for the service bot. He was still a cop and leaving his belongings by themselves didn't sit well with him. The lift took him to the lobby. He had checked out and paid using his handheld. Watson headed out the door where a bored aircab operator was standing beside her vehicle. It was cool. A strong wind was blowing the last of a low pressure system out. The sky was blue to the west where the driver aimed her cab; Watson sitting silently in the back.

He figured out why the driver had been available: Sons' of Terra regalia littered the back of the car. Fred liked to think that he was above politics but too many people had relatives and friends who were in the service. He saw a sticker proclaiming that the Romulans were their friends. Watson believed that people were entitled to their beliefs, but turning oneself into a social pariah struck him as being foolish. He started to take up a dog eared copy of one of his favorite Dixon Hill novels. He hoped the woman would see him reading and leave him be but fate dictated otherwise.

"A sitting president is murdered by the military and everyone acts like it's just another day!" she proclaimed angrily.

"Yes," he lied in a low voice. "They should have had a day of mourning; terrible thing." Watson hadn't cared for Hawkins, but he was apolitical. He hoped that those he voted for could count on both hands and not soil themselves in public. Anything else was a bonus as far as Fred was concerned.

"You're right about that!" she replied. "What they should be doing is arresting that Indie bitch and her darkie accomplice. Everyone knows that recall was staged."

"I've read a little about that," he answered. A few people had put the theory out that the recall of Hawkins had been rigged. Watson thought that the people advancing the theories probably lived in their parents' basement. He was surprised at her open bigotry. Fred guessed that the people who were clinging to the movement were getting desperate as its support waned and its membership dropped off.

He looked out to see that she had started descending for the shuttleport. Watson was glad: People were free to speak their minds but some ideas were disgusting. He stared out of her windscreen and almost missed what she had been saying.

"I'm sorry for that spacer's bad luck," she explained. "But he had it coming. The people in there need to wise up and just walk away from the navy."

"What do you mean?" he asked. She explained that a Star Fleet crewman on leave had been badly beaten after leaving the spaceport. The perpetrators had not been caught but his chauffeur left no doubt that some free lance thugs from SOT had taken matters into their own hands.

"It's too bad, but think of how many Romulan boys and girls won't go home." She turned to make the landing at the terminal pad.

No one even knew if the Romulans had two sexes. One thing that Fred knew for sure: A lot of people wouldn't be going home in Florida or their colonies. Fred took out his handheld and punched in the fare as the taxi settled to a stop. He did not leave the woman a tip. She scowled at him as he exited. Watson shot her an ingratiating smile.

"On to Romulus!" he proclaimed using a popular wartime slogan. He turned away before seeing her reaction.

Watson entered the terminal while casually scanning the crowd. Malcolm Reed knew that he was following him. Fred wanted to kick himself for doing that this early in the investigation. But he was frustrated: Watson had a hand full of loose ends and none of them connected. Reed was scheduled out of the city about the same time as was Fred. A little friendly questioning of the clerk at Reed's hotel had revealed that. Fred wouldn't be surprised if he saw the major here.

He had no plans to pursue Reed further; at least in the physical sense. The answer had to do with something else, or someplace else he thought. He stopped at a counter and bought a ticket. The woman, an older lady, smiled at Watson as she processed his information. Normally he would order a pass electronically but he felt the need to chat today.

The woman reminded Watson of his deceased grandmother. She was a pleasant lady who spoke about how she anxious for the return of spring so that she could plant her small garden. Watson told her how his wife was in the same frame of mind. He enjoyed Roslyn's small garden but was not botanically inclined. Fred often identified his wife's flowers by such names as the tall yellow thing or the smelly red thing. He told the woman that fact. She chuckled at his self deprecating humor.

"My husband is like that," she commented. "But at least he spades the ground and weeds for me." She punched in the last of his information. "One copy for the company manifest and another for the guard people," she said as she zipped the information to his handheld.

"What guard people?" he asked.

"You're going sub-orbital," she explained. "Don't worry: It isn't an invasion of privacy. One copy goes to the company in case something…happens to your flight. The other goes to the Sky Guard for the same reason." She looked pensive. "I think the Star Fleet is taking that over."

"A copy," he said; more to himself than to her. Watson had forgotten about the world agency that had been charged with acting as a sort of guard force for local disasters. No wonder though as there had been few major unpredicted natural disasters these days and almost no aviation related ones. The air freighter crash of a few months ago had been the only one that had occurred during Fred's lifetime.

"Is that just civilian manifests?" he asked in a conversational tone.

"No; the military uses them as well. It's another repository; just in case. As a matter of fact they have a list of every off planet flight going back into the twenty-first century."

"I didn't know that," he remarked. He nodded at her and bid her a good day and good spring.

He decided to stop at a little café as his flight wasn't due in for another hour. Watson felt an urge and wished that he had lain off the coffee at the hotel. He headed for the men's room. Fred looked around. He felt a chill run down his back. It was probably nothing he thought. Perhaps he was in the process of catching a cold. Man had cured most cancers and degenerative diseases but they hadn't made a dint in that annoying sickness.

He went in. Watson heard the door open behind him. His head hurt. Fred realized that he was lying on the cold floor. A woman was knelt down looking over him. He shook his head and started to set up. He smelled the scent of something burning. The woman pushed gently on his shoulders, holding him down. He took a second look at her: She had a full head of black ringlets. She was very attractive. Fred thought that her ancestry was probably from the Southern Americas or Spain.

"You are very lucky," she told him. "The _drak'ha _would have killed you."

"What are you talking about?" he struggled to set up. He felt the comfortable weight of his service pistol. The Browning needler was not strictly field issue but Fred liked something more than a stun wand. He sat up on his hands.

"We search for the same person," the woman explained, "or thing. You are interested in catching someone are you not?"

He looked past her to see the telltale scorch of a laser beam across the far wall. Part of it was still smoking. He started to remember: His head had hit the floor after he had collapsed. He tried to remember more. Watson saw a man's face looking into his. But it was a face like no other. It was Reed's but there was something else; something terrible had been there. He shook his head and stood up.

"You're going to have to answer some questions about what happened here," he told her. He felt strange after he said it. Watson felt compelled to just let the attractive woman go—he shook his head as if trying to wake up.

She stepped back. Watson thought that she looked surprised. "I see," she said. "I cannot answer your questions; not all of them. I shall tell you that I am interested in your quarry as much as you are."

"Who are you?" he asked pointedly.

"I am not from here," she replied. "But I must warn you that the person you seek is not who you think he is."

"This all sounds like so much nonsense," Watson said. He felt that desire to help this woman again. Somewhere out of the recesses of his mind he realized that feeling was coming from outside. It was coming from her. "Stop it!" he commanded. He pulled out his needler and pointed it at her.

"You are most strong willed," she said. Her eyes were without fear. "I am not human."

He felt somewhat strange again but the intrusiveness was not as prevalent this time. Her white skin grew sallow; a series of tiny blue veins seemed to be everywhere. Her eyes receded into their sockets and took on a cat like appearance. Her curly black hair retained its darkness but it became long and straggly. He thin bluish lips peeled back revealing a mouth full of teeth dominated by fangs.

"What the hell are you?" he asked breathlessly. The needler shook in his hands. A sudden thought occurred to him as she returned to human form: "A Romulan," he stated simply.

"I am not Romulan," she replied. "I was genetically altered before coming here. I am acquainted with what you hunt."

"That's twice you said referred to it," he said.

She looked around. "Someone is coming." She saw his look of puzzlement. "I am telepathic as you must already know. We seek the same thing: You know the name of the person. I know what it really is. I shall go with you so that we can speak further. Or you take me into custody and I shall escape and continue the hunt without you."

A younger man came into the restroom. He was taken aback by the sight of Watson holding the woman at gunpoint. Fred watched as she turned to the new arrival. The man's face relaxed. He went about his business as if he did not see Watson or the alien woman. Fred realized that he didn't see them anymore. He finished. He did not wash his hands. The young man brushed past Watson barely rubbing shoulders with the agent. The man stopped, looked around, brushed at his shoulder, shook his head in bewilderment and then left.

"I cannot push you. You are strong willed," she told him. "I can push others and escape. I am not Romulan and we have a common enemy. Come, are you not curious? Arrest me and jail me. I will escape and you will learn nothing."

"You said you couldn't," he hesitated, "push me. But you showed me what you…"

"I can show you things," she answered. "But I cannot force you to do things. Or I would have had his name and have been on my way. He undoubtedly was planning on pressing you for information when I intruded. He may have killed you after."

"I read the surface of your mind," she continued. "You pursue criminals in your profession. Do not murderers fall into that category?"

"That's a big assumption." This was insane Watson thought. He should just turn this thing into Star Fleet and let them see what they could make of it. He had seen Vulcans, Andies and Tellarites. Fred had even seen a holophoto of a Klingon. He had thought that had scared the daylights out of him until he had seen this alien. A question occurred to him: "Okay, he knocked me out, so you say. How come he can do that and you can't touch me?"

"Its talents are different. It can cast its cloak over an isolated being but not in a crowd."

"So how do we capture it?"

"Kill it; that will be difficult enough."

"I'm a cop, not some executioner."

"I shall go with you and explain further. I'll assist you in your investigation. You might find that having someone with my talents will give you an advantage."

"And you're doing this just out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I am doing it because my people were once beset by _drak'ha. _They were repulsed, but at a cost. I do not wish to see them spread out from earth to attack us again."

Watson thought about it for some time. "Major Malcolm Reed," he said at last.

"Thank you. It is time to board your shuttle," she said. "I could still get a seat and we can speak further. Or you can take me into custody and confront something monstrous on your own."

"Did you read my mind to figure out what time the shuttle left?" he asked sharply.

She pointed down at a pocket of his coat. "No, your ticket stub is sticking out of your pocket."

"Oh, so it is," he said, snatching the ticket out of his pocket. He looked sharply at her. Could he trust this alien? Reed was a man whose past seemed to blur from one sinister event to another with nothing pointing directly back at the major. Watson would not have questioned it but the man had been close to too many questionable events.

"Okay, no guarantees," he said. "Let's get going." He holstered his needler. Watson would keep her at arm's length until he determined if she was a friend or an enemy.

Taskforce 5, near Capella IV, Star Fleet carrier Coral Sea

"This is the part I hate sir," Commander Angeline Alvarez told her captain; "Waiting for the minnies to get back."

"We'll see if they are staging at Capella," Captain Mark Tompkins replied. "That is all we need now: To have the Birdies entrenched at Topaz and then a satellite base at Capella. We need to get them out of this region of space; not get tied down in endless skirmishes while they rearm at Romulus." 

Tompkins surveyed his bridge. The crew was bored more than tired. He sometimes wondered at the wisdom of the Stellar Navy—no Star Fleet he reminded himself; their decision to put the thirty nine year old ex-operations' officer in charge of a carrier. Two years ago he had been a lieutenant holding a lieutenant commander's billet. The United Earth Stellar Navy was on the way to being phased out to be replaced with a mercantile fleet. Tompkins had received a lucrative offer from Lloyds: Ship out as a first officer on a freighter and by the second cruise he would be master of his own vessel.

That suited Ben just fine: He had always dreamed of exploration and being paid lucratively to do it had been an added bonus. Then the war had come along. Tompkins was offered a promotion to LC and was a full commander less than a year after that. This was his first cruise as captain of this vessel.

"Keokuk is reporting contacts," Chief Linda Jenkins reported. He asked the comm chief to confirm the Powhaton's report. Keokuk was screening the carrier along with her sister escort Mobile Bay.

"Early for the minnies," his first officer interjected. Tompkins liked Alvarez but wondered what would come of people like her after the war. His spirited first officer had been a fire control officer aboard the old Excelsior. Despite her age she had volunteered for and been selected to fly Minotaurs. Tompkins didn't know how many Romulans were aboard one of their cruisers. He did know that Alvarez had done her best to kill many of them.

"Keokuk pinged these guys first," Tompkins said. He absently scratched at his right ear as he considered possibilities. "Chief," he said to Jenkins; "tell Captain Mugabe to fan out further but not to far away. No more than an AU," he added.

Tompkins ordered the bridge viewer display changed from star images to the tactical plot. He followed the patrol orbits of his screen of Powhatons. Between Keokuk, Mobile Bay and his own ship they effectively were able to scan a large volume of the space around them. Ben wished that they had the new counter measure for the sensors but they had departed prior to that fix being implemented. The rolling radar net would have to do. Besides he thought; how could the Romulans trace them back here?

"Ensign Villepin, superimpose the links from our escorts over ours," he instructed the sensor officer. "I want a complete picture." The Frenchman did as he had been instructed.

His first officer let out a low whistle as the image resolved onto the viewer. "That can't be a coincidence that they scan something that deep into our net sir."

"Net hell, number one," he replied. "That is more like a hole." Tompkins turned nervously to his communications' chief. "Jenkins, raise Mugabe and ask for an immediate update. I don't like this at all."

"Sir," Jenkins replied. "Keokuk is sending." He watched while she listened into her earpiece. "They've changed position as ordered; contacts lost."

Tompkins liked this less and less. The change in position also opened up another hole. It could be an anomalous return; then again it could be Romulan cruisers working their way in towards his group. He returned to his original argument: How could they track him back here? Star Fleet had developed the tactic of deploying carriers at random positions near an intended target. The Minotaurs would launch out, make the warp jumps necessary to get to their target, engage the enemy and then warp out. So far the strategy had worked.

"Radar returns!" Villepin announced: "Three point five AU's distant!"

The images appeared on the viewer. Their position was exactly where Tompkins thought that a Romulan cruiser force would try and sneak in at them from. The viewer showed three returns. They were closing in on Taskforce 5 at just over warp 3.1. They had some time. Ben called battle station and started calling in his screen. The Powhatons were outnumbered but simply put: Allied weaponry was superior. The Birdies were at a disadvantage here. The image on the viewer changed. Villepin issued another warning as Tompkins saw that the bogeys' speed had changed to warp 4.1.

"The Birdies don't have anything that fast!" Alvarez exclaimed.

"That we know of, number one," he replied calmly. "Tell me when laser crews report ready and prepare to go to warp. We can return here to commence recovery operations if need be."

"Two contacts have entered normal space just behind Mobile Bay, sir," Villepin added. "They are turning to engage."

It was a short engagement as the data trail representing the Powhaton vanished. Laser and missile crews were reporting in ready as the third contact warped past Keokuk to within nine thousand kilometers of Coral Sea. Tompkins was strapping into his seat when he felt the sickening feeling of the artificial gravity varying settings. Coral Sea had been hit.

"High speed inbounds!" Villepin exclaimed.

"Countermeasures and target that bogey!" he roared.

"Releasing mumbo jumbo captain!" his gunnery officer answered. "Crews reporting a hard time getting a solution on the Moolahs captain!" he added.

Several instrument panels erupted into flame. The artificial gravity lurched again throwing Tompkins against his straps. Damage reports started pouring in. Tompkins wondered what had hit them. The last missile had detonated over two thousand kilometers away. He looked over at the viewer which was now black.

"Helm get us out--,"

"Sir!" his helmsman interrupted. "Engineering reports the warp drive is damaged!"

"I've lost the link with Keokuk sir," Chief Jenkins reported.

The artificial gravity net stagnated for a brief second and then came back on. Tompkins heard a noise like one incredibly loud thump against a thick sheet of metal. The bridge lighting failed but was replaced by the intermittent light of exploding panels and lighting fixtures. Tompkins looked over at the engineering status board. He had a full second to realize that Coral Sea was lost. Ben breathed deeply and instantly regretted it a moment later. There was a loud pop. The bridge chilled as the air swept out into the vacuum of space. Tompkins felt an incredible fire in his lungs. He saw Alvarez's torso fly past him out into the blackness. He registered a blinding white light and then nothing.

Minotaur Squadron Eleven of the Star Fleet carrier Coral Sea, Mar 2158

"This is spooky uh," Ensign Tanzy "Legs" Greer said. "This is strange Bryce," she said to him.

Ensign Bryce "Spooky" Shumar grinned. He knew that was lost on Legs because he was helmeted and shielded from her field of view as she was from his. He held the grin for a full three seconds before dropping it: She was right.

At less than a half a light hour they should have been able to pick up one of the random rotating, coded subspace pulses from their mothership. Shumar checked his instruments. He considered sending out a coded pulse but protocol called for doing at a much closer range. Radar showed nothing fore or aft. He removed a cloth from the stowage area by his left foot. Shumar took it and dabbed at his face. Bryce would be glad to get back to Coral Sea and get into a hot shower. He hoped that the guidance beacon failure was just a glitch.

"Scan through the freqs Legs," he said at last.

"Minnie Two-Three," his squadron commander, Lieutenant Rajesh "Sudden Death" Shankar's voice sounded in Bryce's helmet.

"Three," Shumar replied simply.

Shumar suspected what was coming next. "I need an accounting of your AM packets and O-two scrubbers," Shankar said, confirming Bryce's prediction.

Shumar did as ordered. He added up enough backup scrubber units for fourteen days. His Minotaur had two anti matter packets left: Enough fuel for a half light year journey. He did his own accounting as well: He and Greer had enough food and water for about two weeks of travel. Bryce reported his status to Shankar.

"I'm getting a disaster beacon Spooky," Greer told him. He told Shankar of their findings as he switched over to the frequency that Greer was monitoring. The warbling tones were overlaid with a set of coordinates: The exact location of Coral Sea and her escorts. "There is a video transmission in the clear."

"Put it on," he told her across the fighter's cockpit.

His heads' up display changed: The image of a starfield appeared on his display. A ball of white hot fire blossomed and shrank. Shumar thought that he saw a missile streak by. The image lost focus for a few seconds. When it sharpened to clarity, Shumar found himself staring at a green colored, twin nacelle vessel. The ship was unfamiliar to Shumar but he had no doubt of its identity when a beam of white hot plasma spat out of the ship's bow. The vessel rolled slightly showing the bird of prey adorned on the vessel's primary hull. The image stopped abruptly to be replaced with static.

"We seen that two," Shankar announced.

"Nothing is showing on radar Spooky," Greer told him. She turned bodily suit and all so that he could see her face. "I could take a peek with sensors."

Shumar considered calling Shankar for advice. But Greer's idea was sound. He told her to proceed. He took a deep breath as the warm up time passed and Legs entered the final sequence to start the subspace sensors. He told her to look for only a few seconds. She replied in the affirmative as the HUD image changed again: This time a graphic of energy readings and mass returns showed on his display.

Shumar looked at radiation readings endemic of nuclear explosions. He saw other indications showing the probable discharge and resulting damage caused by plasma weapons. The mass of debris and particles very nearly equaled what Bryce would have guessed for the mass of two Powhatons and a Yorktown class carrier. That was after they had been filtered through the carnage inflicted by bombs and plasma beams. A pulse was elongating outward. Three solid returns were heading away. Greer shut the sensors down. Shumar called his lead and informed him of what he had seen.

It took almost a minute for the reply. "Reduce to warp 0.5 and continue to the rendezvous coordinates." Shumar knew that Sudden Death was considering his next move.

There would be no pickup. That had never been a consideration for these missions given how thin the new Star Fleet was spread. Shumar had to acknowledge too that there had never been a requirement for rescue operations before this. But the navy had a plan. One thing that Bryce David Shumar had discovered was that Star Fleet and its parent organizations the Stellar Navy, Imperial Guard and the Tellarite Defense Force all had one thing in common: They had plans for everything.

Shumar knew that Shankar would assess whose ship was in the best shape. The remaining Minotaurs would transfer their usable anti matter packets and air scrubbers to that plane. That one Minotaur would head toward friendly territory. The others would have the anti matter that was already in containment and whatever atmosphere and supplies they had. They would disperse and look for rescue or a place to set down. More likely that they would die out here in space Bryce thought.

Mount Selaya, the planet Vulcan, earth year Mar 2158,

V'Tel spoke to Micah Brack using the melodious Vulcan language. Lieutenant Frank McCoy watched as his friend nodded at the Vulcan, and then replied in the affirmative in that language. Frank understood from Micah that V'Tel was a sort of teacher of logic. McCoy thought of her as a priestess. She turned to McCoy and said something in her native tongue. McCoy looked at Brack.

"She asked who you are," he replied. "Your full name and lineage," Brack added.

McCoy suddenly felt like he was eleven again; standing before his class reciting the preamble to the World Bill of Rights. "Uh…Franklin David McCoy, son of David and Marta McCoy," he recited haltingly. Brack/Mistral added something in Vulcan. "What did you say?" he asked Brack.

"Nothing important," the industrialist replied.

"Okay, what did you say?" he repeated.

McCoy was causing Brack's attention to be divided between him and the Vulcan. "I said that you are here as my companion Frank." Brack looked back at the dour faced Vulcan.

"Aw, shucks," McCoy said. "It almost makes me want to hug and kiss you Micah." Said in jest, the sentiment did touch Frank who had come to understand that the immortal Brack had shunned friendships for the last few years—hell, centuries McCoy realized.

"We're just friends," Brack retorted. "Don't look for me to include you in my will!"

"You'll just outlive me anyway," he said. McCoy saw a look of pain cross Brack's face. He had struck a nerve. "Look Micah, I'm…."

"Forget it Frank," Brack snapped. "Just for that I will include you in my will!" The immortal grew serious. "You might collect on that Frank: V'Tel has explained that I could become lost during this ceremony."

"How could they lose…," Frank looked around. A great plain spread out beneath them. Giant statues depicting ancient Vulcans stood behind the raised block structure where the removal of the katra was to take place. The group consisting of Frank, Micah, V'Tel and four Vulcan males with their faces partially covered by strange masks stood at the bottom of a great set of stone stairs leading to the temple. He realized that anything could happen here. "I understand."

Brack recited a short alpha numeric sequence and then made Frank repeat it several times. "What is that?" he asked after Brack seemed satisfied that Frank had committed the numbers and letters to his memory.

"There is a computer console in my office," Brack instructed him. "Use the first part of the sequence to get in. The second part will unlock my private encrypted database."

"You really are leaving me in your will!" Frank exclaimed. "Okay, I won't need it. What would I do with all of those credits anyway?"

"There are other things Frank," Brack replied as he started up the steps with V'Tel and her escorts. "You might even find out who really killed Kennedy," Micah called over his shoulder.

"Kennedy who?" he asked in confusion.

Brack turned and shot him a smile. "Forget it. Goodbye Frank."

"I'll see you down here when you are done old man," Frank retorted. Micah Brack turned and ascended the stairs.

Frank paced for awhile before seating himself upon the raised wall of the mighty parapet that he was on. The harsh Vulcan sun descended into the desert floor. Off in the distance he spied a sprawling patch of green. He was given to understand that the Vulcans maintained preserves to promote reforestation efforts. He looked at the blasted desert and counted his blessings that earth had stopped its business of nuclear exchanges before it looked like Vulcan.

He looked at the great winding stone staircase that they had climbed to get here. McCoy thought that it lucky that he had not had a heart attack. He noticed someone toiling up the same stairs. Robed Vulcans appeared and descended down the steps lighting torches as they went. The climber threw back their hood revealing a head full of jet black hair. Frank realized that the hair belonged to a Vulcan female. As she made the final ascent he got a clear look at her: She was attractive, Frank guessed her to be in her late one hundreds.

He absently kicked a small stone and watched it fall. Could they ever trust these people Frank wondered? Romulan agents could be among the aliens and they would never know. The woman nearing his landing vaguely reminded Frank of Chondra: The Romulan agent he and Brack had stopped many months ago in Oklahoma. He looked away as she drew closer. He guessed that she was one of the Vulcans that had a function here in this place. He became aware that she had stopped before him.

"You are McCoy?" she asked. Her English was the same unaccented English that he had heard most Vulcans use.

"Frank McCoy, son of David and Marta," he answered as he stood up.

"I am called T'Les," she said. "I am T'Pol's mother."

McCoy blinked and bowed his head. "I'm sorry for your loss ma'am."

"Why?" she answered without emotion. "You did not cause her death." He looked at her while trying to hide his frustration. She held up a hand. "My apologies; our emotional detachment is confusing to offworlders. The loss of a child is disconcerting. It is for us who are older to precede our children. It should not be this way."

McCoy thought of his own situation. He had no children although his peculiar relationship with Kanya Nayyar might change that. "I don't know. I never had children ma'am," he said at last.

"They are most willful," she said. "Perhaps you are fortunate: Children do not always make wise decisions; it is worse after they become adults."

"My father said always told me that it was a miracle that I could feed and clothe myself," McCoy replied. He wondered if she was hinting at T'Pol's relationship with Tara.

"You were handicapped?" she asked without a change of expression.

"It is a figure of speech," he answered. "Tara was a good man." It was a change of tack but he felt that it needed said. He had almost said boy instead of man. Frank could not help but remember the nervous ensign whose glasses always seemed to slide down his nose. But that young man had given his life to save this world.

"I did not mean to insinuate otherwise Mister McCoy. A Vulcan mating with one of your people is unique but I believe that it would have happened at some point in the future. I approved of her choice of Gupta although I found him…strange. But your people are strange to us: You openly display your emotions and yet you seem to have contained your rages."

"We've been lucky," McCoy said. "Man I mean; lucky that we didn't make our world unlivable, lucky that we made it into space."

"Random chance?" she asked in reply. "Then we must share in your luck," she paused, obviously mulling over that word, "since Gupta never would have come here had you humans destroyed yourself. Do you lament his demise?"

It was the whole reason that he had been sent here. "He was my friend," McCoy said at last. "Maybe this is why we humans stopped killing each other: Too damn many good people, our friends die."

"Their deaths were not in vain," T'Les said. "I do not know what changes will befall our races, but I know that there will be changes."

She asked what he was doing here. McCoy explained as well as he could about Brack and his condition. T'Les seemed surprised that a human was carrying a Vulcan katra and even more surprised at where it had come from.

"This Mistral spent most of his life with humans," T'Les commented. "It would have been interesting to discover what he found so compelling about humanity. It is too bad that I missed a chance to speak with your friend Brack before the katra is transferred."

Frank was silent for a long time. "About that," he said when he finally spoke. "What are the chances that Brack…"

"I do not know," she said in answer to his unfinished question. "The procedure has not been performed in a long time. I have never seen it done in my lifetime."

McCoy said nothing. Micah Brack had lived before the time of Jesus Christ. It seemed inconceivable to Frank that he could die but what would happen if his mind was…lost as he had put it? Brack had been standoffish when they had first started working together. Later on the immortal had provided protection for Eileen Thomas though that act had been in vain. Somewhere in the process the men had become friends. Frank did not want to see his friend die.

"I would sit with you although I do not understand tiny talk," T'Les said.

Frank chuckled when he figured out what she had meant: "Small talk; yes thank you, I would appreciate some company." Frank looked out as he sat silently with the Vulcan. Maybe in some Vulcan way, bereft of emotion, this T'Les needed some company as did he. The Eridani sun sank beneath the blood red horizon.


	36. Chapter 36

T'Naren Province, the planet Vulcan, earth year Mar 2158

T'Naren Province, the planet Vulcan, earth year Mar 2158

The cool desert air would heat up all too soon Christophur Thorpe knew. The sky turned red as the first rays of the morning sun stretched forth onto the plains of the Vulcan desert. The service was in progress. Thorpe listened through a translation device, developed by a doctor from South America, as Syrran spoke of changes that would be coming to his people. The Vulcan spoke of their association with aliens and of the need for Vulcans to shed what he called provincial attitudes. The speech was good thought Thorpe, the politician and speechwriter. It was too bad that Sato's translation device rendered it into a harsh mechanical monotone.

There were no Vulcan bodies: Thorpe understood that their death rituals were different. The sandy floor before the podium was filled with a formation of boxes. Most of them were covered by the flag of the Stellar Navy. A few were covered with flags adorned with the 'A' like delta of Shahar Rastan. A few fibrous cocoons stood over a complex bier that was to be set aflame. These contained the bodies of Tellarites that had fallen in the battle to get to Vulcan. The Andorians stored their dead in long cylindrical containers. There were several of those interspersed on the sandy plain among the other dead.

A loud gong was followed by the ringing of small bells as Syrran finished. Thorpe watched as two Vulcans shook an oddly shaped framed holding an arrangement of tiny bells as Syrran came to stand with him, Shran and Tas Shavma. Thorpe would have preferred a civilian representative for the Tellarites but he knew that their government would accept the Shavma as a legitimate representative. It was his turn to speak. Thorpe walked slowly to the podium.

He pulled prepared notes out of his sleeve. It was an old fashioned approach but Thorpe disliked the prompting devices that literally projected the words into the speaker's eyes. He stood there awhile creating an uncomfortable silence. He looked at the small cards with his words printed upon them; just a short statement on the bravery of those who had died; the same empty platitudes that politicians spoke at every event like this. He looked out over the boxes and containers. The young lady who had lost her arms aboard Charger was in one of those: The surgeon had proclaimed that despite her young age, the shock had been too much.

He looked out over the assemblage of Star Fleet personnel and Vulcan civilians. Thorpe turned slightly to see Shran eyeing him with concern. Syrran was looking at him as well but typically, showed no emotion. Thorpe discarded the small cards. They fluttered to the stone floor below. He had been thinking of things that he could say last night. These humans and aliens had to have died for a reason beyond the basic survival of their races.

"Ninety five years ago my people ventured out into space in earnest," he started slowly, uncertainly. "We were honored to meet like minded individuals out among the stars and form the beginnings of alliances with them. These alliances were based on freedom and respected the dignity of each member of the different races." He took a breath as things that he had thought about the night before coalesced before him.

"We find ourselves in the midst of a great war; a war that very nearly ended our alliance with our friends. Our loyalty and belief in the principles of freedom and respect for other races has been tested and is being tested. Right here, in the sky above, a great battle was fought. It has been decided that those who died above shall rest here. They gave their lives for the ideals of which I spoke. They did not ask why or demand conditions."

"I can speak hollow words over them but their actions have defined how they lived. Those actions have a nobility that few of us can obtain. The words spoken here today will quickly become a footnote in history. The time for words has passed. We must build on the brave actions of those who have died, so that their deaths have meaning. We must together pledge that what we have started, this federation of planetary nations must dedicate itself to the freedom and peace of its members. These noble goals must not be allowed to perish while we still draw breath."

He searched the crowd. There was another awkward silence as the human musician was unprepared for Thorpe's impromptu presentation. He had been told to play after the utterance of words other than those that Thorpe had made. A low throaty woodwind instrument had followed Tas Shavma and an oddly melodious flute was played by an Andorian musician after Shran had spoke. Someone was clapping behind him. He turned and was shocked to see Syrran performing the human act. He wondered how the translation of his words had carried over to the Vulcan. The chief who had been chosen to play the funereal dirge finally started playing. Thorpe stood with the other leaders as the strains of _Amazing Grace_ floated over the assembled mourners amid a crashing wave of applause.

"Not bad for a pink skin," Shran whispered to him.

The sun would be up soon. McCoy stirred from his uneasy sleep. The stony parapet offered an uncomfortable and painful place to sleep. At least he was warm. Frank had discovered early on that the seemingly bulky cloaks favored by the Vulcans offered cooling in the days and warmth at night. He stirred and looked across to see T'Les, legs crossed, in a meditative state. Her eyes were closed. Frank dabbed at his mouth. He hoped that he hadn't influenced her impression of men by drooling in his sleep.

There was a stirring above. Frank looked up to see the light of torches descending through the blackness above. The great vault of stars was the only light. He looked over and saw that T'Les' eyes were open. She looked sharply at him as if she had been awake the whole time. McCoy pulled himself painfully to his feet. His back and legs were stiff and sore. T'Les sprang lithely to her feet.

"They come," she said.

He nodded nervously. It did not look like Brack was among the hooded Vulcans. Frank looked up the stairs again. He could barely make out a hooded figure emerging from the temple above. Frank was worried. The group of Vulcans stepped onto the landing. One of the Vulcans threw back his hood showing it to be Micah Brack.

His friend stood mute. "Are you alright?" McCoy asked.

Brack nodded slowly. "Just a headache; nothing that a thousand year nap wouldn't cure," he replied.

"Is…" Frank asked nodding at Brack's head.

"Is he gone?" Micah asked in reply. He nodded again. "Mistral is gone."

"His consciousness survives," T'Les interjected.

"It does," Brack said. "And who are you young lady?"

Brack was no longer speaking in Vulcan. Frank chuckled at the look that T'Les gave Brack in return. She obviously did not consider herself young in relationship to the apparently fortyish Brack. It occurred to Frank that Brack had been born when Vulcans still had emotion.

"My apologies ma'am," Brack said. McCoy performed introductions for the two. Brack said something to her in Vulcan. She replied in the same tongue. Frank guessed that it was an offer of sympathy or some such.

"You carried the katra of one of us," she said to Brack. "The experience must have been fascinating."

"For both of us T'Les," Brack answered.

"T'Les had a question about… ugh, Mistral," Frank interjected. He looked at her for approval. She merely blinked at him.

"I was curious why one of my people would maroon himself upon your world."

The early morning twilight illuminated a figure less than fifteen meters below. The trio stopped to watch the progress of the climber. This was no Vulcan, dressed as he was in a blue uniform jacket that partially concealed the gold command tunic beneath. The form of Captain Donald Townsend became recognizable. Frank thought that it was becoming positively crowded up here.

"Don't these people have escalators?" the captain called up to them.

"We do have escalators," T'Les said as Townsend stepped onto the stone slab.

"Sorry," he commented when he realized that a Vulcan was among the group.

"We do have escalators for those who need them," she told Townsend. "You do not look like you need one."

"Hello sir," McCoy said in greeting. "What brings you out this morning?"

"Evening for me," Townsend corrected him; "as a matter of fact, ship's evening. I've been given command of another ship. It's not the Queen--," he glanced at T'Les before continuing: "The Jade Queen. But she seems like a fine vessel."

"Congratulations captain," Brack said.

Townsend nodded. "Thanks. Here's the rub though: I've been assigned a mission. I really can't say more. Admiral Forrest tells me that you are still on detached duty Lieutenant McCoy: I could use your help."

"I'm just an intel troop sir," he replied. He wondered why Townsend had come all this distance just to make him feel good.

"You did good here, McCoy. This mission calls for special talent. Plus, Marsh Davies tells me that you are good with a laser torch. I could use that right now, believe me."

Was this one of those navy deals where an order was masked as a pleasant offer? Townsend must have guessed his thoughts as he told him that he was free to refuse. Should he go back to earth now? Nayyar was carrying his and Eileen's child. The augment had sent him a letter reporting on the baby's progress. She had also asked what Frank had thought were rather personal questions. She had seemed to go out of her way to insinuate that she was merely doing this out of a sort of favor to McCoy. Could there be something more?

What about Admiral Soames and their clandestine operation? The Birdies seemed to have been booted off of earth thanks in large part to their illegal efforts. McCoy didn't want to go back and spend the rest of the war analyzing data and video. He needed something to think about besides Eileen. He was worried about this Reed character and the admiral. But Soames was a hard woman. Frank thought that she could take care of herself. He made his decision.

"When do we leave captain?" he asked.

"I'm staying at the same inn as you two gents are," Townsend answered. "I'm shuttling back tomorrow at 0600." Frank switched the time over on his chronometer to Star Fleet standard. He would return to his room and try to grab a few hours sleep during this day.

"I'm fairly proficient with technology myself captain," Brack interjected.

"I'm aware of that Mister Brack. I'm also aware that you are a civilian. You were only authorized passage on the Jade Queen because the orders came from the president. I don't begrudge your help: You got us here. But I have no legal authority over you one way or the other."

"I'm sure that there are regulations covering the drafting of civilians Captain Townsend."

"Don't you have companies to run Micah?" Frank asked. He was surprised that the immortal Brack was volunteering himself. The goal for Micah here on Vulcan was to return Mistral's katra. McCoy assumed that they would go their separate ways.

"Those things take care of themselves Frank," Brack answered. "I built Utopia Planitia: That is complete. I've been sitting in the shadows for too long. If there is one thing that I've learned from my," he paused and smiled. "My experience, it is that I need to become involved again." Frank watched as he addressed Townsend. "Well captain, what is it to be?"

"Okay, alright," Townsend answered slowly. "Jade Queen II is a military ship in a time of war. Once you are aboard and the airlocks close then she becomes a kingdom and I'm the king. Is that clear Mister Brack?" Before he could reply Townsend added: "I also want you to report to Phlox: Your age as stated on the manifest is seventy one. Hopefully I look like you at seventy one Mister Brack."

Brack smiled. "Vitamins, don't you know, they work wonders captain. Of course I'll report to Doctor Phlox."

McCoy wondered what the Denobulan physician would find. He was surprised that Brack agreed to be seen by a doctor. Perhaps his immortality was not something easily detectable. He decided that he would ask Micah about it when they were alone.

McCoy turned to T'Les. "Thanks for the company ma'am. It probably isn't logical to you but it means something to me."

"There is logic in sharing one's company to discuss things held in common. I owe you some thanks as well Mister McCoy. It was," she paused, "pleasing to discuss my daughter's life with one who knew her."

The four started the long descent to desert floor and the small city that was there. Frank watched as Brack looked over his shoulder at the Vulcan. "Lucy and Desi ma'am," he said simply.

"What?" she asked.

"Mistral stayed on earth because of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez."

"They were great philosophers?" T'Les asked.

Frank thought that Brack would laugh at that but instead he answered in an unusually pensive tone: "In a manner of speaking, yes they were. Mistral believed that they embodied a different approach to problem solving, one that was not monolithic. Mistral stayed because he reasoned that man would survive to win his way to the stars; because a Cuban entertainer and his actress wife could solve domestic problems in half an hour. He thought that if those two could survive then the rest of mankind would have no problem."

Amsterdam, province of North Holland, the old European Hegemony, earth, Mar 2158

"Bloody bastards!" the man cursed. Malcolm Reed beheld a middle aged man, a little shorter than he who had obviously indulged in too much food and drink. He merely nodded across the table at the man. The rest of the bar's patrons cared little for the outbursts of Nelson Goodwin. They were used to them and they agreed with his sympathies. Reed listened as the Englishman continued on with his rant:

"The authorities bought hook, line and sinker the warmongers' story. Mark Hawkins may have been a wanker but he wouldn't have killed himself. Why would he? This war was a mistake from the beginning." He took a gulp of beer and followed it with an explosive belch. "Jaap!" he called over to someone seated at the bar. Reed watched as a young man with greasy blonde hair turned around. "Tell Brother Marcs here about how it was the Andies who launched that bomb at the states."

Reed listened as the man named Jaap explained how the Andorians had really fired the missile that had incinerated Panama City. He used convenient ballistic calculations that seemed to imply that the Andorians had timed the firing of an orbit-to-ground missile to coincide with the launch of a Romulan defensive missile, the missile had arced over the horizon, inserting itself neatly into a radar blind spot. Then the Andorian missile had exited the blind spot at just the right point to make it look like the Romulan missile was continuing on into the atmosphere.

"There is missing radar data," Jaap went on to insist. "Of course that data proves who really launched the missile. The fact that it is missing proves that it was an Andorian missile. Why else would the warmongers try to hide it?"

Reed nodded, seemingly amazed and dumbfounded at Jaap's clever reasoning. He enjoyed conspiracies and this one was a classic: The data being used to prove the conspiracy's existence was missing. Of course the absence of proof was proof itself. It was all so absurd after Thorpe had made so much data available to the public. But Malcolm was counting on absurdity. He was also counting on the viciousness of Nelson Goodwin.

"You see there, Marcs?" Goodwin asked. "See how they cover up the truth?" Goodwin shook his head. "The wrong people won the Third World War," he grumbled.

Reed agreed heartily. He took up a clear beer stein to see a reflection of bright red hair over a pale, freckled face. He was pleased with the types of makeups and concealment devices that the theatrical trades were churning out today. Only his height and weight were comparable to one Malcolm Reed; everything else was indistinguishable. It mattered little as far as Goodwin was concerned. He hated the government and liked credits.

Years ago Reed had done the background work in the investigation of civilian dock workers pilfering naval cargo pods. Goodwin had been caught along with several others. Malcolm had identified the surly thief as someone he could use later; later had showed up. Reed had mouthed all of the right platitudes for someone from the Sons' of Terra.

He had assumed the identity of Charles Brenner for this little part. Goodwin would check on him, of that Reed had no doubt. Brenner would check out: Malcolm doubted that anyone could find the body. The beauty of it, Malcolm knew, was that Brenner and Goodwin shared many things in common: Both were full fledged members of SOT and neither were the types who were missed. He made small talk with Goodwin consisting of crude ratings for bar's one waitress. Reed saw his moment and fell to discussing the reason for his visit.

"We've got to hit them back Nelson," he said, "I can call you Nelson, if that is alright?" Goodwin nodded in reply. "I've heard that you are a man who can get things done." Reed slid a piece of paper over to Goodwin. "There is a number there. I'll give you half when you agree to take care of a certain job for me; the other half when the job is done."

"How did you hear about me Brenner?" Goodwin asked. There was suspicion in his voice.

"You're a Son and so am I," Reed explained. "I floated an idea at a meeting, quietly of course and your name came up." Reed pulled the paper back. "I'm sorry I've taken your time up brother. Perhaps you aren't who I'm looking for."

Goodwin reached out a grabbed the paper. Reed smiled, he didn't have to be some sort of telepathic Reman-Romulan half breed in order to detect Goodwin's avarice. "What kind of a job?" Malcolm explained what he wanted done. Much to his surprise Goodwin did not balk. "I hate the uniforms," Goodwin said, referring to Star Fleet personnel. "But they are there because they are ignorant: They are fools serving whoever gives them an order."

"It's hurting our image, don't you think?"

Goodwin nodded. Malcolm thought he seemed reluctant. He also noted that his knuckles were badly skinned. Reed had heard that another crewman had been beaten somewhere near here. Goodwin had been at the bottom of that he guessed. He suspected that the ex-felon still held a grudge against the military.

"He was an ex-marine don't you know?" Malcolm told Goodwin. "Another of those fools, but he obviously never learned anything." He could see that Goodwin's interest was piqued. "No one will ever suspect us to hit them this way."

He could see Goodwin mulling over possible results. "It would certainly be a stick in the eye to that nasty old bugger Thorpe." Goodwin had gotten quiet. Jaap had left with a gentleman leaving the two of them to themselves.

"Half now then," Goodwin mumbled. Reed smiled.

Hancock, Maryland, the old United States, earth, Mar 2158

"Is Kirsty bringing our grandchildren by?" Fred Watson asked his wife.

Roslyn Watson looked up from her desk. Fred wondered what she was writing tonight. Being married to an author was interesting to say the least. He certainly did not need to work anymore. Fred considered what staying home and being a good house husband would be like. He shelved the idea and decided to wait until retirement. Watson loved fishing but realized that he would go quietly insane if that became his primary career.

She turned to him. He was seated comfortably in his big wing backed easy chair. "I imagine that she will, Fred," Roslyn told him. "I think she is over the last time."

Watson looked away from his wife and pretended to stick his nose back in his book. Fred tended to embellish many things for his grandson and granddaughter. Apparently that led to them getting into minor trouble at school. Roslyn always reminded him that she was the story teller, not him.

"Kirsty needs to let them be kids Roz," he said after awhile.

"Do you think that our daughter is a failure as a parent Fred?" she asked.

He reluctantly closed his book. Dixon Hill was near to uncovering his latest client's secret affair. He sighed. "No; it is just that Kirsty has her hands full with Wes being deployed to Wolf. Thank God she changed her mind and decided not to reenlist. I just think that she is being too hard on them is all." Roslyn merely looked down her glasses at him. "Okay, okay I'll stop being an instigator."

"No, it is okay," Roslyn told him. "I was just thinking of what you said: I'm glad that she didn't go away to fight." She looked away from her manuscript. "I love our Darrel and Angie but I don't want to have to raise them; especially the way that their grandfather spoils them and tells them stories, really Fred: The laughing Vulcan and his dog?"

"Hey it isn't your twentieth century romances but Darrel managed to put a tune to it."

Their comm unit started an offensive beeping. "I hope that is not Kirsten," his wife said. That would probably mean that she was going to stay home in Timonium tonight. Watson felt a little down until he heard the growing agitation in Roslyn's voice. He got up and went to her. She handed him the commset. "It's Margritte Ebenstark," she said glumly. "Karl is…Karl has been killed."

Fred felt a hollowness. He took the set with some reluctance. Margritte was nearly hysterical. Fred was relieved to hear the voice of Karl's daughter in the background. Her name was Karin; Fred could not recall her last name as she had married since he had last seen her. Margritte seemed to settle down and started planning the service, making him promise to come along with Roslyn. Fred had dealt with distraught people before. He knew that they had to try to reestablish a pattern of normalcy. He listened patiently while assuring Margritte that he and Roz would indeed be at the service. He tactfully asked how Karl's daughter was and if he could speak with her. Margritte was like an old fashioned clock winding down. Fred guessed that shock was settling in. Karin came on as Margritte bid him a good night and reminded him that the four of them should get together for bridge.

"Hello Mister Watson," Karin said. "I have not seen you since I got out of medical school. It is too bad that we speak again under these circumstances."

Watson told her that he was sorry for her loss. He could hear her putting the elder Ebenstark to bed. Watson guessed that she was alone when she started to describe the events surrounding Karl's death.

"A man named Goodwin," she supplied. "The police never would have tracked him except that he went back to his flat and took his own life. The investigator said that he had spoken to another man, Sons' of Terra. Forgive me, I know father would not have approved but the president really should have done something about these vermin." She stopped speaking and was sobbing quietly. Watson waited patiently.

"The second man is missing," she continued after awhile. "We do not know anything more."

"Karl believed in what the president was doing Karin," Watson said. Reassurances given after someone's demise always struck him as pap. He tended to agree with Karin just from the standpoint of good order. The Sons' of Terra had been employing criminal tactics not heard of since the last century.

"I know," she answered. "He was a good man. I hope that justice is done Mister Watson. I," she hesitated. Watson could clearly read her embarrassment.

"I'll give it my personal attention Karin. I promise." She thanked him. He made her promise to keep him posted on the time for the service. Karin severed the connection.

Fred looked at his wife and blinked. She came to him and hugged him. "Karl and you were friends for years. I'm so very sorry Fred."

"Stupid," was what he said in reply. "A good man like Karl dies."

She released him. "I'll fix us drinks," Roslyn said. His eyes followed her into the dining room beyond. He moved over to his personal terminal, seated himself and accessed the UI network.

There was little there. Information from the on-scene investigators' handhelds was pouring in. Watson was distressed to see that everything was pointing to a dead end. He had been seeing this very pattern too much lately. He had dreamed of Reed looking over him.

The major had asked him a question in his dream. He couldn't recall what it was but the mention tonight of Ebenstark's name had sent an icy chill down his spine. The alien named Dominique had told him to be wary of Reed. It was only logical to assume that rather than deal with Fred, it would be better for Reed to find out who Watson was working for. Is that what had happened here? And what of this alien named Dominique?

She had told him that her real name was unpronounceable. She claimed to be a member of a species called Reman. Watson had no idea what that was. Roz returned and handed him a drink. It was a shot of scotch with no ice. He had almost turned the Reman in to Star Fleet but that would mean questions: Questions about his investigation of Reed and questions that would have eventually led to more questions about the legality of an investigation coming from the office of the president. Karl may have sanctioned the snooping himself but no one would believe that. He was examining the findings when Roz came back.

Nothing?" she asked him as he sipped at his drink. Roz could read his face if few others could not. He nodded.

The Reman was probably loose doing God knew what on this world. Watson had been a fool. He saw that now. He finished his drink and asked Roslyn if she would mind getting him another. She shot him a look of concern. Watson had been a heavy drinker in his youth.

"Don't worry babe," he consoled her; "one more while I call a few of the marines from our old unit. They would want to know about Willy. Do you remember my cruise book?" he asked innocently. The book had a real bound back, and contained memories from Watson's time as a marine.

"It's upstairs with the photo albums," Roz answered.

"Would you fix me another while I go up and dig that book?" he asked her.

"Go ahead and have a sit," she answered. "I'll look upstairs for it." She sighed. "For a detective, you can't find anything in your closet."

He grinned sheepishly and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She disappeared up the stairs. He went into the hallway, retrieved a notepad from his trench coat, returned to the study and dialed in a code in the commset. He was being a damn fool: Fred knew that the Reman was gone. He was about to cut the connection when someone answered.

"Yes Watson?" she asked simply.

"How did you know it was me if you're not telepathic?" he whispered.

"You are the only one that I gave this netcode to," the alien answered. "Who else could it be?"

"Yes, I see your point," he had only moments to talk. Fred was beginning to realize that he didn't want to involve Roslyn in this: It could be the death of her. "Okay, we team up and deal with Reed."

"He is residing near here temporarily--,"

"I want to know everything about him," he had cut her off. "I'm doing this the old fashioned way. I want to start where he grew up; poke around there. Can you meet me at the BWI shuttle terminal around ten tomorrow?"

"I shall be there Watson," she answered. He switched off and replaced the commset.

He heard a thump and rattle from the foyer. There were screams and a sound like horses. Watson recognized the typical entry of his daughter's children. He shoved his drink away beneath Roz's desk. He knelt down and held his arms open for his grandchildren.

Marietta, Georgia, the old United States, Mar 2158

"Yes, we looked at the box that blew up," the infuriating sheriff told Kanya Nayyar. She was wondering yet again that the Romulans had not already conquered humanity. "What department did you say you're from again?"

"You've seen my identification," she insisted. She glanced again at the coroner's report. The law enforcement officer had reluctantly printed her off a paper copy. "This," she paused and read out the report verbatim: "Unidentified biological agent." She continued: "Found on a piece of the box and identified in David McCoy's bloodstream: You never found that of interest?"

"Davy's boy got mixed up in SOT," the officer said. "We aren't uneducated hicks down here ma'am." He sighed. "Do you think it more likely that an older man suffered a heart attack or that he was killed with some weird biological stuff that nobody has ever heard of and then blown up?"

"The bomb in the box and a heart attack?" she asked.

"Coincidence, pure and simple," the sheriff told her. "The bio matter might even have been part of the explosive. Read paragraph fourteen in the addendum. Our ME examined it six ways to Sunday: Inert material; it couldn't kill anyone or anything. See paragraph five in the main body. Look miss, I appreciate the UI finally lookin' at these SOT bastards. But the truth is, if I could've pinned this on any of Hawkins buddies I would've. There just wasn't anything leading back to them. SOT was out to get Davy's boy Frank. I don't doubt that. My theory is that they sent the bomb through some channel. I just cain't prove it. The heart attack and bio matter are just things that'll turn out to be marginal."

"Could anything induce a heart attack?" she asked him.

"Lot's of things," he answered. "There was nothing out of the ordinary in McCoy's blood or the debris that would though except for the unidentified matter; unless you believe that Doomsday Vault stuff," this last he mumbled.

"What was that?" she asked sharply. She walked with him toward the exit. Nayyar suspected that the man wanted her out of his hair.

"An urban legend ma'am," he answered. He opened the door for her. She took a deep breath of cool Georgia spring air. "Might chilly out for the first day of spring ma'am," he told her. "If you're staying in town there are a few nice southern style eateries." He eyed her pregnant condition. "Looks like you are eating for two," he said as he gave her a dismissive wave.

She thanked him and headed out. The long shadows of evening were reaching out to engulf the last of the day. Nayyar thought that she would stay here tonight. She had been growing tired lately. That was something completely outside the realm of her experience. Normally she could go for days on just a few hours of sleep. She had finally obtained a physician who had regarded her augmentation as inherited. The doctor had told her that her fatigue was normal. Kanya did not like it. She hiked two blocks to her transportation.

She got into her rented groundcar. Admiral Erica Soames was dozing peacefully in the passenger seat. Nayyar had called the admiral and asked her to come here and help her. There was still much that she did not understand about humanity. Soames woke up and looked at her through sleep laden eyes.

"Did you get your answers love?" she asked. Nayyar shook her head. Soames rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. "It's nothing more than SOT taking revenge on Frank. They had to figure out where they were leaking information and traced it back to Thomas. What did that lovely man in the uniform tell you?" Nayyar repeated most of what the policeman had said.

"They did their best," Soames said as Nayyar navigated through the busy streets toward the outskirts of the city. Nayyar told her of her intention to stay overnight.

"Then drop me at the shuttleport," Soames told her. "I'd stay but Taskforce 5 is overdue and fleet wants me to run scenarios on that; what a dreadfully bloody waste that is. The scenario is that we shall find out what happened to them in due course." Nayyar found the local expressway and headed the little car towards the shuttleport. "Why don't you come back to Virginia instead of wasting your time here?"

"It is important to find out who murdered Frank's father," she said. "He is hurt and angry still." She looked over at the admiral. Soames scrutinized her. Kanya turned back and switched the car's mode to manual.

"I think I understand this debt that you think you owe to McCoy." Soames fell silent as they got closer to the port. A few streamlined atmospheric shuttles were visible in the evening sky along with the bulky forms of earth-to-orbit transfer shuttles. "Do you love him?"

"No!" she exclaimed. She was quite uncomfortable now. "Why would you think that? No; there is nothing there at all. I'm just doing this because of what happened to Thomas."

The admiral sighed. "You could reach across this car and throttle me before I could move; probably before I even knew it was happening. But, dear Kanya, you don't really understand us yet."

"Frank spared me that day on the space station," Kanya rushed to explain. "Why would he do that? The Romulans always taught us to never leave an enemy behind you; never spare anyone."

"He didn't do it because he thought that you were a cute girl and wanted to pick you up. That much I know about Frank."

"I understand that," she answered. Kanya really couldn't say what her feelings were. Everything had changed after that confrontation on the space station.

"Frank is a very moral man," Soames said. "I curse myself for bringing him on board this thing. The trouble is that such people are rare. It was mercy, derived from his sense of morality that caused him to let you live, but he also a man that has had a hard time of things. You might love him but be warned my dear: He may not share those feelings about you."

She actually felt a sting at Soames' words. "I may not be an ideal mate for Frank," she said at last. The words were hard to say. "But surely this is how humans have relationships. I have read texts on human sexual relations."

The admiral chuckled. She stopped and gave Nayyar a kindly smile. "I wasn't laughing at your expense. Sex and love are two different things. Anyone can engage in sex. Look at me," with that she grinned mischievously. "But love is a different thing. It usually encompasses sex but it doesn't have to."

"I don't understand these things," she said at last. "I was trained to infiltrate and kill humans. Of course the Romulans gave us a distorted view of men. That is what made me switch alleg—change sides. Major Reed tells me that I speak like a Vulcan."

"Reed is a bastard," the admiral said. Her tone clearly conveyed her hostility. The car entered the main terminal of the well lit port. Soames smiled at her and reached over and tousled her hair. "It is all very confusing and I've spent my entire life as a frail human. I can only imagine what it must be like for you. Think carefully about your future Kanya. That is the only advice I can give to you."

"The Thomas' do not seem interested in my—their daughter's son," she said. Nayyar had discovered that when she had visited the couple. "What if I wish to keep him?"

Soames sighed. The car rolled to a stop. The admiral reached into the rear compartment and retrieved her kit. "Maybe you should apply some Pointie reasoning to this dear." Soames opened her door. "That's the nice thing about sex: You can leave once you've had your fun. Love is quite a different matter."

"Admiral, I almost forgot; what is an urban legend?"

Soames stopped and shook her head. "Like a tall tale; you are familiar with those?" she asked. Kanya had heard of those. She had skimmed through a book of such tales in her quest to learn more about humanity. The admiral was out of the car. She bent down and looked over at her. "Why do you ask?"

"Something that the officer said," she answered. "He said something about a Doomsday Vault. He said it was one of these legends."

Soames looked thoughtful. "Funny thing, Reed mentioned that to me. He said he got the program that cracked Star Fleet's security out of the vault. Just some more of his puffery, I imagine. Finish up here dear. I know that your ex-employer told you to hide in plain sight but it would be unfortunate if you ran into a real Unified Intelligence agent."

"I'll be back tomorrow, admiral," she said. "Have a safe flight."

Soames nodded, wished her a good night, shut the door and headed into the terminal. Nayyar started the car into motion. She switched to auto control and then asked the onboard computer for the location of the nearest library. Kanya was tired but she could deal with that. Right now she wanted to find out everything there was to know about the Doomsday Vault.

ShirKahr City, Vulcan, the earth year Mar, 2156

Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker strolled along the ancient streets. On the opposite side of the street clear water ran down the length of a canal that was both functional and oddly decorative. Towering spires rose up out of the urban center beyond. Tucker enjoyed the sights. He had snapped several holophotos. But it was time to go back to his room. He was hot and this was the last day of his shore leave. He thought that the night life was not exactly swinging here.

Tucker turned a corner and looked around in confusion. He was shore that he had cut down a street marked by a building that looked like a fifty story high field coil. The building that confronted him looked more like his late sister Elizabeth's flute stood on end. He looked around and pretended to admire the architecture while he realized that he was lost. A few Vulcans walked by him. Pedestrian traffic was picking up as the coolness of evening settled in. He considered asking for directions with the few words of that language that he knew. That was until he saw someone who he was familiar with.

"You never return my calls Trip," Jocelyn Stiles said. She was dressed in a loose blouse and tight fitting slacks. She smiled shyly at him. They hadn't parted on the best of terms.

"Well you know," he answered, "I've been so busy between water skiing and hitting the fleshpots at night that I just haven't had much time for anything else." She walked up to him. "Should I salute you or kiss you?"

"Kiss me," she answered; "that's an order."

He pressed his lips to hers. Tucker noticed a few looks from the passersby. He had forgotten how good those lips felt. He hugged her to him. She seemed less like the terror of the spaceways and more like a vibrant woman, but Trip knew different: She could not have easily disposed of her hatred for the Romulans.

"It's good to see you again Jo-jo," he said.

She stepped away from him. "I know you won't believe me but I've missed you Trip. I've been worried about you. What happened at Deneva was not your fault."

She took his hand and they crossed the street to walk along the canal. Trip was amazed at how easily they fell into old habits. They talked of her mother and her political career and of his parents. He didn't want to discuss Deneva. For awhile there wasn't a war. Tucker realized how bitter he had gotten hearing about the deaths' of friends and taskforce movements.

"My parents helped organize for your mother in their district," he said as they walked. "Here we are light years away and the Sons' were tryin' to pull off some kind of a coup. It's like the president can't even turn his back without these antiwar people tryin' some garbage." He looked at her and smiled. "So; how does it feel being the daughter of a councilor?"

"None of this has been real," she answered. Trip realized that he was hearing from her heart; the girl who had been before the war. "I just wish that everything was like it was."

He gave her hand a squeeze. "It won't ever be that way. But we can make it the way we want to."

"Maybe, Trip," Stiles answered, "but we've lost those people from the beginning." She sighed. "I'm going back to earth tomorrow for refit. I hear that Taskforce 33 is going as well."

"It'll be good to get back," he said. "Your mom misses you. I know you've probably got a whole bunch of reports to write but she has missed you."

"I'm just glad she isn't using her pull to send me an official memorandum," Stiles said. Tucker was surprised and pleased to hear humor in her voice again. "Commodore, please write your mother. Posted for all to see," she added.

He put an arm around her as they walked. "We won't have many days of leave but I was hoping that you'd spend some with me?"

"I'd like that," she answered. He thought that she seemed, not tired but worn from within. Tucker wondered what all of that hate would do. He was glad that he had moved past the death of his sister. She eyed him questioningly. "Have you heard anything about the meeting aboard Daedelus?"

"All those bigwigs? No I didn't. Funny thing about all of that; the Vulcans were deadest about joining up with us. Now, all of a sudden they change their minds. I don't know what Thorpe and Shran told them over there but it did the trick."

"Daedelus was in Romulan space," she space. "They actually started salvage operations on a wrecked cabbage. The funny thing is that with that much tech in their hands they didn't find anything out about the Romulans. You're sure that you haven't heard anything?"

"Not a thing," he answered. "I'm not the one that has the president's ear though."

She laughed softly. "He's been kind to us—me and mom, when we needed it. He's really not what I expected from a politician. You should have heard some of the things my dad used to say about the councilors and the president!"

He said nothing, instead choosing to enjoy the moment. Stiles' face grew serious. "Strange, how Daedelus returns and all of a sudden the Pointies change their minds. Now what would do that?"

"It's just coincidence I guess," Tucker answered. He had been asking himself questions like that. But, in the end, he had concluded that the simplest answer was probably the right one: The Vulcans had changed their minds after diplomatic efforts by Thorpe and Shran.

"Yes," she answered. Tucker saw a faraway look in her eyes. "You must be right." She returned to the here and now. "What were you up to?"

"I was going back to my room and catch some sleep," he said.

"Would you like some company?"

"For sleeping?" he asked with mock innocence.

"I wasn't thinking about sleep."

Leicester, the United Kingdom, the old European Hegemony, Apr 2158

Stuart Reed sat of a well worn sofa opposite his wife Mary. Agent Fred Watson looked across the room to where his unlikely alien partner was seated. He scanned over the setting room: It was a hodgepodge of twenty first and twenty seconds century décor. Family pictures adorned the walls and sat atop the coffee table. He spied one that must have been little Malcolm Reed.

"The last time that the navy did Mal's security investigation they just sent us a questionnaire," Mary Reed explained.

Watson hated this subterfuge but he couldn't think of a better excuse to interview the Reeds. "Your son is engaged in important security work at a time of war ma'am," Watson was surprised at the warmth that Catères could inject into her voice. "Procedures have become a little more…inquisitive. Your son protects valuable assets. You should be very proud."

Fred noticed how the older couple warmed up. Still, there was some concern about something. "Has Malcolm been around much lately?" he asked.

Mary Reed just looked down while Stuart Reed seemed to grow a little older looking. "Ever since he came back from that off world investigation he has seemed to shun us," Stuart answered. He grasped at the fabric of his slacks over his knees. "Of course me and mum understand that there is a war and we understand that Malcolm has a job." Reed just shook his head.

Dominique shot Watson a look. "It's hard when they move away," he said, acting upon her cue. "I have a daughter, she comes around some times."

"We understand that Mal has his own life," Mary Reed said. "We just tried to help him."

"Mary!" Stuart admonished his wife.

"It is a security investigation Stuart," she retorted. "I'm sure that these agents will find out in due course. It was nothing major anyway."

"Was there a problem Mrs. Reed?" Catères asked. Her voice was warm with concern.

Mary Reed looked at her husband. The elder Reed sighed. "Mal had rented a place in Tower Hamlets after he got back. I don't know why he just didn't stay here."

"You can't very well bring women back to your mom and dad's flat Stu!" Mary interjected.

"Sure mum," Stuart said.

"Tower Hamlets, where's that at?" Fred asked.

"London sir," Stuart answered. "I'm sure that it is as mumsy said: Just a place for Mal to take his dates." Fred waited while Stuart Reed came to the point. "With all that was going on he must have forgotten his housekeeping. Some food had gone bad creating a smell. The landlord went in the place. He called us because he was concerned. It looked like Mal had not been there for some time."

"We asked him about it," Mary Reed chimed in. "He became angry with what he thought was us prying into his business." She looked down at her feet. "We haven't seen him since." Stuart Reed reached a comforting arm over his wife's shoulders.

"He'll come around," Watson said in a consoling tone. "All kids do; no matter what their ages are." Watson asked for the address of the apartment in London and when they had last seen their son. Stuart remembered the address and told it to him. The man choked a little when he said they had not seen the younger Reed for many months. Fred stood up.

"Don't you want us to confirm the rest of his information like in the questionnaire?" Stuart asked. Watson didn't have to be a mind reader to see that the man was angry that they had come there and upset his wife.

"We have his vitals and you've confirmed a great deal already," Catères said. Watson looked hard at her as she stared intently at the couple.

"Yes, you have the information that you came for," Mary Reed said almost as if she were in a trance. Watson realized that she was. Dominique seemed to have them both enthralled.

"We had a very pleasant afternoon, as did you," he interjected. Catères shot him an angry glance.

"We had a very pleasant afternoon," the Reed's repeated in unison. He looked at Dominique who was gesturing for him to leave. He tossed his trench coat over his shoulders and quietly led the way out of the Reed's home. They worked their way carefully toward the underground tube station. The streets were still icy from an early spring storm of freezing rain.

"We shall go to this London?" she asked him. He nodded. Fred had appreciated her trick with the Reeds. Too many times he had had to leave distraught people behind after an interview.

Watson wished that he could have gotten things started last month after Karl's death. But the Unified Intelligence Agency had other tasks for him to do. Catères had helped gather background information in the mean time. It had also allowed Fred to search out information on his strange partner.

Catères had been that Catères who had been an associate of the late president pro tempore. When he had confronted her with that she had told him that she was on his world to gather information. He supposed that that is what an explorer would do. He had not inquired further although his suspicion was aroused. Catères had denied being a Romulan but had been sketchy beyond that, saying that her people lived under a rigid caste system that precluded her from talking much about them.

"What did you think?" she asked.

"Reed went away and things changed," he answered. "We'll find this landlord, chat him up and see what he has to say."

"Reed went to Alpha Eridani, not Wolf," Dominique said.

"When did you--,"

"I did as you instructed and found an original copy of the manifest in Sky Guard's database," she answered. He asked if she used her talent to look at the secure document. "My surgical and genetic alterations have left me with other gifts," she answered. "The man at Sky Guard was more than happy to help me look for what I wanted."

A groundcar sped by, heedless of the slippery streets. Watson watched the little triwheeler slip around a curve barely maintaining control. Fred considered himself an average looking man so sex appeal had never entered into his kit bag of tricks that he used to obtain information. They crossed the street after another car cruised by, this one moving carefully.

"Reed's photo and name was on the manifest of the liner Asimov," she told him.

"Why lie about where he went?" Watson asked.

"The murders that occurred there are exactly what the person that I'm seeking would engage in," she said.

"Reed went there to kill people?" he asked incredulously.

"Reed's record was somewhat different before he went there," Catères said. "And, he arrived after all but the last murder."

"So that means what exactly?" he asked. They took the escalator to terminal below. Watson was relieved to feel a warm blast from the tube's heating system.

"Perhaps something happened to Reed while he was on Eridani," Dominique said.

"Perhaps you know more than what you are telling me," he said.

"If I told you, you would not believe me," she said. "You have to come to the truth yourself Watson. We'll have to find out what happened on Alpha Eridani."

"I've got a list of people who were there," he said. "I also opened up the case file on the whole thing. It is fairly grisly. The trouble is that there is no other sentient life there but us."

"There are animals," she said. He wondered what she meant. The murders were clearly not the result of animal attacks. The lead team had examined the possibility of one of the planet's proto-simians attacking the research settlement but that had been discarded.

"We'll work on that," he said. They were in a press of travelers and he preferred not to talk shop under such circumstances. "What do you think that we'll find in London?" The question was innocuous and meaningless to a passerby, he thought.

"Mister Reed knows," she replied. "I think that he was there. He became very agitated upon the mention of his son's spare apartment."

"We couldn't press him in front of his wife," he said and smiled a tight lipped grin. She was really quite good at this, he thought. He paid for their tokens and they boarded the end of the tube train. Their car was empty save for a young couple, obviously attending a college given their dress and satchels full of data wafers and books. They were both obviously in love with one another. They sat at the end of the tube away from Watson and Catères.

A thought occurred to Watson. "So what happens after we catch Reed?" he asked. "I mean to you? Are you going back…home?"

"My mission here is drawing to a close," she answered. "My clan was savaged by a _drak'ha_. For that reason I must hunt down this one. After that I shall leave. Your people are expanding out. Perhaps I shall find an uninhabited world to live on."

"Why not go home?" he asked.

"I was altered, genetically altered for this mission," she answered. "I cannot go home. I would not be accepted now and the risks involved in reversing the procedure are too many." He could hear no hint of sorrow or remorse in her answer. But would an alien feel such things?

"That seems like a high price," he said at last.

"I have had a productive life Watson," she answered. "I have mated and produced offspring. My family will have privilege in return for my sacrifice. I chose to do this."

He fell silent. Watson's suspicion was still there but so was his sympathy. He wondered if she was playing him. He tucked that thought away as he retrieved his handheld from a coat pocket and started looking up apartments in London.

Bordentown, New Jersey, the old United States, Apr 2158

The house sat back in lot full of trees. Winter had finally broken here. Grass was actually turning green and the first leaves were returning to the trees. Kanya Nayyar wondered when the leaves had last been raked. She walked down a red brick sidewalk to the house's black wrought iron gate. It opened with an annoying rasping sound. Nayyar stepped carefully among the wet leaf strewn sidewalk. Her balance had been off lately.

Some of the floorboards of the old wooden porch were loose. Nayyar stepped carefully until she determined that she wouldn't crash through. She banged at the front door. Kanya wondered if this pursuit was fruitless, or as Frank would say: Chasing a wild goose. Upon seeing a holo of a Canadian goose she had immediately understood the expression. There was a creaking from inside the house. She doubted that an ordinary human could hear the approach of the house's occupant. The door opened.

There was an older man on the other side. He was a few centimeters taller than her. He was tall and thin and mostly gray haired. Nayyar would have guessed that he was in his sixties. She noticed that he had a cane at his side. He gave her an annoyed look.

"Are you collecting for one of those soldier relief agencies?" he asked. He continued without waiting for her reply. "I told you people to leave me alone! I know how this war is going to end, thank you!" The door slammed shut, rattling the glass two panes of dirty glass in the top of the door frame.

Nayyar exhaled a stream of vapor. It was still cold and the temperature was affecting her. That was also something new for her. She took a breath and listened: The surly man was walking away; probably down a hallway. She pounded again and heard grumbling.

"I want to talk to you about the Doomsday Vault Professor Carlson!" she yelled through the door. The footfalls stopped. They resumed again. Nayyar could hear the man's shuffling gait approaching the door. The door opened.

"I take it back: You are not looking for contributions for wounded crewmen. You are crazy."

"You wrote about the Doomsday Vault," she answered. "I discovered your name at the--,"

"At the library, or your home computer," he interjected, "right alongside James Hansen and Liu Chen under famous crackpots."

"I don't know who those people are professor," she said. "I am interested in the vault. You mention that the United States and the Russian Republic had jointly developed a computer program that could invade any system and take it over. What if I told you that I know of such a program and that the person who used it claimed that it came from the vault?"

"I'd say that you are still buttering my bread," Carlson answered. "Why don't you just get your evidence from this person?" She knew that he was doubtful of her motives.

"It is complicated sir," she answered. "I'm more interested in something else you think is in there: A neural toxin developed in the mid twenty-first century designed to attack the human heart and a bio agent that could specifically target only certain individuals."

"Developed as an offshoot of Chrysalis from the twenty and the longevity research of the early twenty-one," Carlson finished. "Very good dear; you might be what you say. Okay, you've stood on my stoop long enough. You may come in." He turned and held up a single hand, pointing a finger toward the ceiling. "But you need to come up with something convincing," he added as he shuffled down the hall.

Nayyar followed. She looked a hallway filled with family holos. Kanya had no such memories to reference. She had always wondered what the pros and cons of being part of a family were. She felt her belly, at the life growing there. Could she be a good parent when she had never had parents of her own? Maybe the admiral was right: Maybe she should apply cold reason to her situation.

The professor showed her to a dusty sitting room. "Start talking if you want to stay warm." He commenced to pouring himself a glass of wine. He offered her nothing.

"First," she started. "I have to know if you know more than what is in your writings?"

"Maybe I do," he replied.

She looked closely at his face. His retinas betrayed no adverse movement and his facial muscles remained fairly fixed. Nayyar thought that if he was lying then he was doing a good job of it. She had to show him something to peak his interest. Kanya looked at the glass in his hand. She looked at the muscles and tendons in his hand, judging his grip and strength. Now, she thought. Nayyar sprang out of the chair and took the glass. She reseated herself. Carlson was speechless for several seconds. She took that time to try to convince him of the seriousness of her request.

"Some of your detractors say that you exaggerated the role of Chrysalis and that the augments are not as history made us out to be," she said.

"You…you're," he stuttered, dumbfounded.

"I am an augmented human being," she replied. She could see the fear on his face. "I don't wish to harm you. I know that invasive program exists. I assume since it does that those other things exist."

"And what would you do if you found those other things?"

Nayyar was struck by the man's prejudice. Apparently as the admiral and Frank had told her, the fear of augments was still present in many people. Hatred passed down from events long since done. She had little doubt that Carlson styled himself as an open minded person. In fact, she knew that was so as she had studied his biographical information. Nayyar realized that she was seeing how thin a veneer separated the enlightened professor from his deep seated views. She wondered how to answer his question in such a way that it put him at ease. Kanya wondered what Frank or the admiral would say.

"I'll use the materials to conquer mankind and force you all to eat chocolate for breakfast," she answered. She gave him a tight lipped grin. It was something inane that Soames might say if she were frustrated. He stared at her. She let her face grow serious. "Someone was killed; perhaps with one of these weapons. I need to know for sure."

"Who are you working for?" he snapped.

She realized that she had no talent for lying. "I'm here to help." Carlson gave her a look of consternation. "The people I work with are trying to help the rest of mankind professor."

"Okay, he said this might happen," Carlson mumbled. "Do you mind if I pour myself another?" She handed him the glass. Nayyar wondered about Carlson's mumbling.

"Thanks," he said. He got up and went to bookshelf. He pulled out a large cumbersome book and brought it over. He put it down on the table near her chair.

"You've done your homework on this I suppose?" he asked her. She nodded, once she understood what he was asking.

"Most of the weapons were gathered up in the early twenty-first century. There was a gentleman's agreement among the competing world powers of that day that these things were too terrible to set loose." He pointed to the book as he spoke. She took it up and looked at maps inside. Most of those had handwritten notes scrawled onto them.

"You can't let a thing like that go," he continued. "There was enough trust of the US left that rumor put the vault in the old Cheyenne Mountain Complex. I suppose that President Bancroft was supposed to commence to destroying them."

"Bancroft," Nayyar interjected. The Romulans had schooled her in a somewhat distorted version of earth history. "He was followed by Galen Howell."

"Howell's vice president was Phillip Green." Carlson took over again. "We all know the leanings of that man. Green was a concession. The US Supreme Court had all but decided to null and void the results of the election since the progressives had lost so badly during the election. As you know Howell turned up dead less than two years into his term."

"Green could not have gotten the vault's contents," Nayyar retorted.

"Of course not," the professor answered. "It's doubtful we'd be here if he had. Take a look at the paper there," he said pointing to what Kanya had taken for a page marker. She flipped to it and started reading.

"The resignation letter of one Colonel Edward Barstow; it was said that he was behind the Praetorian Guard. Notice how he says in the letter: I must leave our once great country. I take those things near and dear to me away from harm's way."

"His family?" she asked.

"Barstow's family had been killed in a food riot in Boston years earlier," Carlson said. He shook his head. "No; the colonel's last official assignment was as an administrator."

"Cheyenne Mountain?" she asked.

"Very astute miss…"

She sighed. Kanya was not concerned with secrecy because she feared what the professor would do or say. Rather it was because she feared for his life. She told him her name at last with the promise that he would remain silent. He nodded reluctantly.

"So he spirited away the contents?" she asked.

"He had sent Bancroft his resignation. The president had accepted it. Barstow went on to steal a Mark VI transport; very odd as the progressives had not yet locked down the continental US. The internal passports were enough. Barstow could have hopped a flight to the European Union. Plenty of those since they were experiencing their civil strife. Why steal a transport?"

"To move something large," she supplied.

"My theory as well," Carlson said. "Barstow showed up in London," he stopped to put emphasis on his next words: "A month after his flight from the United States, he was broke and took a job as a professor at Cambridge."

"So he did not steal anything of value for himself," she concluded. "Did you research any further?"

"No," Carlson answered. "A muscular disorder, that not even the genetic treatments can fix. I tried a computer trace on the colonel's career after his arrival in England but like many American expatriates of that day he soon changed his name and location after Green started sending out death squads against those who were politically undesirable."

"So you never went over to England to find out?"

Carlson shook his head. "It is a chore for me to get around this house these days." He eyed her. "I don't suppose you can spare any of those augmented genes?" It was the first time she had seen him use humor. Nayyar was beginning to understand that that was a sign of friendship.

"I'm sorry," she answered. "I was very small when I was given those." She pressed her thumb to her forefinger: "About this big," she added.

He laughed. Nayyar got the feeling that he had done little of that lately. "I wish that I could have went to England miss," he answered. "That is a lot of walking for someone who hurts getting up to pee."

"I could go," Nayyar said. "I would give you any information that I found. I only want to know if these things exist and who has access to them."

"That would make me seem like less of a crackpot then," Carlson nodded and said. "You could go to places where databases might've been changed, identities switched." He nodded happily. "I never set out to be a crank, you know?"

Nayyar hesitated before asking something that was on her mind. "About that…professor; you said something about knowing the outcome of the war?"

"Did you wonder why an otherwise normal engineer and project manager would suddenly decide to publish his findings on this subject at the end of his life?" He must have read her look. "Don't look shocked or sympathetic. We are all dying from the day we are born. Unless one is immortal: I have my suspicions about an individual in regard to that. I'm at the end of my cycle Kanya. It's been a good life."

He cleared his throat noisily. "My partner Mark passed away in '42." He nodded at a holo of a younger self and another man. Both were obviously close. Nayyar wondered what that closeness would be like for her. Soames seemed to be intimating to her that it was something to be avoided.

She listened as Carlson continued. "Mark wanted his ashes deposited in the ocean. I went to Barnegat with his family and mine. We rented a boat and made a day of it; celebrated how Mark had lived. I drove back here that night. I was a little drunk so I put the car on auto. That probably saved the man from dying sooner than he did."

"What man?" she asked. Carlson went on to explain how he had come upon a man lying in the road that night. He had been shot in the intestines with an old styled shotgun.

"I am no medical doctor but I knew that the fellow was a goner." Carlson sat back in his chair and swallowed the rest of his wine. Nayyar got up, took his glass and poured him another while he continued. "He was bleeding everywhere. How he made it that far is beyond me. I called the emergency services of course. I could do little except sit with him while I waited for help. Then the really strange part happened."

She listened intently as he continued: "He started raving about his transponder. He said that Rasmussen stole it then shot him. I was brokenhearted over my Mark so I guess that I didn't come across as sympathetic to him. And, I think that delirium was taking him. He told me that he was a time traveler. I remember he reached a bloody hand up and grabbed my collar. He said that we were stupid and naïve. He said it was a miracle that we survived the war with the Romulans."

Kanya searched her memory; as far as she knew no one on earth had heard of the Romulans in 2142. Of course it was possible that the word was uttered at some port by some alien. She listened while Carlson continued his tale.

"Of course I gave his rants no credence: That was until two years ago and the Romulans."

"I see," she said. "How did the Doomsday Vault enter into all of this?"

"He lay gasping," Carlson's face was wrinkled in disgust. "Coughing up blood; he was dying. He said that he didn't care about the temporal directive. He kept telling me how he regretted not being able to find the Doomsday Vault. Those were almost his last words."

"Was this individual identified?" she asked.

"That is strange too: No he wasn't. People's privacy is a right these days but still most people have lives somewhere. They maintain a home and accounts. This person had none of that. I thought that was strange back then. But remember, that they still discover people whose ancestors went into the mountains and deserts after the Third World War. I was distraught over Mark's death as well."

"So when the Romulans became known…" she left the question out there for his consideration.

"It seemed a waste to say I knew that the Birdies were coming. Anyway; there are enough conspiracy theorists out there doing that. The funny thing about conspiracy theorists is one always wonders where they were on the eighth of April two years ago. But then I considered his comments about the vault. I decided, even though my muscular deterioration was growing worse, to investigate the Doomsday Vault." He reached trembling hands out to her. She extended her hands hesitantly. He took one and held it. "You could finish my work! I feel in some sense that given what happened that day that the work is a memorial to my love."

"I shall try," she answered, struck by his emotional plea. Nayyar paused and then asked a question: "You said that you knew the outcome of the war."

"Nothing stellar Kanya," Carlson explained. "He told me that those who sacrificed the most got the least reward. I don't know what that means. It seems like those things could be said of any war."

Kanya agreed. They discussed where the colonel's trail had ended. Nayyar promised to keep the professor informed. She could tell that he was pleased that someone was taking up his cause. She hoped that this research would give her and now the professor, some answers. She had waited longer than she had wanted but Soames had sent her on an errand to conduct surveillance against a SOT chapter in Brisbane. Nayyar felt that she was in a race but against an unknown opponent.

Borough of Tower Hamlets, London, the United Kingdom, the old European Hegemony, earth Apr 2158

"Tourist attraction my ass," Fred Watson complained. He had never understood the fascination that people had for old things. He had once stayed at a country inn at the expense of Roslyn's publisher. Watson had found nothing comforting or charming about the drafty, damp smelling sleeping room with its paper thin walls.

"I find your old cities most interesting Watson," Catères countered. "They say much about your growth as a people. My people dwell below ground. That has influenced our development into the clan system that we use."

A few children were playing on the narrow sidewalks of the old neighborhood. They looked at Watson and Catères with that child's face that said: You are a stranger here; you don't belong. It was evening and the sun had even peeked out for a little bit. Watson watched as the youngsters went in to various houses and apartments. The dinner hour was at hand.

"I'm sure it means something," he replied in a nasally tone. He looked over to see her looking up at him. "It's my British accent; what do you think?"

"Mildly convincing," she answered. "Although…how do you say it? Do not give up your day job. Are you trying to be funny?"

They were outside of a dilapidated brick building. A plaque placed near the edifice's entrance proclaimed that the structure had been built in 1850. Watson thought that it smelled like that. He was being prejudiced by the building's age. What smelled, was an alley that ran down the building to its rear. Human society still had its dregs and they usually concentrated in enclaves where antisocial behaviors were acceptable. Fred realized that this was such an area. He felt a little sorry for those children. An ill kept man was finishing urinating in the alleyway.

"No," he answered sourly. "I was just thinking that we ought to be somebody besides cops for this."

"I am not," she paused, "a cop. I see your point though." She looked up at the apartment building. "Are structures required to be inspected?"

He nodded. The bum from the alley walked toward their direction. "Hey, there are kids playing out here. There are plenty of public bathrooms!" Fred admonished the man.

The man stared back and blinked at Watson and Catères. He was swaying somewhat as he stood. "Go to 'ell!"

Watson was about to pursue a more authoritative tack when Dominique stepped forward and glared at the man. Fred watched as the derelict's facial expression changed from one of anger to cold fear. He heard Catères let out an unearthly hiss. The man turned and ran the opposite way colliding with a parked groundcar as he ran. He stumbled, looked back at Catères and Watson, screamed and resumed his headlong flight.

Watson chuckled. "That is a handy trick." He maintained his British accent.

"I find it effective," she answered. The duo stepped up to the door. It opened into a common hallway. Watson had no trouble believing that this dismal building was well over three hundred years old. An old wooden staircase was at the end of the hall. The first apartment was announced by nameplate to be inhabited by one T. Devlin.

"This is the apartment manager according to the ad," Watson said quietly as he knocked at the door. Catères whispered that someone was indeed in the apartment. Fred thought that was a handy use of her talent as well as scaring off vile bums.

The door creaked opened less than a minute later. A rather largish woman wearing a silken robe and smoking a cigarette greeted them. Watson expected her to be a little suspicious given the neighborhood. But she surprised him by greeting them in a friendly, open manner. Her accent was so thick that Fred barely understood her.

"We're from the Housing Inspector's Office miss," he said. He flashed his ID card quickly, holding his hand over most of it. She apparently had no problems with his fake accent. He would prod Catères about that later. "We're looking for Mister Tom Devlin."

"I thought that you people were 'ere just last month?" she asked in reply. "P'raps not," she added quietly. "Tom is off to his aunt's in Glasgow. I 'spose that you want to see the 3-C unit again? Those last tenants made an awful bloody mess of it."

"Actually we were wondering if 2-A had been let?" Catères asked in a voice that Watson would have sworn came from someone who had grown up less than a block from here.

"I wish Tom would just put a bloody lock on that thing once and for all!" the woman exclaimed. "By the way; I'm Tom's wife, Mary." She reached into a pocket of her robe producing an electronic access card. She held it up. "No problem ma'am." She stepped out into the hallway and led them to the steps at the end.

"Have you had problems with that flat?" Watson asked innocently. They followed behind the woman.

"It's bloody creepy in there," she answered. "I always get the chills no matter how much Tom says he turned up the 'eat. I thought that Tom brought that up to code." Devlin led them to a door. Fred glanced over at Catères who seemed to shrink away.

"You okay?" he asked.

"It must 'ave been something I ate," she answered. He thought that she was going to become ill.

"It's the end of the day miss," Devlin told Catères. "I'm surprised that you are still at it." She threw open the door. It looked like an empty apartment to Fred.

"We would like to inspect the flat in private," Dominique said to the woman. Watson could see that the alien was trying her talent on Devlin when a loud stomping sounded from the hallway below.

"Misses Devlin!" a loud male voice exclaimed. "This is the bloody twenty-second century and my tub faucet is leaking again! I told you about that the other—,"

"Keep your shirt on Mister Patel!" Devlin screeched. "Can you two do your wrap up without me bein' here?" she asked them.

"No problem ma'am," Watson said. He took to walking around the room examining power outlets and wall surfaces. Those things that Fred guessed a building inspector would look at. Devlin stepped out to deal with the exasperated Patel. Dominique softly closed the door.

"He was here," she announced. "He has returned her many times."

"How do you know that?" he asked. She explained that inanimate objects sometimes retained psychic signatures. "You're pulling my leg right?"

"No," she answered flatly.

Watson stopped and examined the tiny living room while Catères removed a pair of snooper glasses and a hand held from her pouch. She looked expectantly at him and then went about a forensic examination. Fred moved from one room to another until he had been in all three room of the tiny apartment. He stopped in the living room again.

"Can you localize that thing you do?" he asked her.

"To an extent," she answered. "But if you are asking about this place: No; I can feel a general presence. This nest has been used many times. But I cannot narrow it down more." She eyed him speculatively while he scanned the room. Painted plaster walls and bare floors left little room to conceal anything. Still; something was not right. "You are partially psychic. That is why I can't push you."

"I'm a balding government agent who indulges in fantasies of being a twentieth century private eye—investigator. I am not a psychic."

"Not in the sense of reading minds, no," she shot back. "Your intuition is high. I can feel that. Doubtless that is what drew you to this line of work."

"Just observation is all," Fred said. "What do you think of this support between the rooms?"

"A load bearing member," she answered. He watched as she examined it again.

The column was near the back of the living room. Fred guessed that in the eighteen hundreds this single column was the support for one large room. The plaster walls came much later. The brink pillar was heavily painted over in a crude attempt to blend it into the wall of the narrow hallway. Watson knew he had a talent for picking out things from otherwise confusing patterns. He didn't think that was psychic.

"The brick work on the bottom of the pillar is different." She knelt down and examined it with the handheld's small electromagnetic field. The handheld's video capture fed the image of the column's materials into its database.

"These bricks probably come from the same time period according to the computer," Dominique announced as she studied the unit's readout.

"We can take some samples and have them checked in the lab," he said. "You know, I'm probably seeing things where there is nothing. We're probably looking at a damaged section. Someone way back when bought a heavy piece of furniture. The movers hit this column when they were putting it in and some workmen replaced the busted pieces."

"This device indicates that there is a small chamber in here. Your intuition may have led to something," she said. He knelt down beside her. She held the unit's small screen so that he could see it. "There are two layers as if this brick was pulled out recently and then covered up."

He produced a small but rugged knife and started digging it into the paint and plaster. "Can you do your forget-me thing on Mrs. Devlin?"

"I believe so," she said.

The ugly gash in the wall revealed the pattern of ancient brickwork. Neither of them missed the fresh mortar. Watson dug at that. He noticed that the fingers of Catères' hands seemed to have extra joints. She dug those small but strong fingers into the space made by the vacant mortar and pulled loose a brick. A small chamber lay exposed. Watson was not surprised to find it empty.

"You're pretty good with that thing," he told her meaning the handheld. "They brief you on how to use our equipment?" She looked sharply at him. "I believe that you're on some kind of vendetta against this guy. But your time with the Sons' and your little love-in with Hawkins, leads me to believe that you are here for something else."

"Then why don't you do something?" she asked as the handheld produced a rapid series of light pulses. Fred knew that it was running the gamut from fluorescent to infrared. She did not look at him.

"Because the lieutenant was a friend of mine," he answered. "I keep hitting walls with this Reed character. I need your help and I think you need mine." He looked at her. "I want to finish the investigation that Karl wanted. I want to find his killer. You said you aren't Romulan?"

"I am not a Romulan, Fred. I am an agent for them." She continued scanning with the handheld as the little device emitted a series of beeps. "I told you when--,"

"I need your help," he interrupted. "Once I have Reed by the balls I'll give you a head start. If you leave earth, fine; if you don't then you are an enemy of the United Earth Government and I'll do my damn level best to find you."

"That is acceptable Watson," she answered. She studied the little handheld's readings. "There are micro particles here; perhaps cloth. Some are infused with another material."

He removed a sampling kit from a pocket of his trench coat. He carefully took some scrapings with a small nonmetallic spatula. He put the brick dust into a sample vial and sealed it up. Fred wished that he could order a team to go over the entire place. His guess was that this hiding place had remained a hiding place because no one had suspected its presence: No one had suspected Reed. He also noted that the cosmetic work on the hiding place seemed to have been done a long time ago. He put the vial in his pocket.

"We are a slave class to the Romulans, Watson," Catères said. "I do not say that for sympathy. I am imbued with a strong sense of duty; even to the conquerors. But we also have our racial memories. The _drak'ha_ went from world to world feeding upon others. They did so to our world."

"Why don't you throw these Romulans off?" he asked. He stood up and started an electronic sweep of the apartment. He continued on without waiting for her reply. "It seems to me that most so called oppressed peoples want that oppression to some extent. Any time someone gets really fed up with a lousy government, poof—it is gone."

"So it would be with the Romulans but they helped us against the _drak'ha. _ By the time we realized the danger from them it became too late. They've beguiled my people with scraps. The cage is gilded for many, but it is a cage nonetheless."

The two continued on in silence for some time. Watson thought about what she had said. He trusted her only as far as he could throw her. Part of the trust was based on the assumption that she could kill him if she wanted. The other part of the trust was a feeling. He dismissed her pronouncement of his psychic ability: Good cops used their instinct. There was nothing else to it. He looked over to see her staring intently at a wall.

She sprang on him before he could defend himself. The two tore through the partially rotted wooden door of the dwelling. Watson started swinging at her when the air was ripped out of his lungs. He felt the concussive blast of the explosion before he heard it. He struggled but not against her: Fred was swimming out of a pile of wood scraps, brick and foul smelling plaster. He got up and realized too late that he was teetering atop the stairwell. He felt her hard body against his as they went tumbling.

Fred landed on the bottom floor. He moved his arms and legs, seen nothing that showed a break. Watson rolled up with the Browning needler in hand. He looked over to see that Catères was similarly armed. The two of them sprinted down the short hall to the rear entrance.

"What is going on?" he heard Devlin shrieking behind him.

"I'm afraid the place will have to be condemned!" he roared back.

He slammed into the back door breaking the lock as he rushed down a few steps and back up the alley to the front of the building. It was dark. Dominique was putting her weapon back into her jacket. Watson knew what that meant.

"He's gone," she declared. He looked at her while he puffed and wheezed. Watson hadn't run much lately. "It was Reed. I felt his presence outside of the apartment, Watson."

"Damn good thing you did." Watson spat plaster dust out of his mouth. "Thanks, Fred will do from here on out." He looked at the beginnings of a crowd. "We better get going." He holstered his weapon as the two slowly faded away into the darkness of the alley.

Taskforce 18, Star Fleet cruiser Beagle, outbound from Vulcan to Sol, Apr 2158

"The Pointies put us back together rather well," Captain Jean Baptiste Jospin declared loudly. He swallowed another drink of brandy. Commodore Jocelyn Stiles thought that Jospin had started drinking long before arriving at the crew lounge. Lieutenant Commander Juan Vasquez agreed. Stiles noticed how Jospin had finally found someone who shared his points of view.

"After cutting us to ribbons in two battles!" the engineer exclaimed. "We lost many good people coming to Vulcan."

"And all for a worthless agreement!" Jospin spat. "We can send students to a college and they'll generously give us sensor technology that we probably already have!"

Stiles understood Jospin's resentment. The trouble was that the High Command, those few Vulcans who hadn't resigned their military service, was gearing up for something. Forrest had sworn Stiles to secrecy on that issue. Why the admiral was being so hush hush was still a mystery to Stiles. She could not discuss the information about the High Command buildup with anyone. Forrest had made that clear to her as well as his continued mistrust of her.

The new Pointie leader had referenced Stiles' January crossing of the Vulcan border. According to Forrest, T'Pau had condemned Stiles' detonation of a gas giant. Jocelyn understood the admiral's role over a multiplanetary force: She also understood that the Romulans were relentless. Kind words, logic and good intentions weren't going to persuade a race that crossed a great distance to come here and fight. The admiral had agreed with her on that point. After that meeting Stiles figured that Jospin's covert reports on her conduct were paying off. She was still in command despite the admiral's obvious misgivings about her.

She knew that he could read something in her. Stiles wondered if the guilt over her illicit use of Trip Tucker's codes was that easy to see. No; even Trip hadn't seen it. Stiles wanted to tell him but she had been afraid: Afraid that he would never accept what she had done. Somehow he had gotten over his grief and hatred after the murder of his sister. Jocelyn had not. She wanted didn't want to just kill Romulans: She wanted to break them; make them choke on their obvious arrogance. Maybe she was guilty of anthropomorphizing their enemy. But Stiles believed that she had never seen a clearer display of raw hubris.

"Why did they come this far?" Chief Dalia Morris asked. The older woman was picking at a late night meal. Morris would go on shift with Stiles. Lieutenant Commander Damon Rice would act as her first officer while Jospin relaxed.

"_Quel il est_?" her first officer asked.

"I've asked myself the same thing," Vasquez interjected. "Their speeds aren't much better than ours. A trip to Romulus would take about two and half months. I'm no alien expert but they had to have a reason for coming this far."

No one asked Stiles what she thought. Maybe Trip was right about that too: Maybe she was pushing her crews too hard. The PA sounded. Rice was already on the bridge. The operations' officer reported unknown sensor returns. Stiles pushed her tray away while wondering who had come up with the brilliant idea of making resequenced food into little colored cubes. She glanced over to see Jospin rise unsteadily to his feet.

"It's probably nothing Jean," she told him. The Birds had seldom challenged the allies in open space. Stiles had the Kretchet class Panther, the Powhatons Chesapeake, Celebus and Cyane. The Torsk Seawolf was operational despite the heavy damage it had suffered in the battle around Vulcan. The Tellarite destroyer Hazmq was augmented by its Andorian counterpart Aktaba. Minotaur screens from the carriers Truman and Potemkin rounded out Stiles' taskforce. If the Birdies were contemplating an attack out here, it signaled a complete change of tactics.

"I am capable of performing my duty!" he answered. Stiles was standing next to him and could smell his breath. She imagined that lighting a fire near it would be dangerous.

"Rice needs to mature," she said. Her tone was gentle. Vasquez and Morris moved past her to take their stations. "Why don't you set up in auxiliary control?" Jocelyn owed Jospin. That much she admitted. He had, true to his word, run interference for her in his dispatches. But she could not have him on the bridge in this condition. He looked hard at her but agreed to go to auxiliary control.

Stiles nodded at him and made a quick departure. She was still a workout fanatic and that helped as she used several accessway ladders and stairs on her way to the bridge. Rice's voice came over the PA to report that the bogeys were on an intercept with Stiles' taskforce. Jocelyn sprinted the last few meters brushing past crewmen pressed up against gangway walls. She was pleased to discover that she had beaten Morris there by a few a few seconds.

The bridge hatch trundled shut behind her and Morris. They both stood there while their eyes adjusted to the comparative darkness. Stiles' eyes focused on the tactical plot. Six unknowns were angling toward her ships. The course that the sensors showed for the six bogeys was one that would have put them on an oblique angle to Stiles' taskforce. She might have used such a heading to shadow an enemy force. Jocelyn moved to her seat.

"Sound general quarters," she told Rice as the lieutenant commander vacated her seat. Rice did as ordered as Stiles strapped herself in. She looked at the power readings beneath the graphics representing the unknowns. None of them looked anything vaguely close to standard Romulan readings.

Stiles waited briefly as Morris was briefed by the outgoing sensor officer. "What do you make of those, chief?"

Morris' face was pressed against the visor of her sensor hood. "I've refined the readings a few times and scrubbed them out. I think it is a Birdie signature. I'd like to pipe it down to engineering sir?"

"Go ahead," Stiles answered. She trusted that the enlisted woman was on to something. Her mental calculations told her that at maximum warp for a Romulan ship the bogeys were just over twenty minutes away.

"Recall the fighter screen," she said to Rice. The Birdies were just under twenty minutes out. Stiles knew that was who was out there. She could sense them. What kind of surprise was behind the door?

"Commodore," Morris spoke up. Stiles recognized her. "Lieutenant Commander Vasquez ran my figures: He confirms that they read like some kind of beefed up Romulan plant."

"Beefed up," Stiles repeated quietly. She looked again at the graphics for the inbounds. They were well out of weapons range at their present rate of speed. "All stop!" she exclaimed. Stiles suddenly wished that Jospin was on the bridge despite his inebriated condition. Rice was still inexperienced. "Send to taskforce: All stop!"

She studied the various station readouts from her chair. Hull plating was on line. She asked about weapons. The Tellarite Cruz reported that the primary and auxiliary missile rooms were manned and ready: They just lacked for a target.

"Power readings spiking!" Morris cried out. "Bogeys accelerating to warp 4.1! They'll be on us in less than ten seconds."

"Helm answering," Chief Martin Ward reported. "We are secure from warp, sir."

"Give me a quick solution Mister Cruz," she snapped. "Proximity burst, calculate along their probable firing arcs and launch when set." Stiles had drilled her crews on just such an emergency launch. More like a desperation launch she thought. She looked over to see Damon Rice looking around nervously. "Flash to the rest of the taskforce to do the same!" she ordered him in a harsh voice.

"Bandits dropping out of warp sir!" Morris exclaimed. "Range…ten thousand kilometers and closing. Power spikes!" she added breathlessly. "Readings confirm Birdie plasma cannons."

"Solutions programmed and locked!" the gunnery officer bellowed. "Firing and away!"

Empty space filled with a conglomeration of ships as the allied taskforce burst out of subspace. Seconds later their adversaries; twin nacelle Romulan ships appeared. Missiles spat out from Beagle and angled out towards the attacking ships. A few seconds later the other ships followed suit. The blinding fireballs of nuclear explosions blossomed around the allied ships. The Romulan vessels held their fire as the maneuvered into groups of two.

Two of the groups made a path directly for Beagle. Two of the four laid down a pattern of missiles that neatly intercepted Beagle's Narwhals. The Romulan cruisers followed that with plasma cannon volleys. Beagle's hull plating defeated the first two blasts but was finished when the third Romulan warship opened up. The white hot beam struck the bison amidships.

The port side of the earth ship erupted into a fiery blast of molten debris and escaping atmosphere. Beagle returned fire, ejecting two more Narwhals and a flight of three Spiders. The cruiser slowly turned to port. The last of the four Romulan cruisers fired: Beagle's aft section exploded. A Narwhal from one of Beagle's sister ships flew past one of the Romulan's screen of missiles neatly incinerating the Romulan.

Meanwhile Potemkin came to grips with its two attackers. A massive missile exchange ended with the giant carrier being struck near the bow by a proximity blast. The carrier's hull plating crackled. A plasma beam lanced out striking the carrier. The ship split into two. Celebus and Aktaba streaked by the ruined carrier toward the Romulans.

One of the Romulans launched an offensive volley while its counterpart backed away. Two of Beagle's attackers did likewise as their mates stayed to engage the fierce return fire from the allied ships. Aktaba ejected four missiles out of its tubes. They streaked away towards the last Romulan. Celebus added its fire as it defeated two inbound Moolahs with its lasers. The Romulan ship accelerated straight towards the Andorian destroyer.

The Kretchet class Panther fired a Narwhal volley and veered sharply away as only a ship operating in space could do. The Romulan evaded the first Narwhal but the second left only half of the enemy cruiser. The glowing piece of wreckage angled through space until another missile from Aktaba finished it. The surviving Romulans escaped into warp.

"Why in the hell did we turn to port?" Damon Rice asked. He looked at Cruz's right paw. The Tellarite's fur was burned away. Yet the alien still helped to carry the unconscious and burned Commodore Stiles. The Tellarite's bare, burned skin was covered by Commodore Stiles' blood.

"Control was transferred to the auxiliary control center," Cruz answered. "Where is that human doctor of yours?" If the Tellarite was in any pain he did not show it.

Rice led the bridge crew to the lift at the end of the passageway. The lift doors parted to reveal Doctor Anders. The white haired physician's face was pinched. Rice saw blood on the doctor's blue tunic: A long stripe of it obscured Ander's cross and crescent. Anders motioned for them to deposit Stiles on the deck while unslung his medical kit from his shoulder and slammed it down beside her.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We better get moving doc!" Rice exclaimed. The status board had been lit up just before they had evacuated the bridge. Damon figured that someone would soon be giving the order calling for abandoning ship.

"Jospin has things under control," Anders countered. "Pretty good for someone who is sloshed," the doctor mumbled. Rice could not fail to have heard that.

"Cruz, get on the PA and get me the auxiliary control room," he ordered.

"You humans, always a step behind," the Tellarite answered. He held out a private handset to Rice.

Damon took it and told the Tellarite to get his wounds tended to. He clicked on the receiver as he watched Anders tend to the commodore. "This is the ops officer," he announced.

"Rice!" the heavily accented, slightly slurred voice of Captain Jospin answered. "The Birds have left. We aren't in the best of shape. Put the commodore on."

"She's been injured," he said as he looked at Stiles. Anders pressed a hypo against her neck. The doctor then removed a pair of scissors from his kit. He cut up the front of Stiles tunic, threw open the halves and attached surface probes to her bare skin.

Rice recounted the last minutes on Beagle's main bridge. One of the new plasma conduits had ruptured creating a fire on the bridge. Stiles had been burned in her seat. That had lasted until a flying splinter had caused the bridge to depressurize. Damon guessed from the noise and carnage that that same high speed piece of metal had struck a bulkhead sending more metal flying. Something had hit the commodore rendering her unconscious and leaving a deep gash in the side of her head.

"Okay, understood," Jospin replied. "Vasquez reports that he has things under control. The mam is stable. I won't lie, we are hurt bad. The fighters are inbound and the Birds are on the retreat." There was a long wait. Rice wondered what Jospin was doing. "We shall stay here until I get a better condition report."

"Understood sir," Rice answered crisply. Rice hesitated for a few seconds. "Captain…why did we turn to port?" he asked.

Rice heard something uttered in French that he was sure was a curse. "Never mind that!" the captain retorted. "There is real work to do instead of asking foolish questions!"

"Uh, yes sir," Rice responded. Jospin was a bastard but he was right Rice thought. "I'll take charge of the damage control teams up here in the core section."

"See to it then!" the reply came. He heard Jospin sever the connection. Rice replaced the handset into its cradle. He turned to Dalia Morris. The chief's hair and uniform were disheveled. He could only imagine what he looked like.

"What the hell were those things?"

"I got a vid shot before we evacuated, sir," she answered. "Twin nacelles, the big bird was painted on one side."

"Twin nacelles?" he asked in reply. Those two factors could only mean a new class of Romulan vessel. This one hit hard, harder than its counterparts.

Morris nodded. "The only good thing is that I noticed that after they fired their plasma cannon their power readings dropped way low."

"Low enough to hurt them?" he asked.

"I have to wonder if their damned enviro fans were even running," the chief answered.

"If the Birds even breathe," Rice mused. Speaking of breathing he turned to the scene on the deck. Anders was spraying a bandage onto the commodore's head. Cruz was mopping at the pool of blood under her head.

"How is she doc?" he asked.

Anders looked up at him. "Alive," the surgeon answered. "Brain activity is there so I hope that whatever hit her didn't do anything permanent. I'll get her to sickbay along with heavens know how many others."

Rice wondered how many of them had made it. A crewman wearing a radiation suit slithered out of a service crawlway; others followed. The crewman pulled his helmet off. Sweat dripped from his hair to the deck beneath. Damon took the enlisted man's report and started coordinating repairs. They would be here for many hours if not a day or two he guessed.

Star Fleet ship Serendipity, in orbit of Vulcan, Apr 2158

Christophur Thorpe looked down upon the red planet below. He had uncomfortably reconciled his misgivings about concealing what he knew of the Vulcans. His final thought was that the Ferengi had used the word federation. The federation must have survived the secret. Were the Romulans known in the time that the Ferengi lived in? He turned back to the group that shared the observation lounge with him.

"Kirk is most unorthodox," Soval stated.

"Smiley is just angry because I played an April Fools' joke on him," Augustus Kirk said.

"I am Vulcan. I do not get angry. Captain Morgan did not call an alert while I was in the shower," the Vulcan said.

"I just wanted to settle a bet with Soong," Kirk said. "He said that Vulcans don't bathe because they don't sweat."

"This is the representative that you sent to the Klingon Empire Mister President?" Prefect T'Pau asked. Said with no emotion whatsoever, the statement effectively conveyed T'Pau's doubts concerning Kirk's abilities.

"Ambassador Kirk has a slightly…different approach to dealing with situations prefect." Thorpe was surprised to hear Soval's support for Kirk. "He proved to be quite adept at dealing with the Klingons."

"So your conclusion is that the Klingons won't be a factor?" Thorpe asked.

Kirk nodded. "Not in the near future. Morgan says that they crippled their own military in this feud for one thing." Kirk held up a hand. "Don't discount the Klingons, sir. They might not make a splash in this war, but they will be back."

"Well, that will be for the future," Thorpe said. He could only deal with the here and now. He remembered something he had read from Kirk's report. "Tell me about this Ferengi, Zan."

"We've never met the species," Kirk answered. "Soval tells me that his people haven't run into them either. Zan claimed that he was a test pilot. He struck me more like a storekeeper. Well; he was running a bar. Nothing wrong with that: I've spent many hours in those. This Ferengi didn't seem like the explorer type. He was more like the lawyer I'd negotiated my last land deal with. Keep your hands on your wallet as my grandfather used to say."

"I'm sure that circumstances dictated that this Zan do what he could to survive," Thorpe commented. How he would have loved to meet Zan! He imagined that the Ferengi must be a great race of explorers not unlike men. Surely they would be a major part of this federation on some future date.

"You are right there, sir," Kirk answered. Thorpe watched him look around. "It looks like you don't need me anymore. You've done good on your own."

"There is a need to finish the diplomatic groundwork for the federation," Thorpe answered. "Everyone is onboard but we need to start integrating right now. I'm afraid if we don't…"

"My people are already balking at the cost of this war," Tas Shavma declared. The Tellarite was the only one who had chosen to sit. "We'll see it through, of that I have no doubt. The trouble is that it will be too easy to pursue our own interests after the fighting. The mechanisms for this federation must already be in place."

"Andor is near the breaking point as well," Shahar Shran added. "The Caldonè went as far as to suggest an income payment from our citizens."

"No!" Thorpe exclaimed. "If the federation is to last it'll only do so as an institution of freedom. That sort of millstone should be placed around no citizen's neck ever again."

"Tellarites would never accept such a thing," Tas said.

"We have funded things far enough for this major refit and the launch of the conqueror class," Thorpe explained. "With the aide of Vulcan's shipyard and the new material moving technique perfected by Erickson we can sustain the war for possibly another two years."

"Someone needs to tell the Romulans that," Kirk said. "Morgan says that they have some kind of new ship."

Thorpe sighed. He had no idea of how long this war would continue. Kirk's uncomfortable reminder brought that home to Thorpe. He had a timeline to deal with: What was the Romulans' timeline? They were descendents of Vulcans but their technology seemed to show that they were throwbacks in that regard. What were their industrial and economic strengths and weaknesses?

Christophur thought that knowing the face of the enemy would give them an edge. But the sad reality was that Romulans and Vulcans had parted company. T'Pau and Syrran could speak on the history of the Rihannsu but had no idea what the current makeup and psychology of a live Romulan was.

"Intelligence has yet to name it," Thorpe said. "They went after Taskforce 18 with a vengeance."

"They were trying to kill your Iron Maiden," Tas Shavma declared. Forrest had surmised the same thing.

"They didn't succeed," Thorpe said tersely.

"What help do you cold ones bring?" the shavma asked T'Pau.

"We'll assist you in the construction of ships," the prefect answered. She looked pointedly at Thorpe. "Although our assistance doesn't seem as needed considering earth's development of this matter energy transmission device."

"That takes all day to say!" the Tellarite bellowed in frustration. "Why not just call it a…transporter?"

"We've agreed to share our technology," Thorpe said.

"As to our military contribution," T'Pau began. Thorpe could see that she was uncomfortable despite the emotional control. "I've discussed that with the leaders as you are well aware Tas Shavma." She looked at him. "Now it comes to the other matter that we discussed."

"Soval," she addressed the elder Vulcan. "I respectfully invite you to take the post of ambassador to earth; at least for the interim. But that is only until the present situation is over. I do not desire domination; even this position of prefect. My life has been devoted to the new teachings of Surak that have been discovered by Syrran. I wanted all Vulcans to know them. I have nearly accomplished that. I shall vacate this position."

"I think that she is offering you a job Smiley," Thorpe heard Kirk tell the Vulcan.

"Yes," T'Pau agreed. "You would be an ideal prefect to guide Vulcan into this federation."

"You have resisted our involvement in the affairs of aliens T'Pau," Soval said. "You must have reconsidered your logic."

"I have not," T'Pau said. "The Vulcan of this time will not be the Vulcan of the next generation or the succeeding ones. We shall be diluted. I do not greet it: I merely accept it."

"I see," Soval answered. "I shall accept the post of ambassador. Rather I become prefect only time will tell."

"Soval," Kirk chimed in, "a human aphorism?"

"It is true in this situation Kirk," Soval said.

"Sounds like we all have our marching orders," Kirk said. "So you are going back to earth despite this new Birdie ship?" he asked him.

"I've been here over a month Augustus," Thorpe replied. "Apparently in that time Mark Hawkins staged a sort of coup d'etat but was recalled whereupon he took his own life."

Thorpe wondered about that. He had the Unified Intelligence Agency pursuing leads on rogue organizations. That incident smacked of something that Christophur thought that such an organization would do. He didn't know where to turn on that. He had just received the news about the death of Karl Ebenstark. It had hit him hard and Thorpe guessed that more was to follow. He would have little to do on the cruise back on Valley Forge except think.

"I never figured Hawkins for a power play like that," Kirk said. "Whoever was behind him must have did a good job polishing him up." Thorpe had suspected as much.

The meeting soon ended. Thorpe had known that T'Pau was going to spring her proposition onto Soval. He represented what Christophur thought of as the moderate Vulcans. The issue of time for the war was critical. Thorpe supposed that was true in every situation like this. He was also laboring under the knowledge that somehow the war had to be won while concealing the true nature of the Romulans. Thorpe was having doubts that that feat was possible. The attendees filtered out of the room, all save Kirk.

"Something on your mind Augustus?" he asked as he turned his back on Kirk to stare once again at the planet below.

"Sir," Kirk began. "A shape shifter named Silik and a Klingon named Chang told me a story." He listened as Kirk related his encounter with Silik and his shifting form into a Vulcanoid and then later his conversation with Chang.

Vulcan rolled by. Thorpe assessed what he knew about Augustus Kirk. Secrets tended to evaporate as the number of people who knew them increased. He saw a reflection in the transparent aluminum pane: Augustus was lighting a cigar. Thorpe could see his bright eyes looking at his back. Kirk had backed him when it had come to the no confidence vote. Christophur made his decision.

"It's true Augustus," he confessed. "The Romulans came here to force a union between them and their cousins."

"Now you are inviting them into the federation? Do you trust the Vulcans Mister President?"

"No, not really; I trust that most Vulcans would be repelled by an alliance with their violent cousins. But I had an agent here at Soval's request: We can be sure that V'Las was directly involved with the Romulans."

"Smiley never told me that," Kirk said. "If he keeps secrets like that I'm afraid I'll have to give him his ring back." Thorpe chuckled and turned around. He folded his arms across his chest. "You know that there could be spies and sympathizers among the Vulcans?"

"Nothing to be done about it," he answered. "This Syrran seems genuine in what he wants to do; even tried telling me about the connection just before Daedelus arrived." He sighed. "I'm taking a gamble here Augustus. And I don't mind telling you that I hate keeping secrets. Here I am doing that and even fielding abominable notions like taxes. But we need them Augustus. We need the Vulcans to endorse the federation."

"That was my guess sir," Kirk responded. "The Andorians and Tellarites might publicly hate the Vulcans but deep down I think they respect them. They were the first on the block here." Kirk puffed on his cigar. "You know it will be bad if the secret ever gets out."

"I'm not even sure how long it can be contained. I've run every nightmare scenario there is in my head. The one thing I think I have going is that the longer the Vulcans help us and open themselves to us the easier it will be to sell the idea that they were innocent players in all of this."

"They are," Kirk countered, "that much I believe."

"Of course, Augustus," Thorpe said. "Reasonable people will know and accept that; but what about the fringe? The Sons' of Terra are bad enough. Look at how many people went willy-nilly towards that absurdity. My political sense tells me that a month after the release of that knowledge I'd be out of office and another Hawkins would be in. Exploration would come to a halt and of course, those who create and make things would have to be regulated. Groups like the Sons' are about control, nothing else. Shran says that it is the same on Andor."

"Who knows what would happen to Vulcan society," Kirk said. "So has Forrest figured out how to win this thing and keep the Vulcan Romulan heritage out of it?"

"I was just thinking of that myself," Thorpe answered. He had little doubt that Max Forrest could fight and win the tactical and strategic elements of the war. But war often hinged on people, Thorpe knew. According to Syrran it was unlikely that the Romulans would merely lie down and surrender. But they had to be under economic and industrial constraints just like the allies were.

"Commander Dunleavy reported that they wiped out the Romulans' ship yard." Kirk nodded. "If we are feeling the pinch, then they have to be feeling it too."

"I read that most of their ship traffic is coming from Topaz, not much from Romulus," Kirk said. "Are you thinking about bleeding them enough to force a surrender?"

He nodded. "Maxwell is pursuing that course. We'll drive them off of Topaz; pull the dagger out of us there and then turn to their systems. We have about two years to back them against the wall."

Kirk shook his head. "I'm behind you sir. I won't jump ship. A man has to be able to look at himself in the mirror; otherwise shaving becomes a real bitch. This could work but," he listened as Kirk paused. "Someone needs to go there."

"To Romulus?" he asked. Kirk nodded. Thorpe had come to that assessment himself.

"What about this agent you sent to Vulcan?" Kirk asked.

Thorpe hung his head. "Dead, I'm afraid. I've asked T'Pau and Syrran if a Vulcan could go. The trouble is that no Vulcan speaks modern Romulan; or at least what anyone expects they would speak." He sighed. "Earth has slowly put religion behind us. But right now, frankly Kirk I hope that someone higher up is giving us a hand. I've ordered Max to continue."

Kirk nodded. Thorpe looked again at the red planet. He was tired: Tired of friends dying and tired of people a third of his age dying. Two years ago he had been bitter over the grasping politicians once again eyeing up the toil of the common man as if they had a right to it. Thorpe had resigned to not run again. If it hadn't been for the Romulans he knew that he would not be here.


	37. Chapter 37

Langley, Virginia, the old United States, earth, May 2158

Langley, Virginia, the old United States, earth, May 2158

"We're calling it the Tyrranus or Clavicle if you notice its appearance," Lieutenant Tom Vanwinkle droned on. Admiral Erica Soames was allowing the officer this chance to brief the group of higher ranking humans and aliens. Vanwinkle finally had orders to a fighting ship.

"Bilateral nacelles," Strategos Antor noted as the Andorian studied the computer enhanced image of the green hulled ship. His antennae drooped slightly.

"The engineers tell me that twin nacelles are the most economical design. There are advantages to three nacelles, some interesting theories about four nacelles but two seem to yield the most performance for the best cost." Vanwinkle pointed to the screen as he switched to the next image.

A low whistle sounded before the lieutenant could continue. "Look at that power utilization curve," Commodore Leonard Zimmermann remarked. "They've come a long way with fusion."

"Are we sure it isn't a matter anti matter plant?" Captain John Jellicoe asked.

"Sensors could scan for that, Jack," Zimmermann jumped in and answered for Erica's officer. It was obvious to Soames that Zimmermann had misgivings about Jellicoe. "No; I've seen these curves when I worked on the high energy plasma project back in '52."

"You gents were trying to max out fusion power plants," Captain Roland Baker interjected. "Looks like the Birds beat you to it."

"Our advisors tell us that we were sidetracked looking into matter anti matter," Vanwinkle said. "The Birdies must have continued to an end with their power plants."

Soames decided that it was time to intrude. "The bottom line is that we are looking at their equivalent of an overpowered Pioneer class cruiser. Two years into the war and only one Pioneer has survived. But keep in mind that despite their age they kept the Birdies off of our backs for the better part of a year."

"Does this…Clavicle have hull plating?" Antor asked. Erica guessed that he was the only one here who was comfortable in the cool basement of the Virginia complex.

"Shumar didn't get a good reading," Vanwinkle explained. "Taskforce 18 did. No indication of hull plating. But their speed is what makes them dangerous: They made their run against eighteen at warp 4.2."

"Unless I miss my guess the good news is that these things are dead in the water after they fire their primary weapon," Zimmermann interjected. She watched as her officer looked at the commodore. Tom must have been surprised at Zimmermann's grasp of the situation. A fault, she knew, of many intelligence officers: They tended to believe that they had all the facts.

"That's right sir," Vanwinkle recovered and answered.

"That was one of the project's conclusions," Zimmermann explained. "Only so much energy can be extracted to maintain the warp field. My personal guess is that if they added something to that; in this case their plasma cannon, they would drain off all of their power."

"They can charge their primary fields again," the strategos remarked. "But they would be a tarlot on an ice flow; if only for a brief time."

"If you mean a sitting duck sir, you are correct," Vanwinkle said. "Eighteen noted a significant loss of power after the Clavicles fired their cannons."

"We have that going for us," Zimmermann said. "Did they recover the rest of Shumar's squad mates?"

Vanwinkle fell silent. Soames knew that no one wanted to be the bearer of tragic news. "No survivors, we recovered their Minotaurs but the crews had suffocated by the time that the rescue forces got there." Her pronouncement was harsh. Despite seeing people die everyday she could see that the fate of the fighter crews resonated with the group. Zimmermann shook his head and bowed it briefly.

"Try to see if this Shumar has been assigned to a new squad, Jack," Zimmermann told Jellicoe. "If not I'd like to give him and his copilot a new home."

"I'll get that done sir," the captain snapped.

"What of these missiles?" the strategos asked.

"We have finally verified two new types this morning sir," Vanwinkle told the Andorian. "We are calling them the Mullet and Mascot. Both are extremely nasty. It looks like the Birds have used their sensor jammers to generate a sort of stealth field. Both missiles are susceptible to the proximity bursts of Spiders but they maneuver in that sphere of invisibility: We think they can maneuver to the edge of our missiles' blast radius. Think of a deadly animal in a box. You can see the box and know it's in there but not where at in the box. We can smash one corner but if the animal is in the other end, then it is too late."

"Possible fixes are to mount larger yield nukes on the Spiders and to use the Pitbulls' mass detection systems in pairs: Let two missiles act as trackers to halve the possible interception points." Soames was glad to see Vanwinkle throwing out solutions. Erica knew that he would be assigned as Captain Baker's Intel officer on the new Conqueror class Crusader. Baker would want answers. Any Star Fleet captain would want answers. The problems were always obvious Erica thought, and there were any number of experts to define those problems. What was always in short supply were people with answers to those challenges.

"It means that we have to use twice the number of Bulls," Baker interjected. Soames knew that his criticism was directed in general and not at Vanwinkle. "Those bloody things don't exactly grow on trees."

"We couldn't have expected the Romulans to just set back all of this time," Zimmermann commented. "Do we know if the ship traffic came from Topaz or Romulus?"

"The Tyrranus' that destroyed the Coral Sea and the ones that attacked eighteen were both tracked on rough headings for Topaz," Vanwinkle answered. "No idea if they came from there."

"We've got to smash their production facilities there!" Jellicoe exclaimed. "Every day that we wait is another day that they can fortify their position."

"I'm told that the president is bringing back some news," Soames stepped forward and took over. She thanked Vanwinkle for the excellent briefing. "Message traffic has been quiet but I understand that the Pointies are going to offer us limited military aide."

"Any help would be good now," Zimmermann said. "Any idea on what the Vulcans define as limited?"

"None," Soames answered. "This is not a case of Pointie inscrutability," she cautioned. "You gentleman know better than me what the loss of the subspace network has done to information flow."

"We know more than we did," the Andorian announced. "This new threat is revealed. We have a basis from which to figure out how to destroy it." The others agreed. The briefing ended.

The officers would take the information back to their taskforces. Soames had no idea how many Tyrranus class vessels that the Romulans had. It could be defeated; that much seemed apparent. But there would be many lives lost in the interim until they came to grips with the new Romulan threat.

Erica put the last of the data wafers into a stowage container. They would be sealed up and placed in a deep underground vault. Vanwinkle started to take the container by its handle but she motioned for him to stop.

"Your leave officially starts tomorrow, Tom," she told her lieutenant. "Pack up and start tonight. There is a Luna City shuttle leaving Baltimore in an hour." She knew that Vanwinkle had been born on earth's satellite. She put the container down and reached into her briefcase. "Be on that shuttle Tom," she said as she handed him the package that she had retrieved from her case.

"Go ahead Tom," she prodded him. "I know that you are a collector of old weapons." Soames waited while he unwrapped the package, revealing a large wooden box. Vanwinkle carefully sat the hinged box down, undid the latch and opened it up. Erica smiled when Vanwinkle let out a whistle. She nodded: "It's a Beretta short barrel anti-personnel gun. The British Militias used them during the troubles. My great grandfather carried this one."

He held it up. "Not too many of these survived to this day and age admiral."

"Arcane weapons," she remarked; "a sad chapter in man's history that hopefully shall never be repeated." Soames laughed at his facial expression. "Did you expect something fluffy and feminine from me Tom?"

He laughed. "Not really sir."

She extended her hand. "I was never much for knitting sweaters." Vanwinkle took her hand and shook it. Soames pulled her to him and hugged him. Maybe there was still a woman in her somewhere she thought. "Good luck out there, Tom." The news about Tara had hit her hard. She had personally called the Gupta's last night. The experience had taken its toll. Vanwinkle's assignment was a painful reminder of the day she had seen Tara off.

Vanwinkle returned the hug. "Thank you…for everything," he said.

She moved away from him. "Hopefully my new junior officer will be more polished than my old one was." Vanwinkle smiled at the dig.

He came to rigid attention and saluted her. "I've learned a lot from you admiral," he said.

She returned the salute. "Keep those boys and girls safe out there lieutenant."

Soames waited until he left. She took up the case of wafers and went through the routine marking procedures for the courier. Presently a young man came along for the container. Soames thought the man more machine than flesh. He must surely have been maimed in a horrific manner. Erica was surprised at his sunny disposition. He entered the necessary codes into Erica's handheld and took up the container.

"You're not bitter about what happened?" she asked him.

He looked at her uniform. "Funny thing for an admiral to ask, but no: I am not bitter. I'm lucky to be alive. But to answer your question: The first Romulan missile launched in the battle over earth was calculated for the west coast of the United States; that's what the sensor logs show. My family lives there." He held up an arm. "This is fake, but see how convincing it looks." He winked. "These robot legs will be replaced by real legs in another four months. Damn shame: I thought I'd get super powers but it'll be back to flesh and blood again!" He grew serious. "Call me sentimental but being burned by shuttle fuel isn't so bad when you think of your friends and family being nuked."

"I see," she answered. Erica wondered if she could ever show that much strength. The courier departed. Erica threw on her blue uniform jacket, gathered up her briefcase and took a lift to the ground floor. It was blustery outside. Soames wished for the old Stellar Navy all weather jackets as she cinched up the Star Fleet issue coat.

Soames took a tube to civilian parking. She had driven there for a change of pace. Erica was not surprised to find someone waiting for her in her car. She thought that Kanya Nayyar looked like an inverted top due to her pregnancy. Erica figured that she had less than a month to go before the delivery; if she didn't explode before then. Soames climbed into her car.

"Not spending time with the good professor today?" she asked the augment. Erica thought that Nayyar looked positively pasty.

"I had a doctor's appointment admiral—Erica," Nayyar answered. Progress, Soames thought: She was not using Erica's title as much as she had been. "The professor wants me to go to Cheltenham tomorrow."

"The baby is fine?" Soames asked. Nayyar nodded. "And you are obviously not," she added looking at her white face.

"Doctor Sollenberger says that the illness will pass," Nayyar answered. "I have never been ill before this."

Soames guided the car on manual. "There is a price to everything. Really, you should take some time away from Carlson. He is a sweet old man but this whole thing about the Doomsday Vault: Frankly dear, it is absurd."

"He is my employer Erica," Nayyar replied. "He is sponsoring me for the New Jersey Institute of Technology. I believe that I would like to be an engineer."

"He is also a lonely old man with a cause," Erica responded. She sighed and reached down to give Nayyar's knee an affectionate squeeze. "I suppose you are keeping one another company. That is okay." She put the car in automatic and looked at the younger woman.

"Is everything alright admiral?" Nayyar asked.

"I wanted you to know that Frank is going on a dangerous mission," Soames said. Bad news didn't improve with age. The information about Frank's mission had come on the heels of the news about Tara's death. "It will be several months before he returns—if he returns."

"I understand," Nayyar answered at last. "I studied unrequited love as you told me to. I still wish to, what do you say Erica: Make a go of things with Frank. I think that my feelings started after Frank spared my life on the space station. I understand what you say about being realistic. But you will pardon me if I try when he returns?"

"Carlson put a bunch of romantic notions in your head, didn't he?" she asked.

"He told me to try," she answered. "He said if things didn't work then I would know. If I never try I will never know. By the way please don't mention the professor to Reed."

"I haven't," she answered. Soames thought that she had grown quite protective of the old man. "I haven't seen the major in almost a month." Erica looked again at Nayyar. "Look, this Doomsday Vault thing is a pleasant diversion--nothing more. I doubt that it exists in fact."

"But Reed said--,"

"Reed says many things," Soames answered. "Is it more believable that an old man wanted a last chance at fame or that the men of the last century had all of these miracle weapons; none of which has ever been seen?"

"Reed had the program," Kanya argued.

"A program that was likely developed by competent programmers in this century dear," Erica countered. She resumed manual control. The Virginia countryside, dull and gray during this cool spring, passed them by. "If it pleases you to help the professor then do so. I think going to school should be in order for you. There will be few counterinsurgency positions open after the war. And just perhaps you will meet a fellow there."

"I am not going there for that!" she exclaimed. Soames reminded herself that Kanya had never had parents or a childhood. She thought this whole thing with McCoy was innocent and stupid. She also thought that Kanya could be hurt through her innocence.

"Very well," Soames had no experience as a mother. She had had the silly number of requisite crushes that she supposed all young girls had. Her parents had generally let her indulge herself until she had discovered that the person she was fixated on did not share a mutual interest. "Okay Kanya, perhaps you and Frank could be a couple. He is older than you, so there will be differences." She remembered her mother's little chidings.

"I don't think that there could be anything more different than being an augmented human being who spent the most years of my life among Romulans." Erica nodded. She had her there.

Mexico City, Mexico, earth May 2158

Watson meandered into the bottom floor of the tall spire shaped building. He remembered several vacations further south. He and Roslyn had always made it a point to stop in this city. It had taken on the nickname of the North American Monte Carlo. He looked back toward the city center with its modern clubs and casinos. Fred would make it a point to have a getaway here with Roz; after this affair was behind him.

The couple walked through the cool interior of the Unified Intelligence Agency's main forensic laboratory. His strange companion caught the looks of most of the building's male occupants and a few of the females. Fred chuckled under his breath as he thought of the looks that Dominique Catères would receive if they saw her true form. Fred was wearing a casual jacket over gray slacks while Catères was dressed in an attractive form fitting pantsuit. The two held out their ID's to the guard who sat behind the round island like desk of the main rotunda.

"Fred Watson," the guard was known to Watson. "I haven't seen you since '56." The grizzled, white haired guard made a display of examining each badge despite the fact that his security scanner would do a far better job.

"The war keeps everyone busy," he replied. "How's retirement treating you Kevin?"

"Good, good," Kevin answered. Watson knew that Kevin Milligan had practically begged to come back to the UI in some form. Fred hoped that he didn't become so attached to his work that he could never leave it. He looked as Milligan eyed Catères' identification.

"The computer says that you are okay," Milligan said as he examined the forged document. "The Spanish Constabulary?" he asked. Watson could hear his skepticism.

"She is on assignment, helping the North America office out Kevin," Watson said.

"Alright," the guard said at last. He entered some commands into his touchpad. Watson waited while a temporary pass was printed out. Milligan handed the badge to Dominique with instructions that she had limited access to the facility. She pinned the badge on her and the two headed for the forensics lab.

"Accessing the naval database is damn near impossible," Watson told the woman. "I can't track Reed that way without raising some flags."

"I have been unable to find anything on the major either," Catères replied. "I found several weapon dealers who might have sold that rocket launcher to someone. One of those dealers was dead."

"That seems to be Major Reed's calling card," Watson said as the lift doors opened. He decided to ask about something he had been curious about: "I was interested in what you said before we parted company in London."

"I do not remember what we spoke of," Catères replied.

They were alone in the lift as Watson sent it plummeting towards the underground floors. "That is the second time since we've been together that you've held out on me."

It was a long time before she spoke. "You want to capture Reed. That is not an easy task. Reed cannot be contained in a conventional way. Even were you inclined to kill him, which is my goal, it is difficult."

"How can it--." The lift doors opened cutting off Fred's question. They stalked out in silence. Watson took a moment to refresh his memory and then proceeded down a branching hallway. He stopped before a door, waved his badge across the probing eye of a scanner and beckoned for Catères to do the same. The door slid open after she did.

Watson led his alien companion down another short hallway to another door. The plate on the door proclaimed the chamber beyond to be the laboratory of Doctor Elena Salazar. Watson buzzed for admittance. The door opened. A tiny but plump middle-aged woman with dark hair streaked with gray greeted them. She shot Watson a toothy grin.

"It is the jokester," she said in greeting. "Come in to my parlor please," she said as she swept her arm out in invitation.

Watson stepped in with Catères in tow. "This is Constable Gutierrez of the Spanish Constabulary," he said in introduction. Salazar turned to Dominique and babbled away in Spanish. Catères replied in the same language. The two women seemed to finally remember Watson's presence.

"I've finished analysis on the residue that you sent to me," Salazar stated. "First of all I have to congratulate your team in the Washington office over the thoroughness of this practical joke. You had me and my staff going." She smiled at him again.

"What joke Elena?" Fred asked. "The samples I sent you came from an investigation I'm carrying out."

Her smile dropped as she realized that he was telling her the truth. "Okay Fred, I've known you for many years: What are you working on here?"

"We are pursuing a possible murder suspect," Catères interjected.

Salazar nodded. "Si, I know," she replied. "You are a little late to catch this one though." She motioned for them to follow her into the lab. Salazar plopped down before a computer terminal. An image materialized on her monitor. Watson recognized the parallel bands of a metallurgical analysis.

"Brick dust, asbestos and several other nasty ancient building materials," Salazar began. "I won't thrill you with images of that. But this metal is interesting: It is fine steel for its day. Bessemer type steel; I'd guess that the blade that the steel came from was used by someone who needed sharp instruments to make their living: A butcher, doctor, fisherman. The metal is the very best of its day."

"Butcher is more apt," Catères interjected.

"How did you get a blade from particles?" Watson asked. "It could have been a stonemason's chisel."

"It could have been. I doubt that a stone mason of that day could afford fine steel like this. The brick residue was also contaminated with blood," Salazar answered. She changed the image to one that Watson recognized as a strand of DNA. "In fact there was blood from several individuals. I just assumed that the blood was from wounds inflicted by something sharp. The knife appears to have been wrapped in cloth. There were fibers. Perhaps it was hidden away hastily."

"You keep saying knife," Watson said. "Okay maybe it wasn't a chisel. But there is nothing to connect the blood to the metal is there?"

"That's why I figured you were playing a joke on us down here, Fred." She continued. "I almost dropped everything after the blood analysis told me that the sample was two hundred and seventy years old. Of course they didn't have DNA matching back then but what do you know, the computer found a match." Salazar made another input. "Mary Jane Kelly," she said simply. She folded her arms over her breasts.

"It doesn't ring a bell," Watson said.

"No reason why it should. Poor Mary Jane's DNA was obtained from a museum display," the doctor told them. "She was one of Jack the Ripper's last known victims."

Watson looked at Catères. Her face was grim. "Were there any matches on the metal?" she asked the doctor.

"Detectives from this century are still trying to solve that crime," Salazar stated. "As a matter of fact the killer grazed one of Kelly's ribs. The metal debris that was left is a match for the particles that you have here." She cast an excited glance at them. "Fred, if this is not a joke and you've found a knife used by Jack the Ripper…"

"We did not find the knife," Catères said. "We must have found its hiding place."

"A shame," Salazar said. "That would have been an enormous find. You told me that you took the samples from an apartment, Fred. What was the address? That could possibly be cross referenced in modern records. We could solve the murders."

"Go ahead and run that," Watson said. He supplied her with the address of Reed's rented flat.

They waited in silence. Watson had about a million questions for Catères. Salazar's computer had finally completed its search. A single name was displayed on the screen: Jozef Rydzyk. The screen filled with information about Rydzyk. He had emigrated from Poland to Scotland. A medical doctor, Watson read on. Rydzyk seemed to have had a normal life until 1886. Scottish authorities had arrested him that year on a complaint from his wife that he had tried to kill her. The attempt was corroborated by a friend who had intruded while the act was in progress, thus saving Mrs. Rydzyk.

"It's a pity that the authorities of that day could not connect the dots," Salazar commented. "But the records kept in Scotland might as well have been kept on the moon given the modes of transportation of those days."

"That and news traveled slowly," Fred added. "Rydzyk wasn't even questioned by the Metro Police," Watson commented. "Yet he took up residence in Whitechapel and was apparently known by local prostitutes because he treated many of them." He shook his head. Fred had only worked one murder during his career: It had been a silly and stupid crime of passion. The clues had been obvious. "Almost like Rydzyk could move about with complete autonomy."

"Yes," Dominique agreed, while looking hard at him.

"Whatever Rydzyk could do it all ended a year after the murders," Salazar commented. Watson saw the doctor's lip curl in disgust. "He was burned to death when his American bound steamship caught fire and sank," she read.

"Were there survivors from the wreck?" Catères asked sharply.

Salazar punched in some more commands. Watson could see that she was puzzled by Dominique's request; so was he. The computer retrieved the information: Forty eight survivors had indeed made it to America. Watson wondered why Catères wanted that information. He had a hunch:

"What happened to Krystyna Rydzyk, any record of that?" he asked.

"She was granted a divorce," Salazar answered; "rare for those days especially in her religion. The record says that she went on--."

"That she went on to get married again—to an Abel Reed of Southern England. Reed adopted Rydzyk's son," Fred finished.

"The widow seems innocent in all of this," Salazar said. "Are you working on this thing Fred?"

"It looks like our investigation crossed paths with an old one," he answered. "If you want, Elena, this would make a neat feather in your cap. We don't have the time to solve a three hundred year old string of murders."

"Gracias Fred," Salazar said. "I'll solve this thing."

"This looks like a dead end," Watson declared. He looked at Catères. "Time for us to chase some other leads," he said.

"You and Roz should shuttle down for dinner, Fred," Salazar said as she got up to escort them out. "Luis would like the company."

"I'll let you know Elena," he answered.

She bid them good day and saw them out. Watson was silent during the trip up to the main floor. He spoke to Milligan briefly when he returned the badges for destruction. He turned and walked out into the bright Mexican day.

"Reed is not three hundred years old," he said quietly.

"No," Catères answered. "I have not told you everything Fred. I was not," she paused before adding: "Holding out on you. I wanted to make sure that you were ready to accept what we are dealing with."

"I should just go and arrest Reed," he said angrily. Man had encountered aliens but besides different physiologies and cultures they still had values of a sort that humans could deal with. Watson was finding that the idea of what this represented was truly disturbing.

"Your own laws preclude you from doing that," Catères cautioned him. "And his connection with Naval Intelligence would create the impression that you are antimilitary. I believe that evidence would be created that showed that you were a member of the Sons' of Terra."

"This is all going nowhere!" he snapped. She let her lead him to a street side café. He sat back in frustration as she ordered him a whiskey. She took water. Fred sipped at the strong smelling drink while Catères spoke.

"We could ambush the major," she said. "It would be difficult but I could instruct you as to what needs to be—."

"Damnit! You don't understand us! We don't run around assassinating people that we disagree with anymore." The whiskey felt warm in his stomach. "That would be the last thing that Karl wanted: Us battling one group of rogues by setting up our own rogue shop."

"Fred, in the end you will have to kill him," she said. "Or at least attempt it. Obviously something happened on that steamship. The entity must have moved to another person. I'm puzzled by your questions about Rydzyk's family. Our people do not know, but it is possible that the _drak'ha_ are drawn to certain hosts. Perhaps one could be genetically predisposed to accept one of them."

"I just can't walk up and shoot him Dominique," he said. He finished his whiskey then, feeling hungry he picked up a menu. "We need to catch him, legitimately. I don't know about killing him—it, whatever. If we could nab him for Karl's death, that would go a long way towards burying whatever organization that is backing Reed."

"You've had no luck," Catères said. "I used my…abilities to investigate Jaap Stam. Stam cannot even remember Goodwin. I found a bar where I believe that Reed met with Goodwin but no one remembers anything. What was in the information from Heliopolis?"

"Records of the murders," Watson spoke as he recalled the information. "The investigation fell under naval jurisdiction because Alpha Eridani is an outpost. Colonization is taking place but between the murders and the war it has slowed down. All of the six original investigators have died in accidents."

"Except for Reed," Catères said. "He went there as part of the original six."

"He ran into your _drak'ha." _Watson stumbled over the alien word. "Somehow it seen Reed as someone it could use," he continued. "Drakreed comes back to earth, finds someone who went to Wolf during the same time period switches places with Rademacher in the computer, kills Rademacher and the team that went to Heliopolis, then joins a covert agency to engage in terrorists acts. I don't get the last part."

"_Drak'ha_ are not mindless entities," Catères explained. "It would want to maintain a fertile hunting ground. Perhaps it thought that we were coming close to success." Catères looked around. A waiter was taking an order. Watson assumed that they would be next. "We had almost achieved a political victory for the Sons' of Terra. Reed and whoever he was working for did indeed thwart us Fred."

Watson ordered some enchiladas and beans. He listened as Catères ordered grilled tilapia. He switched from whiskey to a sweet cola. Watson considered that he was sitting with someone who had been a part of trying to conquer his world. The waiter departed. Maybe there was something to Dominique's claim about his psychic abilities. He had solved many crimes on some slim threads of evidence. Fred also had had a sense about people; that sense told him that he could trust Catères, at least in this situation. He was silent for a long time.

"You know what has to be done here?" she asked him after awhile.

"There might well be evidence that Reed murdered a woman, possibly more people," he responded. "That would be want Willy wanted: Reed goes to the gallows for murder. This black organization is done away with or at least set back to where it is harmless."

"That evidence is probably on Alpha Eridani," Catères stated that which Watson could not bring himself to say.

"I'm out on a limb with this thing as it is," he complained. Watson shook his head. "I'd need travel orders from the UI. I don't even know what I'd tell Roz. I can't even lie to her about what I don't catch fishing."

"You're on an investigation," she answered. "As far as your employer; surely you have some earned respect from your years of service?"

"I could pull a few strings," he conceded. He took a bite of enchilada while he considered the possibilities. "It'll be difficult to get a ship." Eridani was in the other direction from the war. Star Fleet must have thought that it was strategically unimportant. Watson guessed that the admirals knew their business. Most ship traffic was going the other way.

"You know of the next ship bound for there." She made a statement rather than asking a question.

"Sure you can't read my mind?" he asked around a mouth full of beans. She merely looked at him without expression. "Next week a resupply ship is headed out there. One month out, the same back; plus whatever time we spend there."

"I'll do some research on the survivors of the steamship before we leave," Catères said. "It is possible that one of their descendents went to Eridani. Reed may well have stumbled upon the creature only to be absorbed."

"Okay, this thing may have been Jack the Ripper," he said. "How do we capture it?"

"It can change hosts," Catères answered. "I believe that giving a potential victim a psychotropic drug might prevent the _drak'ha _from moving. I'll have to examine the possibilities for humans. Giving Reed a stronger drug might paralyze the creature. You have to know that it can't be killed unless…unless you can break apart matter at the sub atomic level."

"Is Reed…" he let the question hang there.

"The real Malcolm Reed?" she answered. "I don't know. My people say that the host of a _drak'ha _has their mind shattered."

"Seems like that would make it harder for the creature," he commented.

"My people also say that the victim's mind is destroyed over time," she explained. "At first the host lives a euphoric vision that is created by the _drak'ha_. That allows the creature to gradually take over the host's body rather than trying all at once."

He realized what had to be done. Fred got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He pushed his plate away. "Can we somehow drug Reed so that the creature is permanently stuck there in Reed?"

She lowered her voice as the waiter passed by. "That is how the Romulans were said to destroy them: The host's brain is attacked in a way that keeps the creature there. The body was then destroyed."

He sighed. His meal that had been so good was starting to turn sour. Watson didn't want to kill Reed but it sounded like his brain would have to be damaged—permanently, to deal with the creature inside. He didn't like to think about what he had to do. Fred fancied himself a peace officer in the ancient sense of the word. Reed may not have asked for what happened to him but it was Watson's duty to take away the threat; to protect the peace.

Cheltenham, the United Kingdom, the old European Hegemony, May 2158

"You'll excuse me if I don't invite you in for tea," Lindsey Paulson told Kanya Nayyar. The woman looked harried as two screaming children ran past her legs into the house. One of them, a boy with a mop of curly red hair turned and looked at Nayyar.

"Mummy," he said to Paulson, "that woman looks like she is going to pop!"

"Yes Eddy," Paulson told her son. "You remember mummy when I had your sister."

"You didn't explode mummy!" the boy exclaimed and laughed.

Kanya watched as the woman gave the boy a playful swat on his rear. "No I didn't. But your dinner will explode and you won't have any if you don't get in there and wash your hands." The boy took another look at Kanya. What would it be like when her child looked at her? The boy stomped away. "I'll be checking under your nails!" Paulson yelled in warning.

She turned back to Nayyar without catching a breath. "Look miss, my great grandfather was Colonel Barstow. There is no mystery. I've been interviewed, my dad and mum were interviewed their parents were interviewed. My great grand didn't conceal any super weapons. He was just another poor blighter who was hiding from America's police state. You should stop wasting your time, miss." She looked at Kanya's ample belly. "You won't have any time to waste on silliness in a few weeks."

"He went missing for almost a month," Kanya insisted. She had wrapped herself in a warm jacket that Carlson had given her. It was a cool afternoon in Britain. Paulson was clearly annoyed at her questions.

"That was a confusing time," Paulson answered. She was standing in the doorframe of the front door of the family's small house. "And people don't have to account for every minute of their time miss. P'haps my great grand was sitting in his home relaxing." She started to back away and close the door. "Now you have a good--"

"This is my first child," Nayyar piped up suddenly. Kanya remembered the admiral telling her to find something in common with someone she wanted to speak with.

The door stayed open. "It doesn't get easier with two." Paulson looked at her. "Is your husband in the service or…"

Or dead, Nayyar thought, answering the question. Kanya had no wish to complicate the matter with the truth. She answered in the affirmative. Paulson gave her a look full of sadness.

"Kenneth couldn't pass the physical," the woman said at last. "You know what? I'm glad. I'm not an antiwar bugger; thanks, I have a brain. I hope we get the Birds, but the navy can get by with one less person." She looked at her children who were busy tracking water from the bathroom to the dining room. "I don't know what they'd do without a dad. I don't know what I'd do." She looked at Kanya. "But I'm sure that your man will come out of it alright."

She invited Kanya in. Paulson fell to talking about her pregnancies. Something Nayyar had labeled as comparing notes. She had run into several women who would banter on in detail about their physical conditions. Kanya nodded and agreed for the most part. She could not relate her own physiological changes. She wondered what Lindsey would think if she told her that she could no longer pick up her own body weight with ease or could no longer snatch insects out of the air.

Nayyar looked around the small but comfortable home as Paulson related a story about a horror that her son had inflicted upon a cat, with some finger paint that the lad was playing with. Raising children, made being a former spy and saboteur for the Romulan Empire seem easy by comparison. She looked at pictures of Paulson's family. One aged holo showed an image of a solid looking man wearing an ancient uniform. Behind the man a crest showed an image of a comet with the title, Ranger I emblazoned over the comet. She assumed that was the colonel. Lindsey poured her some tea while the Paulson's daughter decided to make herself at home on Kanya's lap.

"If you're a student that is what you should be researching miss," Paulson told her after noticing Kanya's interest in the holo. "That is my great grandfather. The yanks were all set to launch Ranger I just before the progressives took over. Colonel Barstow and his crew were going to rendezvous with Haley's Comet."

Kanya could not immediately recall that mission. She remembered that humans hadn't conducted a manned expedition to a comet until 2191. Why hadn't Carlson caught that? Nayyar supposed that it didn't mean anything. The United States of that day had been all set to do many things. She tousled the girl's hair. Paulson's daughter giggled; that amused Kanya.

She would tell Carlson that this had been a dead end. "I think that you are right Lindsey," she said. "I was doing research for my employer, but he probably is making more of this than what it really is."

"You know it!" Lindsey exclaimed. "You know, when I think about it my great grand could not have hid much of anything back then."

"Why do you say that?" she asked as she playfully tickled the freckled girl. Kanya laughed when she squealed and sprang off of her lap.

"I remember hearing from my gran that he was laid up for awhile," Lindsey answered. "He was ill with a fever and a skin rash for a few months. He complained about it for years." The woman smiled mischievously. She reached into a nearby drawer to produce a holo of an older man with what appeared to be badly sunburned skin. "I think this was a playful holo that they took." She giggled. "I mean my great gran and the colonel. You know he remarried shortly after coming over here?" She looked shyly at Kanya. "Will your husband be back in time?"

"No," Nayyar answered. She was worried about Frank. Erica was right: It was not reasonable to expect to have a relationship with Frank; not unless it came to that. Part of her hoped that it did.

Lindsey took her hand. "Your family will be there for you. But if you need help don't hesitate to call me."

She had no family, she thought bitterly. Nayyar had no idea what being part of a family meant. She dismissed those thoughts as she examined the old holo again. A date was in the corner. Kanya had seen minor skin burns from excessive solar radiation before: It was fairly common among those who worked in space. She thanked Paulson and finished her tea. Kenneth Paulson had arrived.

Lindsey made some introductions. Kanya could tell that she was taking up the Paulson's time. She got up and bid the family ado. She was anxious to study the historical records of spaceflights made during the last century. Nayyar walked slowly toward the tube station. She regretted not renting a car. Fatigue like this was strange to her. Evening was falling onto the English countryside. Nayyar crossed the street and headed along a footpath to the station. A sense of dread suddenly seized her.

She heard footsteps behind her. The tree lined path was nearly deserted. Blackness descended over her. Kanya knew fear for only the second time in her life. But it was not fear for herself: It was fear for the life that she carried. The emotion was forcing her mind to shut down. The black figure wielded a gleaming knife. She managed to put an arm up.

She felt the blade score her skin, felt the warm expulsion of her blood. Nayyar danced back clumsily barely avoiding another slash. She reached out and felt something cold against her arm. The sign was a guide for pedestrians. Another slash tore into her shoulder. She kicked out at the figure knocking it away. Nayyar seized the metal signpost in both hands and pulled at it. She felt a painful, tearing strain in the pit of her stomach as the permacrete embedded sign and its post came loose.

The figure came at her again. It was like watching an out of focus holovid. Nayyar perceived her attacker as a figure dressed in black from head to toe. She used the signpost to defend her child. The attacker swung at her, the assailant's knife threw sparks out from where it struck the post. The unfocused figure seemed to grow before her; like some great dark bird. Its wings stretched forth to engulf her. She swung wildly with all of her augmented strength.

The post connected with an audible crunch, like the sound of wet branches snapping underfoot. Kanya saw a very human person reeling away. That was just a second. She raised the post again. She heard concerned voices. Her vision of the attacker went out of focus again: But she could see that he or it was retreating. Nayyar made out several people running toward her. She heard the report of a chemically propelled slug weapon. One of those persons coming to her rescue was Kenneth Paulson. The sluggish feeling that had gripped her gradually subsided.

Nayyar sank to her knees. She felt the cold damp wetness of the ground soak through her clothes. She gripped her abdomen. A pain shot through her. Kanya started to lose focus again. The ground seemed to rush up to meet her. She thought that something was terribly wrong.

Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen II near Topaz, June 2158

Frank McCoy carefully held the wounded bat as Doctor Phlox passed the large handheld device over its broken leg. That device was connected by a thick cable to the medical station. The medical pickups showed the bat's leg cleanly knitting together. It was as if months of healing were occurring in minutes. The animal's quaking had stopped. Frank thought that Klex's suffering must have been going away. The bat emitted a soft whistling sound which Frank had come to understand meant that the animal was content.

"It is pity that they can't make this device portable," Phlox remarked as the Denobulan examined the bat's vitals.

"I dunno Doc," Frank said. "They keep making things smaller. It'll probably happen in a few years."

"Speaking of small things, you'll be a father soon," Phlox said. Frank had been hoping that the doctor would not bring that up. He made a show of putting the bat back into its cage. "You humans have tighter family units than do we Denobulans. I know that most on this crew who have young ones at home miss them deeply."

"What about your children Doc?" he asked, neatly deflecting an unpleasant topic for him.

"I communicate with them at times," the Denobulan answered. "Our system of group cohabitation ensures that children always have a parent. They have their lives now, my children I mean. You shall discover that."

"I suppose so," McCoy answered. Kanya had written to inform him about the Thomas' reluctance to accept their grandchild. "It's not like I'm being irresponsible Phlox. I just think the kid will be better with a mother and father."

"This young lady of yours seems anxious to fulfill the maternal role," Phlox remarked.

Frank sighed. "It's complicated. We had an agreement. At first she wasn't even interested in me."

"Oh, so you were interested in her?" Phlox countered.

"Damnit Doc!" he cried. "No, I was not interested in her. The first two times we met we tried to kill each other." Nayyar had tried to murder him on Orbital One. Likewise he had tried to kill her on top of the Golden Gate Bridge to avenge his father.

"Altercations frequently make relationships stronger." Phlox's voice floated out of his office. Frank gave the bat some food and stroked the creature under its neck. Phlox emerged wearing a hideous purple, green and white shirt.

"What are you wearing Phlox?" he asked. "I think it's blinding me."

"Captain Townsend has marked this as Hawaiian night at the forward lounge," Phlox answered. "I thought that I would dress appropriately."

"Where did you find a shirt like that?" he asked in reply. A scantily dressed woman wearing a grass skirt adorned the back of the doctor's shirt.

"I toured some of your Pacific Islands while I was on earth," Phlox answered. "The shopkeeper who sold me this shirt said it was fashionable there." Frank thought that he was going to escape the doctor's previous line of questioning but it was not to be. "So did you and the girl have sex after your fight?"

No!" he exclaimed. "Look Phlox, she is different." He looked around. They were alone in Denobulan's new sickbay. "Are you bound by that doctor patient thing?" Phlox said that he was. "Okay," he said. How to say this? "Kanya didn't have parents. She grew up under…different circumstances."

"She is an orphan?" the doctor asked.

That seemed as likely a story as any Frank thought. "Yeah, yes she is," he agreed hastily.

"You have spent much of your adult life alone, Frank," Phlox said. "One could conclude that you are slightly dysfunctional from that. Perhaps you two have more in common than you think."

The entry door slid open admitting Micah Brack. The immortal was dressed in white cotton shorts, sandals and a shirt adorned with the images of yellow and red tropical flowers. McCoy groaned. Had everyone been told about this night except for him? He wondered how the raider functioned when Townsend seemed to favor a fast and loose approach to command. This whole shirt thing reminded him of that.

"There is a command briefing before the luau," Brack announced. "We have been summoned Frank."

"Thank god," McCoy said under his breath.

"Frank wants to avoid questions about his personal life," Phlox said.

"By the way Phlox: You have been ordered there as well," Brack added. "Ah, the girl; he is confused about the situation." Brack turned to him. "Life is short Frank: There is nothing wrong with seeing how things go."

Brack beckoned for him to come. Phlox told them that he would be a few minutes behind them. McCoy left sickbay with Brack. He still found the odd curves of the converted Vulcan cruiser, strange. There were few crewmen about as the time was between duty shifts.

"I meant what I said back there Frank," Brack said. The immortal had become more serious since the katra of Mistral had been removed. But Frank wondered sometimes if the Vulcan had not left something behind for the immortal. He had moments where he reminded Frank of his father.

"I'm old enough to handle my love life," he said. "I don't need a…"

"A child?" the immortal asked. "Kanya spent her life among aliens who went to war with us. She made some very difficult decisions and changed her mind. I wouldn't discount her. She is more alien and inexperienced at being human. The same could be said of you Frank."

"I do okay for myself," Frank retorted. "Hey, what do you mean?" he asked in a tone dripping with indignation.

"When you are not playing with Phlox's bats and rodents you are in our quarters reading history books," Brack answered. "Oh; the fall of the Roman Empire is vastly overrated: I know. I was there."

"I like to read," he protested. "I always have."

They took a lift to the upper decks. McCoy was still getting used to Vulcan intership transport tubes that not only moved up and down but fore and aft as well. He leaned against the lift's manual control lever, hoping that Brack would change the subject.

"I know that you are hurt over Eileen," Brack said. He pulled the lever up on his side stopping the transport. "Every woman I've loved has died, Frank. I outlived them all. You never asked me about immortality. It was worth it for the first few centuries. Now it is just existence. I'm like a virus that never dies. Tolkien was right in saying that death was a gift for men."

"Who?"

"Sorry, just a friend of mine; from a long time ago," Brack answered. "The point is that your mortality means that you live your lives to the fullest. You, Frank, are retreating from life. With life expectancies what they are you have sixty years or so. Don't reject those who love you. No matter how much time you have there is never enough for regrets. Maybe your life won't be with that young lady. But you can help each other through the times that are coming."

Brack started the lift in motion again. Frank was silent as it stopped and the doors slid open. It was a short walk to the briefing room. Frank was not surprised to see Townsend and the majority of those in the room dressed in exotic shirts. The Vulcan Z'Tel was one of the few exceptions. Was that Frank's future he wondered; to be as dour and plodding as a Vulcan? Maybe Micah was right. It just seemed from his divorce and then Eileen's death that fate was sending him a message.

"Glad to see that you two could make it," Captain Donald Townsend said. They informed him about the doctor's lateness then took seats. A hastily installed tripanel monitor dominated the center of the conference table. McCoy recognized the graphic as the Topaz system.

"That's okay on Phlox," Townsend said. "I doubt that the doctor has a method for us to sneak into that." He nodded at the screen. "Vulcan refinements on our sensors have allowed us to sit out here and scan the system. The readings are sketchy at this end but we've already scanned four roving patrols. We don't dare make a closer approach without some kind of a gimmick."

"Our good looks won't get us in," Commander Margaret Sadler interjected. She was referring to the ship's uncanny likeness to Romulan Sabinus class cruiser. Human technicians had spent many space suited hours helping to shape that likeness.

"Power and mass readings on the outer planet might be a sensor post," Brack added.

"They've covered all of their bases," Townsend remarked. "Our boys can't use the outer planetary bodies to make an approach. I'll bet my next paycheck that the sensor post also has a missile battery or three protecting it."

"Intermittent returns show radiologics," Lieutenant Commander Marshall Davies said. "They are clustered around the outpost."

"What about these patrols?" Brack asked; "any way that we can tag along with one of them?"

"I don't know Mister Brack," Townsend answered. "Is there?"

McCoy looked at the captain. He guessed that Townsend and his crew were hoping that Brack and McCoy would find a way in. The two men's orders had identified them as intelligence assets. Frank thought that except for the bat Klex, he hadn't been much of an asset for Townsend's crew. Frank looked up as the doors slid open admitting Phlox. McCoy returned his attention to the screen.

"Is that the remains of a planetary mass?" Frank asked. He used his control panel to illuminate a section of the image.

"It is," Sub Commander Z'Tel answered in his nasally Australian accented English. "A most unusual formation for the outer planetary rings," he added.

"Our people conjecture that a passing rogue planet smashed into Topaz's outer planet," Sadler said. Frank remembered that now. "The Stellar Navy Science Section was due to study that—in 2157."

"I remember that," Frank said. "But what caught my eye is that this mess of rubble sets on the top of Garnet's gravity well." He lit up the area showing the debris in relation to Topaz's outermost world.

"It's too thin for us to slip in," Davies commented.

"A shuttle," Brack said. "The Queen could make a close pass and eject a shuttle that could use the rock and gravimetric distortion as a screen."

"That would get us two AU's closer, more or less," Townsend said. "Shuttle's have basic radar; that's it. What does that gain us?"

"A shuttle could carry the warhead from one of our EMP missiles," Davies said.

"We don't know if that'll burn the Bird's systems out or not," Sadler spoke up and argued.

"Their last patrol made a close pass to that mass of rock," Townsend said. Frank watched as Townsend absently stroked at his clean shaven chin. "We could set a device off on one of those rocks. They might see it as some kind of spatial phenomena."

"They might see it as an attack skipper!" Sadler exclaimed.

"Can we tell if their sensors are working Marsh?" Townsend asked the engineer.

"You mean if the EMP warhead works sir?" Davies looked thoughtfully at nothing as he considered the problem. "I could modify a subspace receiver to read for subspace sensor traces. Yes that is possible captain."

"Their sensors on Garnet are going to read us," Sadler chimed in. "I see where you are going skipper: We burn out their eyes and ears and jump in one of their patrols."

"I disagree, sir," Chief Paul Aarons spoke up for the first time. He swept a piece of his thinning blonde hair off of his forehead. They turned to the sensor chief. "We can guess that their subspace sensors aren't much different than ours."

"We think that they may be a first generation copy of ours," Frank interrupted. He recalled a briefing that he had prepared several months back.

"That would be perfect," Aarons continued. "The blast would create an intense magnetic field that their auto detection would lock in on."

"How long would that be for?" Sadler asked.

"These things are old tech," Aarons explained, meaning the electromagnetic pulse warheads. "But the field is fairly intense."

"Our sensors our filtered when we take readings off of a sun or the magnetic field of a planet. That marginalizes the effects from a magnetic field," Davies took up the explanation. "But a blast like that might lock up their sensors for twenty seconds or so."

"That would give us time to warp into the pack," Townsend said.

"So when the Romulan operators recover they will see one extra ship," Z'Tel declared in a voice typically bereft of emotion.

"If another patrol makes another close pass, and if our bomb works as advertised," Brack began, emphasizing the ifs. "We could relay the exact position of their ships on a tight beam to the Queen. You could fire a Narwhal immediately after warp exit and then take up our position in the group."

"A direct hit would vaporize one of their cruisers," Townsend nodded. "There would be residual energy readings but an operator's first return would be of x number of ships that had been there before he went blind."

"It's a house of cards!" Sadler protested.

"Can one of these warheads do the job?' Townsend left the question open for anyone.

"Based on the data that Daedelus returned with we think this will short out most of a Romulan cruiser's primary systems." Davies leaned back in his seat. "I would say twenty seconds is pretty liberal for their shipboard restoration times. I don't know what Romulans are but look how much faster our navy crews are in routine tasks since the war started."

"When your ass is on the line it is no wonder," Sadler added. "They are going to want their eyes and ears back as soon as possible. We would. What about communications?"

"Subspace transceivers are sensitive pieces of equipment," Davies said; "at least ours are. They would probably be reduced to basic ship-to-ship data stream."

"So what do we say to the Birdies?" Sadler asked. "We don't know who they are or what they look like." McCoy started at that. He shot a glance at Z'Tel. Sadler noticed the gesture. "Anything you'd like to tell us lieutenant?"

Frank's mind raced. "Maybe we don't have to say anything. The other ships in the group might think that our comm system is big time fried," he said quickly. His father would have smacked him for lying.

"A breakdown from some unknown stellar phenomena and a broken radio; it could work," Sadler replied thoughtfully.

"We'll use one of the Vulcan shuttles?" Brack asked. "Are they up for something like that?"

"I've studied this EMP device of yours," Sub Commander Z'Tel said. "Some modifications will have to done with the shuttle's electronic sheathing. To answer your question I believe that the shuttle's systems will be intact after the detonation. Especially as it would be helpful if the shuttle is on the other side of one of the asteroid."

"The shuttle crew would need a Hyronaline booster," Phlox added.

"The question is," Townsend began; "can we execute a precision warp maneuver, provided that our team can send us data, jump into normal space, nuke an enemy cruiser and then take its place?"

"You get me there sir, and I'll put a stick in their eye," the gunnery officer Chief Matthew Prescott spoke up.

"Lieutenant Mirren?" the captain nodded at the Queen's helmsman.

"This will have to be done by computer, sir," Lieutenant Stephanie Mirren answered. "If we are even a few centimeters off at warp entry we could end up exiting within missile range but not in range to take the place of our target."

"We are familiar with Vulcan shuttles," McCoy heard Brack announce. Micah clapped him on the shoulder.

"We're delivering the bomb?" he asked Brack.

"You two are my resident spooks," Townsend said. "I was hoping you'd take the point on this." Townsend looked at a ship's chronometer. "We'll continue sitting out here and wait on another patrol. We should have almost an hour to react."

"Fifty seven point two minutes sir," Z'Tel interjected.

"Fifty seven point two," Townsend said and smiled. "We can loop in just out of their sensor range, eject you and McCoy, and then wait for your data to make the jump into their group." He looked at each of them in turn. Frank had been in the navy long enough to know that this was the preparation for the bad news. "We need information on their defenses here. I wish that we had more time but Star Fleet has put a priority on eliminating their base and industrial capability here. If we…aren't successful then they will try drones. It's not going to be a surprise to the Birdies that they are going to be looked at here."

Townsend asked if there were anymore questions. He ordered the on duty crew to start calculations for warp entry. Frank got up after Townsend dismissed them. He felt a hand on his arm as he turned to leave. Brack was holding onto him as the immortal was joined by Sadler. Her skirt was made of a material that looked like grass. Her breasts were covered by two plastic shells painted to look like coconuts. Frank thought that the woman didn't have much to cover.

"There's an extra shirt in our room Frank," Brack said. "Join us for the luau." Brack extended a metal flask to him.

McCoy was about to beg off of the affair but Brack was right. Reading about Roman emperors was not helping him any. He hadn't had a drink in several weeks. He took the silver flask, uncapped it and took a sip. It was strong, but smooth bourbon. He felt good; not because of the drink but because of the company.

"You should celebrate," Brack said. "You'll be a father soon. That is something to be proud of. Anyway an ancient philosopher once said: 'Don't worry, be happy'. Take that advice Frank. If people put as much energy into building their futures as they did worrying about them the future would be okay."

Frank was confused rather than proud. He felt that he had been partly responsible for Eileen's death. He wasn't running away from his paternal duty because he was afraid of that. He was worried about what sort of a father he would be for the child. But Brack was right: He might not even return from this mission. He wondered about Kanya's motives but he realized that time would tell.

San Francisco, California, the old United States, earth, Jun 2158

"Mama, I'm fine," Jocelyn Stiles protested. She sat up slowly.

She wasn't fine: That had been a lie. But the blood vessel in her brain was returning to normal. Stiles had had fewer dizzy spells and episodes of vision loss. But she was still not up to her previous level of health. She stood slowly.

Stiles had slept the night on the sofa that sat in the small house's main living area. The room's patio doors opened onto a beautiful view of the California coastline. Her mother had boasted that this was one small concession for councilors: Their compounds commanded great views of the surrounding countryside.

"You have another appointment with the doctor this afternoon," Kendra Stiles warned her. "Remember he said to take it easy for a few weeks, and that was just last week." She held a steaming cup of coffee out for Jocelyn. She sniffed at it and accepted it. A shadow crossed the terrace. Both women turned to see Jeffrey Sutton tapping at the glass.

"Your political advisor is here mother," Stiles announced in her best faux New England accent.

"Hush child!" her mother answered as she went to the patio doors. "He's a nice man and he helped me." She looked back at Jocelyn with a sly grin on her face. "I also think that he likes you." She opened the door.

"Morning all," Sutton said as he walked into the room. He shot Jocelyn a brief smile and then turned to her mother. "The Vulcan ambassador is speaking today. I'm betting that the main thrust of his speech will be an endorsement of this federation."

Stiles saw that particular look upon her mother's face; the look that preceded a lecture. "Why don't you sit Jeff? The same for you Jo-jo," she added. The two seated themselves. Stiles was tired of the sofa and chose a comfortable chair instead while Sutton seated himself on the edge of the sofa. Her mother returned with coffee for Sutton and herself.

"You two have been out there," Kendra Stiles started. "What do you think of this federation idea?" Stiles gaped at her mother. The elder Stiles smiled back at her. "I haven't lost my mind baby. Just because the president wanted me to run doesn't mean I'm goin' to rubberstamp everything he says. I've got constituents now and I have to feel that I'm doing the right thing by them; the thing that they would want me to do."

Stiles looked at her mother and then at Sutton. She would have thought that he had more to say on the matter as he had been set to marry an Andorian. He looked at her and looked away rather quickly. Maybe there was something to what her mother had said about his desire for her.

"Admiral Forrest says that we won't lose our sovereignty." Stiles decided to throw in what she knew about Thorpe's union. "There will be one military and no one planet will be able to interfere in the affairs of another world."

"But there will be federation law that will override some local laws," Sutton interjected. "But the Andorian Compact and the World Charter aren't all that different. If I understand this the federation won't invite, say a fascist government into it."

"So our system wouldn't change unless our government changed," Stiles said. "Unless we change it," she added.

"It all looks good on paper," Kendra Stiles remarked. "But I know my people: There are still Sons' of Terra mixed up in there. That is how Hawkins won a seat to start with. The smart ones are going to want to know if a federation government can get control."

"The president hasn't written the charter yet," Sutton said. He took a drink of his coffee before continuing: "I see your point though."

"Guarantees will have to be included," Kendra Stiles said.

Jocelyn was surprised when Sutton spoke up with a sudden passion: "Not guarantees--stoppers."

"What do you mean?" her mother asked.

"I mean it'll have to be written so that it is intentionally vague in the area of control over planetary governments," he answered. "It took almost two hundred years to subvert the US Constitution. We need to put articles in this federation charter that would require overwhelming majorities to effect change and veto powers that can easily hamper the process. A third entity like a court to interpret laws would tie things up if its powers were narrowly defined so that lawyers didn't start writing legislation."

"Sounds like you've given this some thought Jeff," she told the man.

He seemed surprised, as if he had been daydreaming. "Sorry," he said and grinned. "My father is an attorney. He used to talk law over the breakfast table, at lunch and at dinner. It got so bad that my mother had to threaten to take us kids and leave if he didn't stop talking shop."

"What about the military?" she asked. Stiles had a vested interest in that. Earth had let the Stellar Navy wither to a point that the Romulans had almost beaten them. Stiles had been over earth the day the Romulans had attacked: Without alien intervention things would have ended right there for humanity.

"It would be funded through tariffs and user taxes," Sutton answered. "We do that now, so do the Tellarites and Andorians. We could give the federation president the powers of commander and chief: That would allow that person to act quickly."

"We don't even know if President Thorpe is going to put that out," Kendra Stiles said. "I guess I'll meet this Soval after his speech but do you think that the aliens would accept a human president; or whatever title we give this fellow? Would humans accept an alien leader?"

Jo-jo watched as Sutton hung his head. She guessed that his thoughts were of his alien bride-to-be. She sympathized with him but only to a certain extent: People were going to die in this war. It was unrealistic and childish to think otherwise.

"I think we would," she said. "At least in the Star Fleet there are alien officers and chiefs over humans. There is the usual amount of personnel issues but nothing out of the ordinary. I expect that humans would accept a leader that they felt they had a hand in electing. This person would have to be elected by popular vote I'd say."

"That's a lot of power in one person's hands Jeff," Kendra said.

"There would have to be a body to counter executive authority," he said.

"A congress?" her mother asked. Stiles took another sip of the coffee while taking a sniff of the breakfast that her mother had prepared. She got up slowly and went to the kitchen to prepare a plate. Her mother asked her to fix one for her and Sutton.

"I'm supposed to be sick you know!" she protested. She ducked her head into the living room and stuck her tongue out at them. She was surprised when Sutton came into the kitchen to help her. He seemed to be anxious around her, but he was quiet save for necessary responses.

"A council would be better," Sutton said as he handed her mother a plate full of fluffy yellow eggs, crisp bacon and buttered toast. "One representative per planet; once a body gets over three people decisions are almost impossible and those that are made end up hurting the average joe."

"One person making a decision for a planet?" she asked. Jo-jo thought that much of what Sutton was proposing made sense; except for this last.

"A councilman voted on and sent forth by each world's governing body," Sutton answered. She watched as he turned to her mother. "There is your assurance of local control ma'am."

"What if the alien members decide to do something to gang up on earth?" Kendra asked. "Likewise what if we decide with the Andies to gang up on another planetary nation?"

"The body dissolves, that member planet can withdraw," Sutton said. "I remember my father saying that when a government puts its own survival ahead of the rights of its citizens then it isn't worth anything. But remember: This document could be written with strong veto powers. If two or more planets try something against a third, then another world could veto the whole thing."

"So with humans and Andies—sorry Jeff," Kendra said. Her mother had danced around Sutton's loss. She had told Jocelyn that he had been decimated by his loss when she had first met him. He nodded at them and let it pass. "So with each race managin' their own affairs at home, a council making policy about exploration and expansion out there, the two of them never meet."

"Local government resides with each member," he agreed. "The governing body would be responsible for extraterrestrial business. I think the only exception would be some vehicle to expel a member whose government turns against its own people. That could be a limited power of the court but only after the member states and the leader proposes it."

"I think that you should get writin'," her mother told him.

"Writing what?" he asked.

"The constitution or charter or whatever we call it," the elder Stiles said.

"Now wait a minute," he started.

"No!" Stiles was surprised to hear her mother interrupt him with such force. "This is a chance to get this right. The president has proposed all of this; he's even set up some of the bureaucracy. This Kirk character is out runnin' around the galaxy doing that now. But the president has been too busy with this war to think of what this thing is going to be about."

"The Andorians and Tellarites will want to give inputs," Sutton protested.

"And the Vulcans too," Kendra Stiles said. "This is our chance to start things right. And I can tell the people that sent me here that their lives won't change much." Sutton seemed to want to argue but in this she knew her mother: She gave him a warning glance that she thought went unnoticed by her mother. It did not: "I saw that! You might be sick girl but there are still things that need done. I could think of some for you."

"Okay, okay I'll write some things down ma'am," Sutton relented. Jocelyn was glad that he had gotten her off the hook with her mother.

"That's your project," Kendra told him as she finished a piece of toast. "Get with your alien counterparts in the city and put your legal brain to use."

He agreed, finished his meal and got up to leave. Jocelyn thought that he was comfortable with her mother. The two worked together well. She did detect that he was uncomfortable, no, awkward around her. He was a handsome man and she felt sorry for his situation. She wasn't sure that her future was with Trip Tucker. Stiles didn't know what would happen when she told Tucker of how she had used his codes to disable his battle group over Deneva. She just knew that at some point she would have to tell him. Sutton departed.

The elder Stiles took Jocelyn's plate and got ready to leave. The two women made small talk. Stiles steered her mother away from the topic of Trip Tucker. She knew that her mother realized that something was wrong. Jocelyn would have to deal with that. She understood that, but she wanted to do it in her own time. Jo-jo thought of something that had been bothering her. It was also a way to turn their talk in another direction. She asked her mother about it.

"That actor drove off the cliff," her mother lied. Jocelyn could see the deception as plain as if she were the one lying. She gave her mother a reproachful look. "There was a girl who showed up. I never seen anyone move like she did. She was pregnant too! She caused that actor fellow to drive off the cliff."

"There wasn't a….an Englishman there?" she asked cautiously. Stiles was wondering what had become of Major Reed. He had sent her a letter asking for a meeting but then had not shown up.

"No." Her mother's voice was rife with suspicion. Jocelyn knew that she had said too much when asking her mother about Reed. But this talk of a federation charter had reminded her that there were people like Reed operating in the shadows. What would happen to them if the president's dream ever came to fruition?

"There is a man I know in security," she explained. "I thought that he might have had a hand in protecting Councilor Bin Modi." Stiles had learned to phrase things for different situations in her role as taskforce commander. Still; her mother gave her a hard look.

It was only the fact that the elder Stiles was due for council that saved Jocelyn from further questions. She kissed her mother and hugged her. Kendra Stiles gathered her briefcase, took a final look in the living room mirror and then told Jo-jo that she loved her. She left, leaving Stiles looking at San Francisco bay. Perhaps she would walk down to the coastline today. Her musings were interrupted by the quarter's comm unit. She went to the unit and picked up the receiver.

"Good even—day," a heavily accented voice proclaimed. Stiles recognized Jospin's voice. "I am looking for Commodore Jocelyn Stiles." He was also drunk she noted.

"It's me Jean," she replied.

There was a long silence. "I am in trouble commodore," he said at last.

New Delhi, India, the Pan Asian Alliance, earth, Jun 2158

President Christophur Thorpe accepted another bite of peda. The crunchy cookies were sweet and spicy. Normally, he would have enjoyed the treats but he did not feel like eating. He did not feel like being here but he Thorpe could not back away from this obligation. The Gupta's had taken the news well. Thorpe knew that the ages old knock on the door of the soldier's family had become fairly common again. He had to be here to deliver the news, because of his complicity in sending Tarang Gupta to Vulcan.

Thorpe was amazed at the strength of Manoj Gupta, the lieutenant commander's father. The dark skinned, slight pot bellied man seemed more concerned about the comfort of Thorpe and his wife. Thorpe had assured him that they were fine but it was him and his wife Sunitha that the Thorpe's were concerned about.

"We saw the officers at the homes of many of our neighbors," Gupta told him. He had escorted Christophur to the home's large family room. Family pictures dominated the walls. "We are adults, sir," Gupta told him. "I miss my son terribly. He will never be home again. Yet this is a part of life. No one asked for the Romulans to do this. Our son helped to make sure that his family here was protected. For that I am proud; proud and terribly sad." Tears ran down the man's face.

"Your son was a brave man," Thorpe said. He wished that he could tell the elder Gupta everything: How Tarang had beaten back the Romulans on Vulcan. He wished again that he had not agreed to preserve the secret.

"I know, sir," Gupta said. He showed Thorpe holos of young Tarang. He seemed so young to Christophur. Thorpe wondered how anyone that young could have accomplished all that he had. "We will miss him," Gupta excused himself and went to the family's kitchen.

Thorpe was pleased when Maggie untangled herself from Sunitha and her sister. The women took up a corner of the room. Gupta's mother was surrounding by weeping female relatives. Maggie Thorpe joined him. He put an arm around her.

"This damn war!" she cursed under her breath. "I just want to know why." He started inside. Maggie was close to him, yet he dare not tell her.

"We may never know," he answered softly. Thorpe saw her puzzled look. He didn't want to discuss this with her here. "We've been to too many funerals lately."

"Any news from the UI about Karl?" she asked. He could tell that she had detected his change of subject.

"They are convinced that the psycho from Amsterdam acted alone," Thorpe answered softly.

"Karl wasn't…you didn't have him…looking into things?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he asked. He let her lead him to a quiet corner.

"A man was at Karl's funeral," she explained. "Margritte told me that he was an old Marine buddy of Karl's: He was also a UI agent. It just seemed too coincidental that an agent showed up there."

"It is probably meaningless hon," he answered. Had Karl gotten himself mixed up in something?

"You're probably right," she agreed. "I see that Kendra Stiles' staffer is spearheading the new constitution."

"He has some good ideas," Thorpe said. "Setting up a multiplanetary government wasn't one of the courses offered at my university," he quipped. It was one of the few light moments that he had had lately.

"Soval has even endorsed Sutton's ideas," he continued. "He called it the genesis of civilized government."

"Strange how the Vulcans have been agreeable since your meeting with them," his wife remarked. Thorpe knew that she had suspicions that something had happened at Vulcan beyond diplomatic wrangling.

The couple looked on as Manoj rejoined his wife. They embraced and cried. Christophur and Maggie had never had children. He couldn't imagine how it must feel to see your child precede you into death. He hated the whole thing. None of this should be happening. He asked himself again how a race could achieve travel to the stars and yet, apparently remain barbarous. But this was his fault as much as the Romulans. He should have been more forceful in dealing with those who had been bent on dismantling the navy.

"I should have done more," he mumbled as he looked at the bereaved parents.

Romulan Imperial Cruiser Riitraxa, near to Romulus

The pain had subsided in the last few days, weeks, months? Tarang Gupta wasn't sure how much time had passed since his capture. All that he was sure of was that this must be death by slow torture. Pain like being thrown onto a hot brazier had permeated first his breast and abdomen and then through his limbs. That had gone on for what seemed like months. It was subsiding somewhat, with just odd sensations in his body. He now lay naked and restrained in this bare room. His primary tormentors had returned him here just a few minutes ago. He knew that the headpiece would soon descend.

That device was as insidious as was the physical torment. It had constantly droned on in a Romulan tongue. Gupta soon realized that he could speak the language. He did not understand the reason for his captor's insistence that he learn the Romulan language and even some of their customs. He had broken down in agony and confessed his role as a spy. The Romulans had been oblivious to his confession. They had proceeded with their unknown agenda despite his admission and pleas. Tarang had wondered about T'Pol. The agony had unmanned him yet still he thought of her. He had begged his tormentors to not treat her in the same manner.

They would take him into what he guessed was a surgical ward, cover his eyes and perform some activity on his body and then return him to this cell. He had been restrained; otherwise he would have torn away his own skin at one time to stop the pain. The headpiece or helmet treatment as he called it had started almost immediately after his capture. The time for the helmet to put in place seemed to be longer than usual. Tarang took that time to doze before it would be set on his head. Gupta wanted a quiet sleep; if only for a minute. He felt that he would go mad from the Romulan voice and images.

He was awoken by a hard shake. Two golden helmeted guards pulled him to his feet. Gupta was shaken and could barely stand. He understood their language. They were making crude and disparaging comments about his body odor. He was taken from the cell, for the first time walking—or stumbling, rather than on a gurney. The Romulans shoved Tarang along until they came to a small chamber. They dragged him inside and showed him the equivalent of a shower. Scalding hot water hit him from sprayers mounted into three of the shower's walls. The guards shouted orders at him instructing him to clean himself.

Tarang scrubbed himself with some soap from a wall mounted dispenser. He could barely stand but his will had been battered down. The shower was also his first since his capture. This must mean a change for him. Perhaps Romulans wanted their prisoners clean before their executions. The water shut off: High pressure hot air dried him. The air shut off. One of his captors threw a bundle at him. It hit him in his bare chest and fell to the floor. They laughed at his clumsiness.

"Pick it up and get dressed!" one of them snapped.

He did as ordered. Tarang put on a pair of loose fitting grey trousers and a tunic, similar to what his captors wore except for the lack of insignia or mark. He put on a pair of boots that did fit his feet comfortably. Tarang was surprised to feel some energy in his body. His muscles were still weak from lack of movement but they were functioning. He stumbled along with only minor assistance from his escorts. They deposited him in large room; the largest that he had seen in this vessel.

A large table dominated the room. Gupta saw a great sculpted bird of prey holding two worlds in each of its talons on the back wall. The table looked much like any table that would set in a Stellar Navy briefing room. The exception was that only one position had a computer terminal before it. That position was occupied by the Romulan Admiral Valdore. Gupta recognized the Romulan from Tarang and T'Pol's clandestine entry onto the Orion freighter. The admiral was sitting behind several plates of food. Tarang started salivating at the smell of it although he knew not what it was: He had not eaten solid food since his arrival.

"You may go," Valdore told the guards. He must not have thought that Tarang was much of a threat to him. Gupta knew that he would be correct. The guards left them alone. "Sit down Lieutenant Commander Gupta." Valdore's tone was commanding. Gupta hesitated. "I know that you understand me; now sit down."

Gupta did as the admiral commanded. Valdore shoved a plate across the table with some utensils. Gupta absently noted that Romulans used forks and spoons. Valdore looked at him expectantly.

"It is not poison," Valdore said. He shoved another plate across the table. The doors opened. Gupta's heart leaped as soon as he saw her. T'Pol seemed to be alright. At least she was not stumbling as he had been doing. He got up and staggered toward her. The two embraced.

"Are you alright?" he asked in slurring Romulan. He asked again in Vulcan.

She kissed him and then pulled back. "I am unharmed." The reply was in Romulan.

"Not quite true," Valdore stated. "There will be time for reunions. Both of you sit down," he ordered. He looked into her eyes. He had felt her telepathic touch during the embrace and had pushed it away: She mustn't know about Surak. He could read her confusion even through her self control. He sat down and she sat on his right.

Gupta unashamedly dug into the meal. "Eat slowly," the admiral counseled him. "Lieutenant Commander Tarang Gupta, son of Manoj and Sunitha. You were born in New Delhi in the earth year 2132. You grew up in your family home near the Yumuna River. After graduation from school you enlisted in the Indian Army. You attended the Indian Military Academy at Maharashtra State in Pune from 2150 until 2154. From there you were attached to earth's Stellar Navy."

Gupta spoke despite his weakened condition. His stomach told him to stop eating when a wave of nausea seized him. "You know my life, so what?"

Instead of answering the admiral turned to T'Pol. "T'Pol daughter of--"

"My apologies for interrupting you admiral but I am familiar with the details of my life," she said.

"Very well," Valdore replied. "Doubtless you two desire to know why you are here."

Gupta looked with shame at T'Pol. "I told your interrogators everything," he said.

"There is nothing that I need to know from you," Valdore said. "You are not here for any knowledge of earth or Star Fleet that you may possess."

"What do you want?" T'Pol asked without ceremony.

"You have both been inundated with Romulan history and culture. Romulus is at a turning point. Reunification was supposed to be accepted by your people, Promise," he said to T'Pol. Gupta remembered that her name translated into that word in an older form of the Rihannsu language. "The Tal Shiar forced the military into action far too soon."

"The Tal Shiar is the intelligence arm of your navy," T'Pol stated.

"It has become more than that," Valdore said. He got a faraway look in his eye. "They spy on the doings of citizens. They use scandal and slander to defame and implicate those that stand in their way." His gaze riveted onto them. "They are the primary promoters of this war."

"What does that have to do with us?" he asked.

Valdore continued as if he had not heard him: "They operate through the praetor. Praetor Karzan is little more than an animated piece of flesh. He has long since passed the age of vitality into dotage. Were he to die then the Tal Shiar would have no support. As long as he lives the Tal Shiar will continue this war. They will fight until the last of us. They will sacrifice the empire to satiate their power."

There was a long moment of silence. "Destroying your empire doesn't sound like a bad idea," Gupta commented defiantly.

"A war to the end will have as devastating an impact on your races as it would on Romulans." Valdore took a moment to take a bite of food. "Our common heritage would be revealed," he said to T'Pol. "That would surely doom Vulcan. Your people will be humiliated and then destroyed."

Tarang had to concede that the Romulan might be right. Syrran had believed that that possibility existed. Still; the empire had come all of this way to force Reunification. He thought that they should be defeated if only to prevent that from happening. The trouble was; would such a defeat take Vulcan with it?

"All of this is preventable," he realized that Valdore had resumed. "Were the praetor to die then the Tal Shiar's power would dissolve. Karzan has no successor. The senate would pick a praetor thus breaking the Tal Shiar's hold over the Romulan people."

"That successor would be you," T'Pol retorted. Gupta had come to the same conclusion.

"I am a soldier of the empire," Valdore replied. "I have no aspirations for the court. I merely wish to see my way of life, my world be as it once was. It will be for another to rule. That ruler could stop this war." Gupta watched as he looked at T'Pol. "Is not peace and pacifism the Vulcan way, Promise?"

"It is admiral," she replied. "You took advantage of that and tried to conquer us."

"Many of us realized that this was not the time for Reunification," Valdore explained. "But the Tal Shiar needed a war, a cause to further their power. What is done is done. There is no going back, but we can affect the future. If Karzan can be removed then Director Vrinak's base would dissolve."

"Then why not assassinate your praetor, admiral?" Gupta suggested. "It sounds like the way you Romulans conduct yourselves."

The look of anger on Valdore's face was clear. It vanished just as quickly. "You live at my word human," Valdore warned. "Were I to do as you suggest then the senate would have no choice but to elevate Vrinak to counter what he would proclaim as a military coup. Imperial law would demand his ascension in order to protect the empire from an internal enemy. If the deed was done by an external enemy agent then there would be no such problem. The Tal Shiar would bear much of the blame as the administrators of internal security. The senate would use the opportunity to endorse someone more amenable to our people."

Valdore fell silent. The only sound in the room was the click of the admiral's utensils on his dish and the whir of the environmental fans. Gupta realized the import of Valdore's last words. He gasped. So loud was his exhalation in the quiet room that he actually jumped.

"You mean for us to kill the praetor of the Romulan Empire?" T'Pol asked as if she were inquiring after a recipe for plomeek soup.

"Demonstrating the same guile that you employed on Vulcan it should present no problem for you," Valdore answered. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

"You are mad," Gupta added. "We shall not aid you!"

"Even to end this war?" the Romulan asked.

"That sounds so noble," Gupta argued; "a pity that you showed no such nobility when you started this fight."

"That was not done at my behest," Valdore countered. "You argue the cause of the war when I present you a solution to end it. The next praetor will sue for peace." He leaned over the table toward them. "We cannot sustain this effort. Sheer logistics spell the empire's doom. I had proposed this campaign for another of your decades from now; not this soon. I believe in the supremacy of the empire, of the Romulan race. But no supremacy can prevail when fools squander our resources for their own aggrandizement. You two shall act to remove the praetor. If you are caught it will be seen as an act perpetrated by the Triple Alliance; not me."

"We refuse to help you," T'Pol said.

"Then you shall die," Valdore declared. "You are familiar with Tan'geira Syndrome?" T'Pol acknowledged that she was. Gupta had never heard of it. He shook his head. "You need to stop that gesture," he warned. "Let me explain: Tan'geira Syndrome is a pulmonary disease endemic to--"

"That once ravaged ancient Vulcan," T'Pol interrupted; "that has long since been cured."

"The Tal Shiar biological weapons division created a new strain, Promise," Valdore said. "They designed it to infect Vulcans. The disease would take almost a span to work." He looked at Gupta. "Almost one of your years," Valdore explained. "The intent was to use it to control recalcitrant Vulcans, thus allowing them a chance to change their position. You are infected with it Promise," he told T'Pol.

"I choose death rather than serving your ends admiral," T'Pol said.

Gupta shuddered but she was correct: "I too, choose to die."

"Your actions could end this war," Valdore replied calmly. "If you succeed then I shall inoculate you with the cure. You will be free to go. Death is illogical when there is a chance for life; is it not Promise?"

"The only way that your people would know that the act was carried out is if we were caught," T'Pol said. Gupta noticed that she had avoided the admiral's question. "We would be questioned, you would be implicated and the end would be the same."

"You have both been subjected to conditioning," Valdore said. "Your memories will reveal that you came here to assassinate the praetor. Any protestations to the contrary will seem like an attempt on your part to cause dissention. Search your memories."

Of course that is what they were sent to do. Gupta remembered Captain Soames specifically ordering him on this infiltration mission. He shook his head. He hadn't been ordered to do that! Where was that memory from? He looked at T'Pol. She too seemed to be affected.

"Your own accounts of the truth will seem like a lie to your interrogators," Valdore said. "Or, you could leave evidence of enemy aliens and escape. For your service I shall free you both." He looked at Gupta. "Or, you can watch your beloved die. I saw your heart when I met you the first time human. I know what you feel for her. I shall keep you both while she dies. Where is your spirit human?"

"You will kill us anyway," Gupta declared.

"Tarang!" he was surprised at the stridency in T'Pol's voice. "You are not thinking of cooperating?"

He took a deep breath before answering. Gupta thought of her dying. He guessed that he would soon follow her but what if there was a chance that they could live? He cared little for his own fate but he felt a need to protect her. Perhaps it was possible. It hinged on one thing: Was Valdore trustworthy?

"How can we trust someone who is plotting to kill his leader?" he asked the Romulan.

"Who do you think supplied you with the knowledge of the chemical attack?" Valdore asked. "I believe in Reunification," Valdore continued giving Gupta no chance to reply. "The Books of Careaza proclaim that it will happen of its own accord." Gupta's face dropped at the name of the ancient Rihannsu general. He hoped that it escaped notice. "It would never occur after we murdered our cousins. I have a simple proposition: Kill Praetor Karzan and leave evidence that it was done by Triple Alliance agents. Do that and you may leave in peace. The new praetor will sue for peace."

Gupta looked at T'Pol. He saw Valdore's scheme: If they were caught, the story planted in their minds would set up doubt. Valdore's hands would stay clean. He looked at T'Pol. She looked back at him. He felt the brief telepathic touch. _It is a chance at life. It is a chance to end the war." _He felt her doubt.

"I would never pass for a Romulan," Gupta argued. His surgical alterations made him look Vulcan. The similarities stopped at the surface. Valdore took another bite of food. Gupta barely saw his hand shoot over the table. He felt the admiral's fork stab deeply into his hand. Gupta yelped in pain—then fell silent. Dark green blood spurted from his wound.

T'Pol came to him and tore a piece of her tunic away to cover the bloody wound. "What have you done to him?" she asked sharply.

Valdore calmly wiped the blood from the utensil and continued eating. "What the lieutenant commander thought was torture was the introduction of cancers in his body. Those cancers sought out and destroyed his human organs. Romulan organs and DNA were put in their place. The entire procedure was created during the human's Eugenics War. Ironic, isn't it Tarang? The process will be complete soon."

Gupta blinked at the Romulan. He was speechless. He listened numbly as Valdore told him that the process was reversible. His mind reeled. He looked at T'Pol: In the end she was all that mattered. He realized that now. Syrran had tried to explain the depth of love that the Vulcan mind was capable of. He only now realized what the elder Vulcan had been trying to show him: He had to save his mate.

"You will have a brief time to discuss my proposal," Valdore said. The admiral stood up. "I shall return."

"The human is correct Valdore: You are quite mad," Senator Vrax told him.

"Sinphius holds our fleet at Venador," Valdore explained. "Vrinak is effectively destroying our industrial capability far better than an enemy infiltrator ever could: His persecution of political undesirables is crushing the Romulan spirit. Those who work in the armaments' industries do just enough to avoid falling under the eye of the Tal Shiar. I have no other options save the insane one."

"The human is correct Valdore: If caught they will expose you; thereby tightening the Tal Shiar's hold."

"I think not," Valdore argued. "The implanted information will create doubt. If the Tal Shiar moves against me using that, it will be to their detriment. Enough in the military will take the risk and rise to oppose them."

"It is all irrelevant," Vrax said. The two sat in Valdore's quarters looking at a video feed from the mess hall where the human and Vulcan were. "They will choose to die rather than aid you."

Valdore stared at the screen. He had muted the sound. The outcome would be whatever it was. The two of them were speaking emphatically. He was not surprised to see that the Vulcan was almost showing emotion: Valdore guessed that such a female would have to be strong. He turned back to the senator.

"Would you take a wager on that senator?" he asked. Vrax wrinkled his face and declined the bet. "They will choose life."

"Admiral…what if they succeed?" Vrax asked.

"I will use the fleet at Venador, circle around and destroy the shipyard at Utopia Planitia and engage their battle forces out in deep space." He saw the doubt on Vrax's face. "Forrest will be on the offensive. He will not conceive of the notion that his enemy will leave their homeworld unprotected in order to achieve a strategic strike."

Valdore could see that Vrax was thinking. "Bleed their resources," the senator said. "Then you do mean for me to sue for peace?" Valdore could hear the astonishment in the senator's voice.

"For awhile," Valdore answered. "If I am successful then the Triple Alliance will need a respite. I could use that time to force them back, make them call for a truce. We can then rebuild and pursue a more realistic timeline."

"And you will merely return Gupta and his mate to alliance space?" Vrax asked.

"Is it realistic to believe that they will live?" he asked in reply. He looked again at the viewer. He sensed that the couple had reached a decision. "I believe that Gupta and Promise can succeed where no Romulan can. I can't even use the Criminal Guild: The Tal Shiar is entwined into that. They will succeed and then die; not by my hand. I shall honor my vow to them but I will not stand in the way if others desire to see them die."

The healer crossed the junction to the access port. Sodara was surprised to see Admiral Valdore standing along the passageway. He was also surprised to see that this part of Riitraxa was deserted. It must be watch change he reasoned. He approached the admiral cautiously.

"How is our project going Sodara?" Valdore asked.

He looked around. The admiral had wanted this kept secret. Sodara saw an opportunity to use that knowledge. He reported on the human's progress. He guessed that the admiral had a use for this human. It would interest Sodara's Tal Shiar supervisor very much.

"You have been careful to compartmentalize your work?" Valdore asked.

"None of staff is aware of what was going on," he replied. "They believe that they are working on human DNA for a biologic weapon. I have informed them that my guest is an agent that we retrieved on Vulcan."

"Excellent work healer," Valdore said. "Walk with me please," the admiral instructed him. He fell into step beside the admiral. "Your subject can finish the change on his own?"

Sodara paused before answering. Nothing in medicine was ever certain. "The cellular diseases have eroded his human attributes. The Romulan genes have secured their place. I believe that he can recover and complete the transformation without further intervention."

"Excellent work healer," Valdore said. They were approaching the main hatchway for this section. "Your Tal Shiar handlers would be pleased that you've come this far with the human gene research."

Sodara's defenses instantly went up. Valdore had never spoken openly about the healer's allegiance with the Tal Shiar before. It did not bode well with the Sodara who knew that the low regard that the admiral had for the intelligence agency.

"I am loyal to you admiral," he replied. Valdore stopped beside an airlock. Sodara briefly wondered why the inner hatch of the lock was open: That was a breach of protocol aboard a Romulan warship.

"That may be in question healer," Valdore answered. "But I trust that you shall remain silent, Sodara."

The healer barely had time to register the admiral's hand shoving him hard into the airlock. He sprang forward to escpae but too late the inner door closed down. Sodara punched commands into the lock's control panel. He heard the telltale sound of the outer hatch's pneumatic system. He lost control of his bowels. The outer hatch opened abruptly. For a brief time Sodara realized that he was moving at warp speed. It was his last thought as his body separated from the warp field and was rendered to its basic components.

M'Tor class shuttle, near the outer edge of the Topaz system, Jun 2158

"What's the chance that this is gonna succeed?" Frank McCoy asked.

"Drones are a poor source of information Frank," Micah Brack replied. "You ought to know that: You are an intelligence officer."

"I know it," McCoy agreed. "This just has crazy written all over it."

"I don't know. Captain Townsend has an impressive record. Despite running his ship like a cruise liner, he's manages to find the Romulans' weaknesses and take advantage of them."

"Here we are," McCoy said. The radar readout showed the first of the stony asteroid debris. Frank refined his radar picture. The shuttle's proximity warning blared and a vaguely female, mechanical voice advised them that they were too close to an object. It was a human addition to the Vulcan shuttle.

No wonder McCoy thought as he looked up. Brack was maneuvering the little shuttle over the surface of one of the smaller pieces of debris. Frank looked down at the black, craggy surface of the asteroid. No one had ever been there he reckoned; not in billions of years. What kind of mysteries were there?

"Kill the bitching betty, Frank," Brack ordered. McCoy reached over the control panel and reset the proximity warning. The mechanical voice stopped. "Can you plot me a course to take us along as many of these as possible? We'll take advantage of the cover."

"I've fed a course into the navcomp," Frank said. Previous experience with the Vulcan shuttle that they had acquired from the Romulans helped Frank with this one. "It'll take us through here in time to scan the incoming Romulan patrol. If they follow their last routine we should be able to plant the bomb on the last asteroid."

"I just hope that we can scoot to the other side in time," Frank commented. "You might be immortal but me and radiation don't get along." Frank looked behind him wear the warhead sat strapped the deck of the shuttle.

"I don't like it either," Brack said. "I don't want to find out if it is something that can kill me."

"I would've thought that you were…"

"Impervious?" Brack chuckled. "I doubt that any regeneration is possible after a sufficiently high dose of rads. I've been enormously lucky these last few millennia. I've fought in several wars where artillery could have blown me to bits or I could have burned to death."

"Why didn't you avoid those?" Frank asked.

"I avoided several wars and political upheavals," Brack answered. "But the fact is that I become accustomed to a place; just like anyone else. A new place becomes a home: There were times that I felt that that home should be defended: This is one of those times."

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "I 'spose it would have been easy for you to sit this out; go somewhere else instead."

"I will Frank," Brack said. Frank looked at him in astonishment. "No; I've been thinking about this for a long time. Earth is going to be fine, I believe. But our adolescence is over. It is time for me to go elsewhere." Brack sighed. "I was speaking to Adrik Soong; Serendipity picked him up in Klingon space."

"I always thought that he some sort of rich nut," McCoy commented. Then again it occurred to Frank that the same could be said of Brack.

"Soong has his quirks and he has the credits to indulge them," Brack answered. "But he truly is passionate about artificial intelligence. He thinks that he can build a thinking android at some point." Brack got a faraway look in his eyes. "An android that would live for perhaps thousands of years," he said.

The import of Micah's remarks hit Frank. "You're not thinking of some kind of a…relationship…with a machine?" The idea of that made McCoy queasy. He liked to think of himself as enlightened but the idea of flesh and machines struck him as somewhat perverted.

"Why not?" Brack asked. "The idea of neural networks is older than Henry Starling. Who knows where cybernetics might be if it hadn't been for the Third World War. Our technology was thrown back almost one hundred years because of that. This Soong is suggesting yet another way to create an autonomous self aware machine. Look at the progress with prosthetics: An animated machine could appear human. Add those two factors together and it becomes apparent that self aware machines in human form won't to too far away."

"It just doesn't seem natural," Frank said. "I mean a lot of people have had relations with aliens. Believe me; attend a Sons' of Terra meeting and you hear all sorts of things. A lot of aliens have long lives; look at the Vulcans."

"I don't wish to spend time with a Vulcan—no not like you think Frank: I'm not racist. Probably my only foible is that I prefer the company of my fellow man—and women. If a machine, as you call it, becomes self aware; is it still a machine?"

"I dunno," Frank answered. He shook his head. "Would it be a human machine?" Brack stared back at him. For one of the few times during their association Frank could see that the man had doubts.

"What is human Frank?" Brack answered at last. "I understand your question: What happens if these machines become something else; something that men can't foresee?" The immortal shook his head. "I don't know. If you think about it we are intelligent self aware machines Frank. Some of us are good machines, some of us are not. I suppose that these androids will have to be created with that in mind."

"I don't know Micah," McCoy said. "I'm no one to tell you anything: You were around before dirt." Frank smiled. "But, I mean what if these machines don't even share our values? What if they look at us and just…disregard us as insignificant?"

Brack returned the grin. "You mean they become something other than human altogether, rather than rising up looking like a governor of California?"

"Huh?" Frank asked in confusion. He knew that this was another of Brack's historical allusions.

"I see what you mean Frank," Brack answered. "There would also be the temptation to play god; make a creature that is wholly subservient. I don't want that Frank."

"You know," McCoy started. An idea had occurred to him after Brack had mentioned the deity. "My Baptist grandparents would tell me about god and freewill. I wonder; if one of these devices didn't know that it was a machine what would happen? That would give it the freewill to decide what it wants to be."

"I didn't know that you were a philosopher Frank."

"Thank Maria Reyes," he answered. "She was in one of my history courses. I had a thing for her and decided to take a philosophy course after I overheard her reviewing her class schedule with some friends."

"Seems like you paid attention," Brack commented.

He sighed and laughed. "The only thing that I got out of that was that my father was right: If a tree falls in the forest it is likely to be onto the head of a McCoy."

Brack chuckled. Frank glanced out as the shuttle glided past another asteroid. "Hey, did you see that?" he sat up and asked Brack.

Frank was glad that was strapped into the seat. His stomach seemed to rise up into his mouth despite the artificial gravity web. Brack maneuvered the little M'Tor to less than a few meters of the surface of the small piece of rock. Frank looked up. He did not see the light that had caught his attention. That was because Brack had guided the shuttle into a rapidly narrowing crevice. Frank watched the indicator showing the closure between the rock wall ahead and the shuttle. It slowed to a stop. McCoy remembered to breathe.

"There wasn't a damn thing on radar!" he exclaimed.

"I think that it was masked in the asteroids," Brack replied; "much like we are. I hope that he didn't get a reading off of us."

"It's a ship then?"

"I saw a hull flash," Brack answered. "I can't say that it was Romulan but who else would be out here?" Brack checked his instruments and instructed Frank to do the same. "Send a message out to the Queen: We're going to be here longer than expected."

"Encoding now," McCoy responded. "Fuel is good for a return. These Vulcan shuttles can recycle water and atmosphere almost indefinitely. At least long enough that we'll starve before that becomes a problem." Frank checked the subspace antenna angle. When he was satisfied that the tight beam message would go in the proper direction he initiated send.

"What do you make of this rock Frank?" Brack asked.

"STL radar returns show a surface that looked to have been volcanic," McCoy answered. He was dredging up every piece of his Stellar Navy science training and courses that he had pursued on his own. "Mass and density shows that it is a big piece of magma. That's just my guess though Micah," he said.

"I thought the same thing," Brack answered. Brack stroked his smooth shaven chin. "Some of the fissures that formed looked big enough to fly into."

"Now wait a damn minute Brack," McCoy retorted. "I'm a naval officer not a troglodyte. There is a reason that they call these things space shuttles," he added emphasizing the word, space.

"Looked like a flat spot a few meters to aft and to starboard," Brack said. Frank watched as he maneuvered the shuttle over that location.

McCoy sighed. "Okay, okay," he said as he unstrapped and headed for the back of the shuttle. "I'll drop a probe."

"We can fire an echo sounding device from our present position," Brack said. "Even with full subspace sensors the Romulans would only read that as a minor gravimetric tremor."

Frank busied himself setting up the probe. He reflected on Townsend's decision to leave the scientific gathering tools aboard the ship. Too many officers being promoted these days were there because they could fight a ship. But men like Frank and Captain Townsend had joined the navy when its mission had been one of exploration. Frank liked to think that the explorers were the better fighters because they saw events as opportunities and not obstacles. Frank guided the heavy probe past the EMP warhead. He opened the floor launch portal and inserted the device's flat head into it. Satisfied that all was right he went forward.

"Probe set boss," he said as he resumed his seat.

Brack nodded. Frank sealed his helmet. "Ready," he said over interphone.

Frank saw the reflection of the Vulcan probe in the shuttle's transparent aluminum nose. The device shot downward, vanishing in a split second. Frank's gauntleted hand shot over his control panel. Telemetry from the probe showed on a small viewer on his panel. He told Brack that the device was settled.

Micah reached out and punched a stud. "Firing and away," he announced.

Frank looked out as a blunt nosed object spat out from beneath the shuttle. Braking rocket fire was clearly visible as the sounding device carrier slowed. A brief flash marked the device's launch into the asteroid's rock. The impact registered a few seconds later as data on Frank's viewscreen. McCoy called up a computer analysis. He swung his visor up and whistled as the results manifested themselves on the screen.

"You were right," he told Brack. "This thing looks like a piece of Swiss cheese."

"Yes it does," Brack mumbled softly. His companion's visor was still clamped down and Frank only registered his voice over his helmet speakers. Frank realized that he was studying the data from the sounding. "There," Brack announced. Frank gulped. He had seen the same passage. "Readings show that fissure goes through the entire asteroid and will put us out on the opposite side where the unknown was headed."

"It also narrows to about a meter wider than this shuttle," Frank countered. He pointed to the small screen. "Right about there. That'll be where they find our bodies."

"Hush Frank," Brack said as he swung his visor. "We'll do okay in there. I'm going to kill the onboard gravity web. I want as few power emanations as we can get when we come out on the other side."

Without waiting for Frank's response Brack gunned the shuttle around and made for a large black spot on the face of the asteroid. It looked to Frank like an ink spot. Frank swallowed as Brack tilted the shuttle nose down. He flicked on the shuttle's forward lights. Brack took a few seconds and then flew the shuttle into the opening. McCoy pressed his face into the scanner's hood.

"STL radar up," he announced. "There is a turn coming up in thirty meters," he told Brack. McCoy registered the turn a few seconds later as his stomach revolted against the sense of weight and then no weight. Frank forgot his stomach as he advised Brack of upcoming turns and hazards.

Half an hour later McCoy pulled his sweaty face away from the hood. He saw his face reflected in the transparent aluminum; saw the imprint of the hood around his eyes. He mopped at his face with his gloved hand. He also saw the first pinpoints of stars as Brack maneuvered the shuttle to just inside the end of the fissure they had just flown through. Another asteroid took up part of the blackness in the shuttle's window.

A heads' up display on each side of the window showed what the telescopic viewers in the shuttle's nose were seeing. A series of five metal domes lay upon the surface of the asteroid. The metal of the domes was tinged so that it was slightly green in color. Frank was open-minded about who could have an installation out here but all doubt vanished as he spied the telltale shape of a Romulan Sabinus class ship. McCoy saw that the cruiser was surrounded by Romulan fighters. He thought that odd so he ordered the computer to take a still shot of the spacecraft.

"Looks like manipulator arms; probably laser welders to boot," he said as he handed the holophoto to Brack. The Aeons had been modified to perform shipyard tasks.

"The cruiser looks like she was holed from within," Brack said as he examined the holo. "Probably a weapons handling malfunction," he added.

"It looks like their locks are open," Frank said. That would support Brack's assertion that the Romulans had experienced a weapons accident: They were probably flushing anything from radioactive material to missile propellant. He looked over at Brack. "The Queen won't have a chance." Frank guessed that flushing poison out or not the Romulans had enough of a crew aboard to man their missile room or whatever passed for that.

"This was from the patrol that passed a few days ago," Brack conjectured. "Remember that Chief Aarons scanned eight ships and then seven? We all assumed that it was some kind of sensor echo. They are probably building an advanced warning station out here. This crippled bird just took advantage of the location."

"Paul showed them stopped out from this point for almost two hours," McCoy commented. "That is more than enough time for one of our big cruisers to evacuate a crew."

"We could set the warhead off," Brack started. "But the chances are that someone will survive over there. They could program for an optical shot against the Queen." Brack looked hard at Frank.

"Oh no," Frank said. "I've seen that look before Micah. You aren't thinking of going over there?"

"There are a lot of good people on the Jade Queen," Brack answered. "Captain Townsend will take the risk to get information on Topaz's defenses. We could scout ahead and save some lives."

Frank thought it over. Townsend had sent the return ping that indicated that he would hold position until Brack and McCoy sent the all clear. But he wouldn't wait forever. They had agreed to allow Frank and Brack forty eight hours. That would mean that if the next Romulan patrol followed the profile of the last then they would pass the asteroid field at about the end of that time. They could lose their opportunity. McCoy reluctantly had to agree with Brack's course of action.

"It's twenty-eight klicks over to there," Frank said as he studied the findings from the shuttle's passive sensors. There was still much to say for visual information in this age of electromagnetic analysis, Frank thought. "They probably have mass detectors for big debris and standard radar for little fast movers." He looked at Micah and licked his lips.

"That would allow a man—or men in suits to make a stealthy approach to that base," Brack said.

"Yup," Frank agreed, "too slow for radar and not big enough for mass detectors." McCoy considered what he was getting himself into. He had sworn to defend and protect his world. This was the real work of being a soldier. Frank wished that he could explore and discover but it was the Romulans who had started this. He steeled himself. "There are some Beretta XI's and a few antipersonnel concussion grenades in the locker."

"If we can enter this base, take it over, then we might very well get the information that the captain needs without risking the Queen and her crew." Brack unstrapped and pushed himself away from his seat. "It's going to be bloody Frank," the immortal added.

"I'm with you," Frank declared. He realized that if they failed over there then quite likely they would be dead. "We're probably looking at thirty or forty personnel in the domes and who knows how many on the cruiser."

"If they transferred crew off," Brack said; "then what is the skeleton crew of a Sabinus class cruiser? And where are they; in the domes or working the ship?"

"One of those domes is a fusion plant," McCoy said. "The others are probably habitat sections and shops. We might just have enough grenades to depressurize them. Probably take out a good many Birdies that way," Frank concluded. He wasn't looking forward to what he thought was a suicide mission. But surprise had won many campaigns he knew.

"Well Frank," Brack started. "It looks like the tree has hit both of us on the head. Let's get ready."


	38. Chapter 38

Mildenhall, the United Kingdom, the old European Hegemony, earth, Jun 2158

Mildenhall, the United Kingdom, the old European Hegemony, earth, Jun 2158

"You look like hell," Jocelyn Stiles told Malcolm Reed. He had finally consented to seeing her. She looked around his small apartment. She wrinkled her nose at the smell: Stiles guessed that it had been several weeks since he had last cleaned.

"You are no winner yourself, love," he retorted. Her bruises were almost gone but her head was still bandaged.

The same could not be said for Reed who looked to Stiles as if he had gone through a grinder. The left side of his face was a mass of purplish bruises. Stiles could see that he was experiencing pain when he breathed. Jocelyn remembered feeling that way when an opposing athlete had missed the soccer ball and connected with Stiles' ribs instead. Reed raised his arm in a gesture indicating that she should come in. He winced and dropped his arm just as quickly.

"Playing a little rugby with my mates," he explained. "After a few pints things can get a little out of control. Nothing like the football that you Yanks play: That is for little girls."

"Looks like you got broken up like a little girl," she retorted. He sat down painfully on a natty sofa. She pulled up a hard wooden chair and sat opposite him.

"I got a few licks in," Reed countered. He gave her the shark like look of confidence that he had displayed at their first meeting. "You are here because of poor drunken Jospin."

"They pulled Beagle's data core," she said. "He took over from auxiliary control. He made the turn that put us under plasma cannon fire a second time."

"Perhaps you should let the poor drunken bastard fry," he said. He gave her a candid look. "Ah, I see. He is looking out for you; probably falsifying all sorts of things for you, eh?"

"The NIS is conducting the investigation Reed," she said. She was disturbed that he had guessed the truth. "Jospin is a good officer. We were ambushed. Anyone might have made a mistake under those circumstances."

He reached into his pants pockets, pulled out a data wafer and tossed it to her. "At least half a dozen crewmen reported that your first officer smelled like a bar. He was seen drinking in the mess prior to the engagement. It is all on the wafer." Reed sighed. "Things don't look good for poor Jean." He smiled at her. "Were you and he intimate; a little friendly boff from an older fatherly figure?" She sprang up and her hand reached out to connect solidly with his bruised cheek.

"God damn you!" she spat.

He grinned. "Perhaps I'm already damned. But I like to help my friends dear; damned or not." He nodded at the wafer in her hand. "I am on extended sick leave. You'll find what you need to access the NIS's database. You can alter the reports from any Star Fleet terminal. There won't be any trail. You can't alter the testimony but in light of conflicting records, charges are usually dismissed in such cases."

"Thanks Reed," she said. Stiles still didn't like him. She started to turn away to leave when he spoke up.

"Funny how the president has roped the Vulcans in; don't you think?" he said.

She paused. Stiles had wondered about that. So had everyone in the Stellar Navy she guessed. "I guess that they had some changes after V'Las was killed."

"The logical, peaceful Vulcans killed their first minister. Do you really believe that my dear?"

"An accident," she lied. No; she had doubts about the incident. The official account had mentioned an internal struggle in the High Command. Jocelyn, as a human didn't understand how the logical Vulcans could have any kind of differences like that.

"An accident," he repeated. "Did you ever read the recorded history of the Vulcans?" Reed looked at her. His grin was replaced by an expectant look. "Let's lay our differences aside. We are, after all more alike than you may realize."

"You blackmailed me Reed," she answered. "That is hard to lay anywhere." Curiosity gnawed at her. "What about the Vulcans?"

"I asked if you ever read their history," he snapped.

"Of course," she answered. "First Contact and all; they fought a great war among themselves and ventured out into space after it settled."

"All pretty easy, eh," he chuckled mirthlessly. "Two factions at war, one of them adopts a philosophy of pacifism while the other one—what?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I thought that their account said that their people came together and solved their problems."

He smiled. "Did they? Funny thing; you never hear a mention of the other side. Tell me dear, what do you know of the losing sides on earth: The Confederates from your American history, the Germans in two world wars, the Eastern Coalition in the last one?"

"I'm no expert," she answered. Stiles had found history class rather boring. It also had been held where she had a view her school's athletic fields. She had spent most of that class time dreaming of how to crush their rivals in soccer or field hockey. "I suppose I know as much as anyone else."

The Air Force Academy had schooled her even more but it had concentrated more on aerospace history rather than political. Still she had a glimmer of what Reed was driving at: What had happened to the opposing Vulcan side? The Confederates had degenerated into a political party in old America. The Germans, smarting from one loss had rearmed to fight again and the end of the Eastern Coalition had brought about a reformation for one of humanity's major religions. Did the opposing group of Vulcans all accept logic after nearly fighting their logical opponents into extinction? Stiles shook her head.

Reed smiled smugly at her. "You see my dear, there are questions. I'm not patronizing you or playing a game. I know that is on your mind. I'd tell you everything I know but as you point out: We started off together on the wrong foot. You would not believe me at this point." He took a deep breath. "You should use your connections to find out what happened recently on Vulcan. Look into their history."

Reed got up from the couch. She watched him wince. "You lost your father and fiancée to a vile sneak attack." For once his patronizing manner was gone. He seemed sincere. "Don't you want to know why that was?"

"Sure, of course I do," she replied. The Vulcans had been completely resistant to President Thorpe's proposals; until the day after the mystery ship Daedelus had arrived. Then there had been a complete about face from the Vulcans.

"Then use your pull. Find out why this war was started." He sat back down. "Pardon me if I don't see you out. Jospin should be exonerated after you fix the arrest report. Good luck with all of that. As to the other matter," he stopped and grinned. She knew that the Reed she had come to know was back. "Come to me when you discover the truth."

"Thanks for the info major," Stiles said.

She headed for the door. In an odd sort of way she did feel an allegiance with Reed. Perhaps they were kindred spirits in their ways of accomplishing things. Stiles believed that several taskforces could be assembled into a group. That group could bypass Romulan holdings at Tarod and Cheron and strike directly at Romulus and its sister planet. Stiles had proposed her plan to Forrest who had pointed out the logistical problems of an invasion and occupation. The admiral had dismissed her after she had suggested that that problem could be solved by large scale surface bombardment.

Stiles hadn't thought about war and consequences a whole lot. Earth had been a peaceful planet engaging in exploration a few years. Courses at the Air Force Academy and Stiles guessed the rest of the military academes had focused on first contact procedures. Stiles had received excellent schooling in interplanetary economics and freight movement. She closed the door to Reed's apartment.

Jocelyn remembered an idealistic, retired captain who had suggested that, save for range finding, lasers could be removed from UESN cruisers. That had been a different time and the girl that had sat in that class room was barely related to the woman who was walking through the small English town.

Star Fleet Taskforce 9, Star Fleet carrier Valley Forge, six light years from Tarod, Jun 2158

Cigar smoke wafted up before the face of Admiral Frank Buchanan. He sat relaxed in the great command chair of Valley Forge's bridge. His first officer Captain Srinivasa Ramanujan stood off to one side. Buchanan smiled as he recalled Rama's disastrous foray into the world of cigars. Buchanan inhaled some more fragrant smoke. He could wait for the fighters' return in his cabin or the ready room. But he needed to be on the bridge.

His cobbled together taskforce had been dispatched to attempt to deal with the new Romulan cruiser. The Forge's sister carriers Yamato and Hornet were holding position less than an AU away. Ticonderoga was earthbound for repairs and refitting. The carriers were supported by the Torsk class destroyers Vandalia and Catskill. It was small support for Frank's taskforce but the Battle of Vulcan had cost the Star Fleet dearly he knew. He wished that Charger had made it for the show but the new warship had been tasked with the safe return of President Thorpe to earth.

"Under an hour sir," Ramanujan informed him. The fighters would dock soon. "Tarod was not as well defended as Topaz is supposed to be." Buchanan nodded. The single coded return had showed the loss of only two fighters between the three carriers.

"It doesn't have to be," he said. He blew a well defined stream of smoke out. "They've sewed Topaz up which puts them at our back. If we make a major effort here that would deplete the forces that we have to guard our home worlds. The Birdies know that." Buchanan leaned back. "No, we'll see if they have Clavicles on the lookout for us."

"We are receiving an IFF pulse from our fighters, admiral," Lieutenant Warner Schoener interjected.

"If it was me I'd come in just before the fighters," he said to Ramanujan.

The Indian nodded. "They probably shadowed Taskforce 5's fighters and homed in on Coral Sea from there. Shall we increase power to the sensors admiral?"

Buchanan mentally reviewed the sensor readings that had been taken by Bryce Shumar's squadron. "That is what we would normally do Rama." He smiled wryly. "Let's not disappoint anyone and do anything different. Go to full power on the subspace sensors Lieutenant Schoener."

Buchanan tugged at the bottom of his gold tunic. He missed the single piece powder blue Stellar Navy flight suit that he had worn for most of his military career. At least the slacks had pockets. Frank had heard that some fool on the uniform board had suggested removing the pockets. Frank saw the data streams depicting his returning fighters. The Forge's offset from the other carriers would not allow him to see their fighters. Buchanan took a deep breath and absently shook some ash from his cigar into a small ashtray that he had had specially mounted to this command chair.

"I'm reading our fighters, admiral," the German said after a few seconds.

"Perhaps we are casting our net in the wrong place," Captain Ramanujan commented.

"Who knows how many of these Clavicles they've built," Buchanan said. "Either way we've accomplished something here: The fighters probably gave them a nice reminder that we are alive and kicking."

"I'll set up for recover--" Ramanujan started.

"Unknown contacts!" Schoener exclaimed. "Just entering sensor range, four contacts split along ninety degree approach vectors: Speed—accelerating to Warp 4.1," he concluded."

"That puts them here a few minutes before our fighters," Ramanujan said.

"Lieutenant Marutei, load antimissile weapons and charge lasers," the Indian commanded.

"Laser and missile crews ready!" Lieutenant Mariko Marutei answered smartly.

"Are we going to warp out admiral?" the captain asked.

"Chief Anders, make ready to go to warp," he commanded.

"Contact in thirty seconds," Schoener announced. "Readings confirm power curves consistent with readings for the Birds' new ship."

"We won't be able to go to warp in time," Ramanujan said.

Buchanan drew on his cigar. He carefully exhaled as he viewed the tactical display. "Isn't that a shame?" he asked. "In that case we'll have to launch fighters, captain," he said.

"Crews report ready," Ramanujan responded crisply. He studied the information available from his panel as he strapped into his seat. "Minotaurs standing by to separate," the captain concluded.

"Give them another few seconds, Rama," Buchanan said. "We don't want the Birds any wiser."

The four dual nacelle vessels emerged out of warp simultaneously. The bows of the Romulan craft glowed as their plasma cannons energized. The stubby shape of the Torsk class Vandalia moved to intercept one of Tyrannous class ships. Missiles filled space between the two opposing ships.

Vandalia altered course just in time as a nuclear explosion blossomed near to the destroyer. Blue static discharge marked the protest of the destroyer's hull plating. Spider area defense missiles exploded out from Vandalia's position consuming two Moolah missiles in the fire. The Clavicle cruised past the earth ship until it was perpendicular to Vandalia. Another fierce volley of missiles resulted in a draw between the two. The Tyrannous was maneuvering for Valley Forge.

The Romulan dispatched another hail of missiles; this time at the carrier. Valley Forge responded by firing a volley of Spiders. Vandalia turned to pursue the Romulan. Two Narwhals flew for the Clavicle. Romulan neutronium pellets defeated the first. The second twisted away from a Romulan interceptor missile. The Narwhal corrected its course and flew straight at the Romulan. The explosion of the Tyrannous illuminated the hull of Valley Forge. Three stubby shapes were silhouetted up as they moved away from the carrier's hull.

The three Minotaurs moved against the surviving Romulans. Vandalia vanished in a flash into subspace. The destroyer emerged a second later near to another Clavicle. The Romulan's plasma cannon discharged striking Valley Forge amidships. The carrier's hull plating absorbed the damage. The Tyrannous continued toward the carrier. The defending Minotaur launched a volley of Amazons against the Romulan. One missile was vaporized but the other exploded near to the Romulan ship. The Tyrannous turned away slowly. A Narwhal from Vandalia angled toward the Romulan. It too was defeated.

The Minotaur streaked past the Romulan cruiser. It snapped over on its axis bringing its pulse lasers to bear. A glowing rent appeared in the Clavicle's green tinted hull. Escaping atmosphere marked the passage of the Minotaur.

"Catskill is disabled." Buchanan listened to his first officer's report. "A Clavicle is maneuvering against Hornet." Ramanujan coughed and gagged as smoke roiled out of several instrument panels.

"Where are their covering Minnies?" Buchanan asked. The plan had been to tow three extra fighters on the hull of each carrier. That had severely slowed the earth ships as the geometry of the warp field had been altered. But the taskforce had gotten here nonetheless with eight Minotaurs each rather than five.

They were attacked by only two Clavicles," Ramanujan informed him. "Apparently one of them acting as wingman got a lucky shot at one of our fighters. The other fighters got bogged down engaging that Tyrannous."

Buchanan slammed a fist into an open palm. "Dammit! I briefed our side not to let them split our fighters away. What the hell is Maxwell doing over there?"

"No information sir," Ramanujan replied. "Hornet's telemetry has fallen silent."

"Clavicle on a build up to fire!" Schoener exclaimed. The German's face was pressed against the hood of his sensor readout.

"One half impulse, thirty degrees hard to starboard!" Buchanan much preferred the command of a single ship. The Forge was no battlewagon however and he knew that he had to keep his carrier out of harm's way. "Twenty degrees positive z-axis," he added.

"Helm answering admiral," Chief Anders Rudolph responded.

Too slow this two hundred and thirty meter behemoth was maneuvering he thought. Buchanan could see that their hunter was introducing a course correction to make an arc. The Romulan knew that the Forge's portside was damaged. But Frank also knew that the Romulan was dead in the water: He didn't need to be a trained sensor operator to read the Clavicle's flat power curve. Unfortunately that curve was beginning to take shape again.

"He's gotten past the Minotaurs with a missile barrage admiral," Ramanujan said. "It looks like he is going for our port again. Engineering reports that the hull plating is still down on the quarter." Buchanan wasn't surprised that the Indian was staying on top of O'Brien's engineering staff.

"He's maneuvering lively on thrusters," Buchanan observed. "He's got a smaller mass on us." The sensor picture showed a damning outlook for Valley Forge. The Clavicle had slipped through the Minotaur screen. As intelligence had suggested the spacecraft was damn near powerless. Buchanan guessed that who or whatever was in charge over there had planned to accelerate at full impulse and then fire its particle cannon.

"They are nearing full power on their cannon," Schoener warned.

"Rama, engage the Minotaurs' emergency egress system," Buchanan ordered. The environmental fans had sucked most of the acrid smelling smoke out of the air. Frank took that opportunity to relight his cigar.

"Sir!" the captain protested; "the fighters are away. That will not accomplish—"

"I know that the bays are empty, Rama," he answered. He inhaled a fragrant puff of smoke. "Jettison the blowout doors captain."

Buchanan watched as the Indian opened a small door on his panel, marked by a pattern of red and black crosshatching. He waited while Ramanujan reached into his tunic, pulled out two keys and then bent forward and inserted one of those into a lock. He looked back at Frank.

"They have the power to fire!" Schoener exclaimed.

The captain's head was cocked to one side as he listened into his earpiece. "Crews report ready, admiral," Ramanujan reported. Buchanan nodded toward him. Ramanujan twisted the key.

The Romulan's sister Tyrannous blossomed into a sun. A single Minotaur flew past the rapidly receding fireball. The fighter was making for the last surviving Romulan that was attacking Valley Forge. The Clavicle steered closer to the carrier. It was obvious that the Minotaur was going to lose the race even as another of its mates joined the stubby fighter.

Valley Forge's port thrusters fired abruptly. The massive carrier turned slowly to starboard. Its pursuer was no more than a growing dot in the blackness of space. Huge sections of hull blasted away from the carrier leaving the rotary launch bays open to space. The dot exploded into light as the Romulan's plasma cannon spat out its deadly issue. The Minotaurs fired a hail of Amazons at the Clavicle. Two were defeated but two were not: The Romulan's plasma cannon fired as the ship exploded.

The beam lanced through space directly into the path of the Valley Forge. The jettisoned piece of hull floated up and took the plasma beam's fury. A white hot explosion filled the void. The hull segment was melted and blasted at once. Pieces of the molten shrapnel shot through the open spaces of the carrier. Atmosphere vented from several holes but Valley Forge survived.

"Sealing off section thirteen, admiral!" Ramanujan bellowed. "We've been holed in decks four seven and nine in that section."

"Get me some goddamned comm from Hornet!" Buchanan ordered.

"Sir," Chief Ellen Walker responded from the communications' station. "The Hornet's fighters are reporting…Hornet has been destroyed," she added quietly. "Yamato is reporting in: Romulan Tyrannous class ships were all destroyed. Inbound fighters have no more indications of pursuit."

Buchanan put his cigar down. He bowed his head. They had confirmed that the new class of Romulan hunter killer was powerless after discharging its primary weapon. But the cost of obtaining the information had been high. Frank looked up in time to see Ramanujan approaching his chair. He gave the order to stand down from battle stations and commence recovery of their fighters. The loss of Hornet would mean that some of the tag along fighters would be scuttled out here.

He shook his head. "Gina Maxwell had a girl and a boy: I guess they are in their late teens by now." He took a puff off of his cigar. "Tell me Rama, how in the hell do I tell them that their mother died testing a theory?" Buchanan drew the harsh smoke directly into his lungs. He knew the answer to his question: That was war.

On the outer edge of the Topaz system, Jun 2158

Frank was glad that he was spacewalking. It took his mind off of his and Brack's last conversation. Thinking of taking a micrometeorite through his helmet was a pleasant distraction after Micah had told him what he might see over there. McCoy had known of the Vulcan, Romulan relation. He had not known why they had come here. Frank had asked Brack, who he realized knew more than he had been saying. It was not until now that he had heard about Reunification. He looked up at the domes on the asteroid.

They were making the crossing with thruster packs. Frank was attached to Brack with a tether that allowed them to communicate covertly. They were less than two kilometers from their destination. Frank felt naked out here. He knew that working in space had become routine for men. Humans who labored in space seldom looked out of ports: It had become routine for them. McCoy and Brack were both gambling that that was true for the Romulans too.

"We have a little over take on them but we should be able to brake without any problem," Brack's voice announced over Frank's helmet comm system. Frank merely grunted in reply. It was not regulation or even good procedure.

"Imagine if man had been sundered into two groups," Brack said.

"They weren't sundered," he answered, putting a bitter emphasis on the last word. "The peaceable Vulcans pushed them off of their world. There are probably people who would have put Colonel Green and his bunch on a spaceship if they had a chance; might've saved six hundred million people."

"Even Surak mentions the return of the Romulans. The faction that Mistral was involved with—call them a type of sect: They forecasted the return of the Romulans." He heard Brack sigh. "I hesitated telling you everything because I thought that you might react this way."

"You were right to do that! Where in the hell were the Vulcans? V'Las was in cahoots with them! He stood by and let them attack us, wipe out the colonies and nuke those people in Florida. Where's the pacifism there Micah?"

"Mistral's group continued to watch and wait Frank; not all Vulcans are complicit in this. I spoke to Syrran. He had been a member of that group. As far as the minister's involvement: The Vulcans aren't supermen Frank. We humans developed that belief about Vulcans because we saw a people who lacked our frailties, but they were there Frank. I believe that V'Las became enamored of the Romulans. It is not uncommon for people to admire an authoritarian government."

"Gee and look at all the wonderful things that happened on earth because of that!" Frank's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I thought that everyone was supposed to be more enlightened once we had space travel. Okay; we haven't been at it long. But the Vulcans had a couple thousand years. What is their excuse?"

"I make no apologies for them Frank. Mistral showed me a culture that was becoming stagnant. Syrran recognized that, almost certainly V'Las did as well. Syrran wanted to use the teachings of Surak to break the impasse. V'Las must have seen the Romulans as the answer."

"Prepare to fire thrusters," Brack warned. Frank angled his body properly and waited for Micah's countdown. At the mark Frank jammed on the thruster control that was in his fist. Brack commanded a stop. McCoy let go of his thruster control. He was floating before the hulking shape of the Romulan Sabinus.

"Whew, this thing is big!" he exclaimed as the two men floated past the image of the giant raptor that was emblazoned on the ship's hull. McCoy reached out a gauntleted hand and touched the hull.

"Hot too," Brack said. He told Frank to look at the radiation counter that was built into his suit's arm. Frank watched as the numbers got larger.

"You must've been right about a weapons malfunction," he said. "A reactor accident wouldn't put out dirty stuff like this. I'm glad we aren't staying for coffee!"

Frank looked up to see a solid black oval on the ship's hull: It marked where they had discovered an open hatch. The Birdies were venting the solid particulates to space. They had been lucky: He guessed that crews were probably even now making an assessment and preparing to close the Sabinus and pressurize her.

"It'll be hottest around the ingress points," Brack said as he lightly tapped on his thruster, arresting his motion before the open airlock. Frank did likewise. "Open the pod bay doors HAL," Brack said as he entered the darkness.

"What?"

"Forget it Frank, just babbling," Brack replied.

He pulled himself into the pitch black opening following Brack. Frank switched to his helmet's mass detection system: A small screen inside his helmet showed an image of a curving passageway before him. Both men proceeded into the enemy ship. Frank hated to rely on the detector's electromagnetic returns but using his suit lights seemed like a quick way to die. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness McCoy realized that the passageway was lined with slim luminescent strips.

"Looks like we can see for a few meters," Frank commented. He gawked at the Romulan script that was portrayed upon each hatch and door. The script was meaningless to McCoy who thought that they could be passing the praetor's throne room or the men's room. The Birds must have cleaned the areas up behind those doors he reasoned. McCoy froze.

Lights appeared at a crossing corridor ahead of the humans. Frank wrapped himself around the rungs of a ladder and leveled the Berretta. A painful memory of firing the same weapon in zero gee as a recruit came unbidden to his mind: He hadn't braced himself before firing, causing him to discover that physics worked. He had bounded through the chamber amid the laughter of his platoon members and his instructor's opinion about Frank's probable ancestry and relationship of his parents.

"Hold on Frank," Brack's voice crackled over his tiny speakers. "Let's see what these fellows are about before we blast them."

McCoy leaned back into the rungs. He observed three space suited figures bearing some sort of devices in their hands. Probably checking the ship out; McCoy's own readings showed an almost normal background radiation reading. Frank remembered to breathe as the figures swept the corridor. One of their torches brushed past Frank's arm. He looked down the rifle's remote sight, centering a Romulan in its recticle. The alien crewmen pirouetted and continued along a maintenance ladder much like the one that Frank was wrapped up in. They vanished from sight. Frank bounded toward the opening that the Romulans had taken.

"What the hell are you doing?" Brack hissed.

"It's an engineering team," he explained. Frank stopped and floated upside down relative to the immortal. "Or at least their version of one," he added. "Look Micah, if this was an SN ship the chief engineer would rally his team back at engineering." He fishtailed and continued along. Frank saw the lights of the engineering team. He hoped that his guess was right.

"Okay, I'm behind you Frank," Brack told him. "What do you hope to accomplish in engineering?"

"We need something tangible to swap the Queen for another Romulan," Frank replied. He was glad that his facial features could not be seen by Brack. The plan that had come to him was crazy. "What if this thing exploded?"

"The base would be wiped out and the Queen could come out in place of this craft," Brack replied. "This ship is already damaged. The possibility that its comms would be knocked out in an accident are pretty high. That was the assessment of Daedelus' team."

"Anything else you are keeping from me Micah?" Frank asked. Obviously Daedelus had returned with more information that had been generally known.

"I'm sorry Frank," Brack said. McCoy pulled himself along and then issued a warning to stop. His detector showed that the Romulans had stopped somewhere ahead. "I guess it is old habit: Insulating others from damning information to protect that person. But you are right: We are a team."

"Sorry was good enough Micah. I'll still respect you in the morning," Frank quipped. The alien repair team had moved on. Frank motioned for Brack to do so as well.

They continued along the maintenance space. For so Frank judged the narrow passageway lined with piping and wiring bundles to be. McCoy was surprised at how primitive the engineering seemed to be. He had crawled through enough similar crawlspaces aboard Stellar Navy cruisers: Most of the wiring and transfer tubes in those were covered. McCoy could definetly make out a light source ahead, he slowed his rate.

"Radiation is almost normal down here," Brack said. "But my suit's mass detector is reading strangely." Frank saw that his detector readout was going out of focus, returning and then distorting. "Almost like the interference that a main fusion reactor would put out."

McCoy stopped his forward motion. His stomach did a flip as he looked over the lip of the deck: Several suited figures were floating upside down relative to his position. Brack moved in beside him. Frank blinked and remembered to override the protests from his inner ear. He studied the scene before him.

The figures, some seated, some standing, some floating just above the deck were concentrating their attention onto a large glowing trapezoidal shaped chamber that receded into the distance. The rest of the control room might have been for anything, but the chamber had a similar appearance to many engineering spaces aboard Stellar Navy ships. The chamber emitted a glowing pulse of red light. If this was an earth ship, Frank would have said that they were establishing the magnetic field prior to firing the reactor.

"We can mow down the lot of them in this darkness," Brack said. "We need to be in a hurry here."

"We'll drop down, brace ourselves and fire," Frank said. He had been through a lot since the war. He didn't consider himself a cold blooded killer but he reckoned that it was us against them. The Romulans had taken no prisoners. The accessway exploded in light.

Frank was spun over as Brack pulled him up and back into a niche. That turned out to be good as McCoy's stomach lurched. He wondered if he was going to be sick when he realized that gravity had returned. Frank looked up and down the ladder. No one was on it. His suit's atmosphere detection unit flashed an indicator at his eyes: They were repressurizing the cruiser.

"Christ! We don't stand a chance now!" Frank exclaimed.

He looked over at Brack who was scanning the walls. "I suppose now is the time to tell you that one of Daedelus' findings was that the Romulans conduct surveillance throughout their ships. They have a sort of political officer or his equivalent."

"Okay, okay," Frank answered. He could feel his suit becoming more flexible. His helmet mounted indicator told him that the external pressure was ninety five kilopascals, about the same as the shuttle. "We have concussion grenades. This is probably the repair crew. The rest of them are probably waiting for the word to be shuttled over. We climb up there and start flinging these things." He pulled a grenade from the pouch on his belt.

"That's crazy Frank," Brack said.

Frank thought for a minute: He recalled Brack's peculiar comment about the pod bay doors. McCoy remembered its origin. He had never enjoyed twentieth century dramas. Frank found them dark and lifeless. But he had nonetheless seen some of those remade into holovids. He remembered one of those in particular.

"We can probably go to Australia," he said. He watched as Brack swung his visor open. The immortal looked at him in confusion.

"You're not the only one to remember those old movies," he said in reply to Brack's bewildered expression. "After we kill all of these Romulans we can go to Australia."

Brack smiled. "At least they speak English there." The immortal took a deep breath. "I'll go right, you go left."

Frank had swung his visor and was cautiously sniffing at the air. There was an odd smell but alien ships all had odd fragrances. It was simply a matter of alien body odors, the chemicals that they used in their synthetics and cuisine. The Romulan ship smelled like parmesan cheese and tea to Frank with a strange hint of machine oil scent added to the mix. Those smells could be anything he thought as he racked the Beretta's charging lever. Frank nodded and started up. Brack sealed his helmet and laid a restraining hand on Frank's shoulder.

"I'll take point on this Frank," Brack told him.

"Okay Micah," he agreed. "Just one thing though: The pod bay door spiel; that was from _Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea_, right?"

"Uh, sure Frank," Brack said. He turned and smiled at Frank and then started to climb. Frank followed.

Brack hooked himself into the ladder, reached into his pouch and removed a grenade. McCoy watched him pull the pin, pause and then chuck it into the reactor room. Brack repeated the same motion with three other grenades. Frank could barely hear the blasts through his suit but he felt them. Brack scrambled up firing. Frank followed.

Brack was indeed knelt down behind a console at Frank's right. McCoy popped up, leveled the Berretta. He squeezed the trigger and let the automatic sighting system do its job. Frank paused. His target had removed his helmet. The Romulan's shaved head perfectly revealed his pointed ears. McCoy thought of the peaceable Vulcans; how could these people be related? He heard a whizzing sound immediately followed by a loud clang. He squeezed. The Romulan's chest exploded in green gore. Frank scrambled over the edge.

Frank ran to a bulkhead as sparks erupted behind him. He squeezed off another shot toward a space-suited Romulan. He stepped in some grease and went sliding. He fell amid a trail of bullets. His helmet hit the floor hard. McCoy was grateful for the heavy spacesuit: He knew that he probably would have split his head open without it. He twisted around and fired. Frank had a second to realize that the grease was not a lubricant at all: It was green blood. He rolled into the blasted torso of a Romulan.

He looked away from the corpse quickly and surveyed the engineering space. He looked through his remote sight until a strange space helmet drifted into its recticle. He fired. The helmet exploded into debris and green blood. McCoy reached into his pouch. He pulled out a grenade, pulled the pin and rolled it past Brack toward a small cubicle structure. He had seen a muzzle flash from there.

Two Romulans were in the cubicle. One kneeling the other standing, they fired at Frank with a type of machine gun. The concussion weapon exploded before them. Frank was nearly shredded when he peaked out to check the grenade's handiwork. The Birdies were still alive and firing.

"They have been trying to get to that small console in the alcove," Brack's calm voice announced over Frank's comm system. "I'm hoping that they are trying to call for help because that means they probably haven't been able to."

McCoy started at the sound of Brack's voice. He breathed. "Those guys in that compartment have me pinned down! One way or another we have to get moving! How many other Birdies were on this thing?"

"You're right Frank," Brack said. There was a short pause. "I'll count to three and draw their fire. Be ready."

"What the hell are you--"

"One…two," Brack counted.

"Damnit Micah!" Frank heard the stitching chatter of the Romulans' machine guns as a muffled sound through his helmet. The sparks and shards of metal stopped flying around McCoy. Brack must have been doing whatever it was he was going to do. Frank snapped his head out to look.

He was horrified to see Brack being pushed back by bullet after bullet. Frank sprang up and aimed. He was glad that marksmanship had been taught in basic training despite the lack of adversaries back then. His instructor, a nasty staff sergeant, would be proud of him. Both Romulans went down in a cloud of green. Frank carefully scanned the chamber: It seemed clear of live Birdies. No one was shooting at him. He looked around the engineering compartment. There seemed to be three possible entry points: There weren't any Birds coming through them. He crouched and ran toward Brack's body.

Frank's head jerked painfully. His helmet exploded on his head. He felt cool air on his face and smelled the Romulan vessel again. He spun around and saw a Romulan lying on the ground in a pool of green blood, his abdomen torn open. The Romulan was unsteadily pointing a gun at Frank. McCoy spun and aimed. Frank wondered if Romulans aged like Vulcans.

McCoy's would be assassin looked like a human youth of seventeen or eighteen, except for the ears and painfully straight black pate of hair. The youth's look would be feral if he was human. Brack had told him that these Vulcans—no Romulans, had emotions. The gun dropped. The boy tried raising it, exhaled a great gout of foaming green blood and spittle and then dropped his weapon.

Frank walked up and took the youth's rifle. The Romulan shot him a venomous look. McCoy tossed the alien's weapon away. Frank tensed and pointed his Beretta at the Romulan's temple when the youth reached into a compartment of his spacesuit. Frank watched as the alien pulled out a small silver chain that had a pendant attached to it. The Romulan's bloody hand jerked causing him to drop the chain. Frank, curious bent and picked it up.

He looked at the pendant: It held a two dimensional image of a young girl. Her severely sharp features were the only thing that marked her as a Romulan. The girl held a small pointed ear baby on her lap. Frank frowned and looked at the dying Romulan. He gave the pendant back to the youth. The youth took it and looked at Frank: The alien's hostility seemed to Frank to be fading.

"Hell," McCoy said. "It's not neither of our faults." The Romulan didn't hear him. The pendant fell with a soft metallic sound to the deck. Frank knew that the Romulan would never hear anything again. "Poor bastard," he knelt down and closed the Romulan's dead eyes, heedless of rather it was their custom or not. He spun around when he sensed movement.

Brack was slowly sitting up. His space suit was reduced to a bloodied piece of synthetic fibers and plastic. Frank unlatched his blasted helmet and tossed it aside. He went to the immortal's side.

"Damn crazy old man," he said as he knelt to help Brack sit up. Micah coughed a stream of blood. Frank helped him open his visor. Brack swept his gauntleted hand over his bloody chin. Brack looked at him, grinned and winced painfully.

"That was a rush!" the immortal exclaimed. Frank didn't understand what was fast about what had happened, and then he realized that Brack was using some ancient slang. He helped Brack out of his helmet. "We are going to have a problem getting back." Both of their suits were useless. Brack looked around. "We need to get to work on blowing this thing." Brack seemed to be visibly improving despite nearly being chopped into two by gun fire.

"I don't know if this was the only team." Frank had been surveying the cathedral like engineering space. "I count thirteen dead Romulans. If this was a Stellar Navy ship that is about the size contingent they would use for something like this."

Most captains that McCoy had served under had tried to minimize the time that their people used to work in vacuum. Extra vehicular activities were still dangerous, even after nearly two hundred years of space exploration. Most captains also minimized the number of personnel that they used for such activities. Frank was hesitant to make a comparison to the Romulans: Their go to hell way of fighting might translate into how they normally did business. Brack put out an arm. McCoy pulled him to his feet.

Brack detailed him to check power levels in the field matrix after giving him guidance on where to go and what he would see. Frank moved carefully, aware that he was still on an enemy ship. He found the unit that Micah had told him about. He checked and rechecked the alien indicators. He yelled over to Brack that something was wrong: He surely must not have misinterpreted Micah's instructions. Micah joined him a minute later.

"The power readings are negligible," he told Micah. "That can't be." The field, on an SN vessel, would modulate the fuel intake of the reactor. Frank remembered that in theory a fusion reactor would shut down when its fuel source was taken away. In practice the early reactors made by humans had sometimes runaway; consuming the vessel it was supposed to power.

"I think that our attack here might have done more than we thought," Micah answered. "The question has become not if we can destroy this ship: Rather it is if we can get out of here before that happens."

As if it was queued by Brack's words a voice came out of the ship's public address system. The alien words caused Frank to jump and snap his head around, looking for defending Birdies. But as he listened he surmised that the voice was mechanical. Frank also guessed that the mechanical voice was issuing an announcement. He did not think that it was announcing happy hour at the crew lounge. A terrific explosion rocked the Romulan engineering compartment. A blast of hot steam roared out of ruptured cooling line.

Frank looked at Micah. "Let's get the hell out of here!"

Bordentown, New Jersey, the old United States, Jun 2158

"It was Reed, Erica," Kanya Nayyar told Admiral Erica Soames.

Soames looked at the augment. She noted that Kanya made no pretense of hiding the scar that ran down the right side of her face. It was healing well, extraordinarily fast in fact. She looked at the sleeping baby in Nayyar's stroller. The child was small and ugly. Erica really wondered what people saw in children. She looked at Kanya again: Erica was really concerned about her.

"Perhaps you should return to Virginia with me," she told Kanya, "or even live with my parents." Erica's parents were older but they would enjoy having a baby in the house. It would also help Soames who was too frequently questioned about children by her parents.

"Professor Carlson has been very kind to us," Nayyar answered. "I tried to speak with the Thomas' but they would not accept my call. We shall stay here." She looked down at the sleeping child.

"I think that whatever you decide that you should stay away from Carlson," Soames warned her. "Look dear, this is a mindless fantasy; this Doomsday Vault. It has led you to make a paranoid accusation against people that…you work with." Soames looked around the streets of the small town. It almost had a European flare to it.

"I don't know how Reed did it," Nayyar said sharply. "Who else would know how to paralyze me with a drug?"

Soames sighed. "There was nothing found in your system dear. It's regrettable that we still have crazies even in these civilized times but it is nonetheless true. You were the victim of a nameless psychotic."

"A psychotic that knew in order to kill me I'd have to be incapacitated? Perhaps a Star Fleet redshirt in peak physical condition, trained in martial arts could challenge me, but I doubt that a psychotic, as you indicate could do so."

"So the major magically knocked you out and tried to murder you; all because you were onto his secret?" Soames stopped with Nayyar. The child was in the throes of waking up. Nayyar took up residence on a park bench and gently lifted the baby out of the carriage. Erica sat beside her.

"We did not kill Frank's father," Nayyar told her, meaning her former Romulan masters. "You said that you had told Reed that Frank was bothered by what you were doing. Don't you think that it's possible that he took that as a sign of weakness and decided to deal with Frank?"

"No," she answered sharply. Soames thought that the idea was absurd, or was it? She tried recalling her conversations with Reed after the elder McCoy's death. She shelved that line of reasoning. Soames thought that perhaps she was slipping into Nayyar's delusion. She took a deep breath and collected her thoughts. "I think it more likely that you have had a rough ride emotionally, and then you were attacked. I wish that you would drop this foolishness." She watched as Kanya pulled open the top of her blouse and proceeded to suckle the infant. "Why don't you concentrate on a name for your child?"

"That should be for Frank to do when he returns," she replied. Soames doubted that she would ever have a child of her own. Part of her longed for that but it was a small part lately. She reached out and touched the boy's head.

"Look Kanya, all of this was very kind and noble of you but you must realize that Frank may not return." Erica sighed. "I hope you have not done this out of some experiment in being human. You may quite likely have inherited this child. I have never been a parent but it is very different: You may not just have it and decide later that you don't want it."

"His name is David and he is not an, it, admiral," Nayyar replied defensively. The boy didn't seem disturbed by his mother's outburst. David McCoy continued feeding happily.

"I thought that you were going to wait for Frank for the naming?" Erica watched an older couple stroll by and grin knowingly at Kanya.

"David was the name of Frank's father," she replied. "It will be up to him of course, but I like David Leonard McCoy."

Erica shook her head. Maybe Kanya would settle down without her needling. "Leonard; that is Carlson's first name?" she asked. Nayyar nodded. She wondered what Frank would do about this. Soames did not believe that McCoy was the type of man to turn his back on his responsibilities: That is why she had approached him in the first place.

"Do you know who Harrison Soames is Erica?" Nayyar asked. David McCoy had detached himself from his dinner. She rocked the child gently while trying to illicit a burp from him.

Soames was somewhat taken aback but she answered the question: "My great-great grandfather," she answered. "He was one of my inspirations in becoming a pilot." She wondered what he would think of her: Far from flying, an illness had stopped that. Instead Soames was a full time analyst and part time political agitator. If her activities were ever unearthed she would surely hang by the neck until she was dead, dead, dead. Perhaps that was fitting after the destruction of Antonov City. "Why do you ask?"

"Harrison Soames was tasked for a shuttle mission in 2054. Europe was concerned about America's direction and the European Hegemony of that time wanted to launch a space based missile defense system. The mission went awry: The Hegemonic Space Agency lost communications with them for almost a week. It was a massive electrical malfunction." Soames was proud of her family history.

"You think that I'm crazy; under Professor Carlson's spell, Erica," Nayyar said. "I'm not. Check the manifests and fuel loading table for that flight: They were carrying more than a laser armed satellite."

"And where did they go dear?"

Nayyar carefully put David McCoy back into the stroller. It struck Erica as being odd; listening to the augment make baby talk with the infant. Soames rose and fell into step with Kanya. It was a pleasant afternoon for a walk. It was a reminder to Erica that she had spent too much time underground lately.

"Review the data and decide for yourself Erica," Nayyar answered. She gave Soames a very bemused yet frustrated look. "Remember; I'm crazy. You'll have to decide for yourself." Nayyar's look changed to a more serious one. "I can't do much more than the professor right now," she said as she looked at the child. "But you can Erica. If you look at the data and decide that there is nothing to it…I'll…I'll forget the whole thing."

"That sounds lovely!" she answered. Erica was surprised when Nayyar held out her hand. It was more of a masculine gesture but she took the augment up on it. "Deal," she said, confident that this would all be forgotten soon.

Jade Queen II, near the edge of the Topaz system, Jun 2158

"That's our messenger boys, skipper," Commander Margaret Sadler told Donald Townsend. She stood up from the communications' panel.

"Our one hour is gone," Townsend said. "I don't know what they think they are accomplishing."

"They want us to warp into that field," Sadler said. She moved over to stand beside his chair.

"I know," he stroked his chin. He had neglected shaving and had a rough growth there.

He knew that she could see the doubt on his face. "He might have come up with something else. I mean, they," she corrected herself quickly. "They are a lot closer to whatever is going on."

"Your Mister Brack is pretty clever, and a lot older than he looks;" this last he added quietly so that the rest of the bridge crew would not hear it. "But it's your love life Margaret." He gave her a hard look and spoke up. "They could also be transmitting what the Birds want them to say."

"The Birdies have never taken prisoners skipper," Sadler retorted.

"That we know of," he replied. He shook his head. "We have to know Topaz's defenses, but this is not going to be a suicide mission with no results." Townsend surveyed his bridge crew. "We might well end up dead but it's going to be after we've transmitted good strike data; not before."

"Another message, sir," Lieutenant Peter Martel announced from communications. "It is reconstructed voice: It says," the officer paused. Townsend could see that he was embarrassed by the content of the message.

"Well," he said.

"It's a…it's a comment about the commander's…about how she looks under a Vulcan night sky." Martel seemed satisfied that he had stumbled through the voice message until Sadler prompted him for more information. Martel's very pale skin turned a deep shade of red. "Uh, the voice said about how you look with…a…with no clothes on ma'am."

She slapped him on the shoulder. "There skipper, do you think that the Birdies would torture him to know that?"

"I don't even want to know that commander!" he exclaimed. "Okay, that was too much information. But it sounds like our people are there." He turned to Z'Tel. "Sub Commander, please feed a course to the helm to take us down the gravimetric twist. Lieutenant Mirren, when that is available take us to the indicated coordinates at warp point five."

Townsend sat back and watched as the stars on the main viewer stretched out to become rainbow colored streaks. He ordered Chief Paul Aarons to switch over to the tactical viewer. They would be in Romulan sensor range in less than a minute. Donald ordered battle stations. His hands gripped the armrests of his command chair. The image on the screen wavered.

"Severe electromagnetic interference sir," Paul Aarons said. "I'd say that they just detonated the EMP device."

"Why do that now?" Townsend asked. He looked at Sadler. Could the Romulans have captured and co-opted Brack and McCoy? He looked back at the tactical display as his ship entered Birdie sensor range. They should not be able to see the Queen for a few more seconds.

"Entering the asteroid group," Lieutenant Stephanie Mirren announced.

"Second energy spike!" Aarons exclaimed. "It's a hot nuclear detonation."

Townsend had seen the spiraling energy reading on the viewer. He advised Mirren to stand by to reverse course. This was starting to turn fishy. He listened as Aarons reported having scanned a coherent energy source just before the blast.

"Just for a few seconds sir," Aarons explained. "I ran the recordings through the scrubber: A coherent power source, probably not a Birdie ship and readings of industrial metals on the surface of one of the outer asteroids." He looked up from his sensor hood. "Looks like an installation captain." Aarons returned his face to the viewer. "The second explosion was not a warhead. It reads more like the aftermath of a runaway fusion plant."

"Drop out of warp," Townsend commanded. He watched as Mirren executed the maneuver. The sensor image portrayed on the viewer had become a miasma of broken lines and unfocused images.

"Tight beam contact for the shuttle," Martel announced. "They are requesting permission to dock."

"Friendly IFF on STL radar, captain," Aarons added. "It is the shuttle."

Townsend turned to his first officer. "Tell the bay crews to snap to it!" Donald knew that they could count the time that they had in seconds.

"Message from the shuttle, sir," Martel said. "They say to make your course for Topaz at half impulse."

"Romulan patrol turning about!" Aarons exclaimed. "It's the patrol that had passed earlier captain."

"Bay open, shuttle is recovered skipper," Sadler informed him.

"Sir, surely we have been scanned," Sub Commander Z'Tel proclaimed in his odd nasal accent. "We have recovered the shuttle and taken some scans of the system from this sector. I advise that we abort this mission captain."

Townsend thought that the Vulcan made a good deal of sense: They were somewhat closer and he knew that that fact had not escaped Aarons. They would have some data on the initial approach to this part of the system. But doing sensible things struck Donald as mediocre. Star Fleet needed detailed information on this system and they weren't going to get it out here.

"Proceed as indicated by our boys in the shuttle," he said at last. "Mister Martel; are we getting anything from the approaching Birds?"

"Directed signals sir," Martel answered, "typical Birdie transmissions that we've recovered from our battles with them. I can't say if there is anything different or not. I'm certain that they are directed toward us captain, but that is all I'm sure of, sorry sir."

"Nothing to be sorry about lieutenant," Townsend replied. "No one has been able to crack Birdie codes." He looked at the viewer. The oncoming Romulans were less than a minute away.

"Missiles loaded and standing by sir," Chief Mathew Prescott declared. "Positive targeting solution on the lead cruiser," he added.

"Stand by, we're a nice little fleet here," Townsend said. The bridge doors slid open admitting McCoy and Brack. "I suppose that you aren't recommending that we hit and run?"

"We found an abandoned cruiser out here along with an installation, Captain Townsend," Brack responded. He noticed McCoy's sidewise look when Brack had mentioned the cruiser's status. He would have bet his retirement that someone was over there. That ship was stationed there for some reason. Stellar Navy crewmen wouldn't abandon a ship without at least stationing a team close to the vessel. Donald surmised that the Romulans wouldn't do any different; not close to a main operating base.

He listened as Brack continued. "We were able to take out their reactor. We made it back it time to fire the EMP warhead and then the cruiser blew."

"These Birds might think that the reactor on their base went," Aarons spoke up. "I've been scanning the area: There is too much residual radiation to tell what happened: At least for now." Aarons returned to his sensor hood. "They are dropping out of warp sir. They are charging their main weapon."

"I'm receiving those same signals again captain," Martel said.

"Remember, our comm equipment is burned out," Townsend said. He breathed regularly. If the Romulans chose to fire now there was not a damn thing he could do. He rose from his chair. "Give me a telescopic shot of them Chief Aarons." At less than ten thousand kilometers and at a relative stop to one another they should get a good picture. Townsend saw the blurry image of a Sabinus class ship. Aarons sharpened it.

He walked over to the viewscreen. The bridge crew knew that their lives were in the balance. Donald looked at them and then back at the viewer. "Notice the big yellow bird painted on the hull," he declared. "It's clearly a case of envy of some kind. You know what they say about men with big birds."

"Lot's of feathers to clean up skipper?" Sadler replied.

"They are moving," Aarons announced. "It's a leisurely maneuver sir: Projected course puts them in at points that make a line with us. The line points toward the Topaz system. Their power plants are changing characteristics: I think that they are powering down their cannons."

"It's some kind of loss comm maneuver captain," Brack said.

"Uh-huh, care to bet your life on the Mister Brack?" The man nodded in reply. Townsend recognized a poker face when he saw one. He nodded back. "I think that you are right."

"Another signal stream sir," Martel said. "It is different from the last one." Townsend returned to his command chair.

"The first ship is forming a warp field," Aarons said. Townsend could hear the man's confusion. "It's not stable: It's collapsed." He pulled away from the hood and shook his head. "I don't understand why." He returned his face to his instruments. "The second ship is doing the same."

Townsend nearly broke his finger punching the direct line to engineering. "Marsh, are you following this down there?" he asked. Down was relative, since the Jade Queen II's engineering section lay aft. He supposed that captains had always thought of their engineering spaces as being below regardless of their true locations.

"I can generate a partial field sir," Lieutenant Commander Marshall Davies replied. "It'll be close—here goes!" It was their turn in the queue. Townsend waited breathlessly.

"Power readings are the same sir," Aarons informed him. "My guess is that they have transferred power from their weapons to their warp drives. The last Birdie just executed the maneuver. The first ship in the formation is forming another warp field. Going to warp! They are cruising at warp one sir," Aarons concluded.

"Get ready down there Marsh, and good job," Townsend told his engineer. "Looks like we are next up." He said as he quickly turned his attention to Mirren. "Lay in a course to follow our fellow Birdies helmsman." The brown haired United Kingdom native responded crisply in the affirmative.

"They are executing warp entry within six point three seconds of one another sir," Aarons reported.

"See that we do the same Lieutenant Mirren," Townsend said.

He watched his helmsman punch in timing calculations. Without waiting for confirmation Mirren announced that she was engaging the Queen's drive. Townsend watched the rarely seen image of the stars stretching out into streaks as the Jade Queen leapt into subspace.

"Is the one behind us executing on the same schedule captain," Aarons said. "Looks like we are making for Topaz Prime's second moon; I'm reading positive metal returns there. Could be anything but it is stationary." A repair facility Townsend guessed. The bastards! That is where the human colonists had planned on building a station.

Townsend pushed those thoughts back. He turned to Brack and McCoy. "Good job over there. I'll expect a full debriefing." And a pack of lies he thought. He wondered again what these two knew. "Looks like we have a good four days worth of travel; freshen up and I'll see you both in two hours."

"Yes sir," McCoy responded in curt military fashion.

"Of course sir," Brack answered, "if we might be excused until then."

Townsend nodded at them. He also nodded at Margaret. She left with Brack and McCoy. Townsend guessed that she wanted to welcome her 'friend' back in proper fashion. They were in a critical situation but Donald saw no reason to restrain his first officer. He intended to stay on the bridge until he saw where this thing was going. The Vulcan Z'Tel strode over to stand beside his command chair.

That was unusual for the stoic Vulcan. "Something on your mind sub commander?" he asked. Townsend thought about the moment: Despite their new agreement with the allies would the Vulcans ever come to share in the president's new alliance?

"Mister Brack, he is what you humans call odd," the Vulcan commented. Z'Tel looked around as if he was embarrassed. "I am not sure that I…trust him."

"I was thinking the same thing Mister Z'Tel," Townsend agreed. "What do you think of our present situation sub commander?"

"It seems like a rash action sir," Z'Tel said. "It is not logical. Unmanned probes could gather the information." Townsend was about to argue when the Vulcan continued: "Of course, the Romulans would scan those probes and change their defenses in the intervening time. And exploration is better accomplished when it is done by intelligent beings rather than machines."

"We can improvise sub commander," Townsend said.

The Vulcan was silent for quite some time. Townsend was about to turn to another victim when he spoke up: "Improvisation: It is a talent that you humans seem to be quite adept at. In my studies at Brisbane I tried to understand it but never really did. I believe that it is a strength as our logic is for us."

Donald hoped that that was so. Once again he was leading his crew into an impossible situation. He had improvised before and pulled several rabbits out of his hat. Somehow Townsend knew that the supply of bunnies was finite. He just hoped that there was one more in that hat for his crew and the Jade Queen.

LeBarre, France, the vineyards of Lucien Picard, the old European Hegemony, Jun 2158

Captain Michael Cromwell had a carefree attitude at the moment. That was singularly amazing for Cromwell who had always known that he was a serious person. He remembered his father admonishing him for having been, in his words, born an adult. His experience among the Ro'ha of Ross 128 had left him a changed man. He walked by the fragrant vineyard, holding the hand of Doctor Gertrude Schultheiss. It was a perfect summer day; not too hot and the wind didn't yet hold the cool bite of fall.

"We can go to Lichtenstein and go skiing tonight or go exploring in one of these little towns again Trudy," he told his partner.

"Yah, another pub crawl?" she asked in reply. "I think that I would like that. I don't think we'll have too much free time left to us, Olly."

"We'll make the most of what we have," he answered. "Besides, aren't you looking forward to being cooped up in a tin can for half a year? I'm thinking of starting a bridge league; maybe convert some of the extra space in shuttle bay three into a bowling alley." He had a grin pasted on his lips.

The bowling alley joke had come about after he had reviewed suggestions for improved morale during extended cruises. Daedelus was undergoing a major refit. He knew that Schultheiss was right: His vessel had been moved to the front of the line at Utopia Planitia. Cromwell knew that they would be assigned a new mission soon. His ship was being upgraded with the new warp driven Cachalot missile and deadly Mantis area defense missile. If he had to guess Cromwell would say that Daedelus was probably going to be assigned as a fast scout working the edge of Romulan space. Whatever changes were being wrought a bowling alley was probably not one of them for the small hundred and four kilometer long ship.

"I was rather looking forward to that," Schultheiss said. "We'll have to become bowlers if we move to San Francisco: I've heard that all the Americans to that."

Cromwell laughed at her joke. Even during these times many people were still provincial in their thinking. Cromwell's mother; upon hearing that he was thinking of applying for the job of commandant of Star Fleet Academy in San Francisco had reacted as if he had just declared his intention to immigrate to Tellar. The western coast of the United States was less than an hour away by suborbital liner. Maybe even less if the assertions of the scientist Emery Erickson came to fruition. He mentioned that to Trudy.

"I've skimmed through some articles in medical journals: So far all of the animals put through matter energy transmission have checked okay on the other side."

They strolled by some of Picard's hired help. The group, consisting mostly of youths was loading baskets of grapes into a horse drawn wagon. Probably done for tourist value Cromwell surmised: Robots did most of the ordinary tasks of farming. Michael looked at the horse and thought how complicated the beast was. The combinations of DNA that had resulted in hair and four strong legs; how could that ever be safely converted to energy and sent out like a radio message?

"It won't be installed on a ship of the line," he said. "The power needed for Erickson's device will render it a planet bound machine only." He looked up to see Mariel Picard and her father walking toward them. The elder Picard stopped to harangue the young boys who were loading his produce. The Picard family was speaking English to facilitate their guests although Trudy was fluent in French.

"Emil; be careful with the grapes! Jacques; are you working or just along for the entertainment value?" The old man shook his head. "I must pay these boys for such poor labor. How will my family be able to eat?"

Mariel chose to ignore her father's mostly theatrical outbursts and talk to her fellow crewmembers instead. "Are you enjoying your time here?" she asked the couple.

"All too quickly to come to an end, miss," Cromwell answered. He had chosen to keep their relationship formal. "I understand that you have applied to stay with us?"

"I hope that it will help me when I make my application to Star Fleet Academy," she answered. "I have heard that most of the civilian advisers and researchers are staying onboard."

"The Stellar Navy was not very large when this war started," Cromwell said. "We can use all the experts that we can get. It doesn't take long to train a soldier. It does take awhile to grow an astrophysicist or mathematician."

He also knew that the president was more than happy to see that those who knew the true origin of their enemy remain on Daedelus. Too many people on earth had become very interested in the advanced star ship's mission. That undoubtedly had much to do with their expected turn around time.

"I am anxious to get out there again sir," Picard said. He gave Trudy a knowing look. This was why he wanted to serve a stint at the academy: To allow the minds of those like Mariel a place to grow. If earth was to survive Cromwell thought that it would be because of its explorers; not its soldiers.

Her father turned a wry face towards the group. Cromwell suspected that Lucien Picard probably wanted his daughter to stay earthbound. The Picard family seemed to quite modern except in relationship to the role of women. Then again Cromwell believed that if he had a child, the last thing he would want was for that youngster to join the space service. He looked at Trudy: She had spoken of children. He would be off on another journey into the unknown if that happened.

"If you must go Mariel," Lucien said and shook his head. He grinned broadly at his daughter to Cromwell's surprise. "I was about to make you feel guilty. But remember that I once counseled you to follow your heart and to do those things that made you happy." He sighed. "It is my nature as a father: I would miss you even if you lived next door."

She laughed gaily at him. "I was never much with the grapes father."

Emil whistled at her. "She will be an excellent astronaut monsieur!" Michael could see by the way that the boy looked at Mariel that he thought of her in different terms besides being a spacer.

"And you will still be sweeping barns out young man!" Lucian exclaimed. "Speaking of which; I think that it is time for you to clean the stalls for Helene." Emil wrinkled his nose. Helene Picard was an avid equestrian. Cromwell had discovered that Lucien hated the beasts, insisting that they had tried biting him. Emil's friends laughed at his misfortune. Cromwell glanced up the dirt road: An aircar veered out of the local pattern to hover over the Picard's vineyard. It settled onto a drive near an ancient stone root house.

A young woman in a gold Star Fleet command jersey got out of the car. Cromwell caught sight of her dark skin. He recognized her as she got closer: Stiles. He had never met the woman that had been nicknamed The Iron Maiden, but he had heard the stories. He wondered how someone half of his age could hold down such a position. Cromwell thought that he understood as she got close enough for him to get a good look at her face: It was a hard face for one so young and pretty: A hard face that seemed to hold no room for joy or pity.

"Captain Cromwell I presume?" She examined a handheld and compared what was on the screen to his face.

"Yes sir," he answered. "This is my Chief Medical Officer--"

"Doctor Gertrude Schultheiss," she interrupted. "I've been laid up since the attack on my taskforce so Star Fleet has me out running errands for them. Actually I was about to go stir crazy so I volunteered for this. Your vacation is over captain."

She beckoned for him to walk with her. He took leave of the group and fell into stride with the young woman. She was silent for a few moments as they walked out of earshot of any listeners. The two of them followed the road that he and Trudy had just walked on. A storm from the previous day had created quite a few puddles on the hard clay surface.

"We are turning the tide in this war," she said at last.

"Topaz doesn't look like a pleasant proposition commodore," he answered. "I've read the estimates of losses: We might not have much of a fleet left to go forward after that."

"Our friends the Vulcans are going to deal with Topaz," Stiles answered. "I can't say anymore than that. But I can say that Admiral Forrest has plans beyond Topaz."

"And what are those?" he asked cautiously. Cromwell didn't envy Forrest who had to come up with a way to defeat the Romulans without revealing their relationship to the Vulcans.

He was aware that Stiles was looking at him. Despite their age difference and his length of service he grew quite uncomfortable. "The strategy is an attack at a major Birdie base outside of their home system. Seems like a waste when we have the maneuver capability to go directly against their home system."

"I can't speak to that commodore," he said. She was probing. Cromwell doubted that she had been made privy to the data that he had returned with. "Admiral Forrest has a diplomatic ball to juggle."

"Yes, yes he does." Her voice was quiet. Cromwell could see that she was thinking. "Funny that you discovered as much as you did, all except a look at who we are fighting."

"Not really sir," he answered defensively. "One of our ships could fare as well against plasmonic discharges such as the ones that hit the Romulan ship. We were lucky that we had the data from the Novak expedition." Once more proving that exploration and not brute force was the key he thought. That earth expedition had conducted major studies of many of the nearest nebulae. "My engineer rigged Daedelus so that we would not be dealt the same fate."

"Of course," she said quietly. "Smart work there I'm sure, captain. I was just wondering if there wasn't anything more to it. The president had quite a powwow up there."

"President Thorpe kept the X project alive when the World Council was in the throes of dismantling the navy. He has a special interest in us I suppose. He is a very good man commodore. I also believe that he chose to conference on my ship because he was happy to welcome back someone alive for a change."

It was somewhat of a lie but not entirely: Thorpe had shown his pleasure at their return; not just that they had returned with vital information but they had come back at all. Cromwell imagined that reading the litany of casualty reports had to be affecting Thorpe.

"What do you know of Vulcan history captain?"

The question caught Cromwell at unawares. It was also uncomfortably close to the reason for this war. "Not nearly enough I guess. History always put me to sleep." He smiled sheepishly.

"Surak was a very interesting individual, almost like a Vulcan Jesus. The funny thing is that he wrote extensively about the changes that were occurring in his civilization but almost nothing about those who the logical Vulcans were fighting."

"History is written by the victors commodore," he replied slowly. "We don't exactly trumpet the aberrations in our history."

"I thought that history put you to sleep captain," she snapped.

He smiled uneasily. "I know the usual amount." He was careful to pick his words. "I've read that the Vulcans pushed the opposition group off planet. It seems likely that at that stage of development the antagonistic Pointies perished in space." She nodded. Despite the pleasant day he was starting to sweat. Cromwell was sure that Stiles did not know anything. But her guesses were disconcerting at best.

"Yes, probably so," she said. Michael thought that she was going to drop the topic when she continued: "You know, the Pointies took great pains to tell us how civilized they were and how we were just barbarians in space—"

"Pardon me sir, but I don't believe they ever presented it like that."

"No of course not, they presented it in o so nice, proper terms. It was like the Air Force Academy Debate team: Tactful and chocked full of a false sense of smug, intellectual superiority."

"Vulcans come off as being aloof. Doctor Cochrane made note of that about a minute after he shook Talik's hand." Cromwell knew that he had to change the direction of this conversation. They had walked as far as the end of the winery's road. Stiles pushed forward up a gentle slope.

"I need the exercise captain," she looked back at him. A mechanical grin was pasted on her lips. She was anything but happy at the moment. He followed her, pushing up the hill.

"I suppose that I'm off to scout for this offensive?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"You produced some good information from your last mission. Even if none of it was the identity of the Romulans. By the way captain, the Vulcans were more than happy to showcase the history of their space program. It seems like about three hundred years after it got underway the Pointies conducted a massive exploration effort. Do you have any idea of where they concentrated their efforts captain?"

No but you are going to tell me, he thought. He shook his head. "They did an extensive search in a sphere that a ship traveling at warp one might traverse in…oh, say three hundred of our dumbass human years. They spent almost fifty years searching that volume. Isn't that interesting?"

Cromwell recalled serving on a courts martial panel. The offense had been a minor one but Michael had never forgotten the cold precision with which the prosecutor had delivered his case. Stiles' manner was exactly that, cold and razor like. He marshaled his thoughts. Stiles was a known loose cannon. Cromwell knew without a doubt that his information on the Romulans would be disastrous in her hands.

He looked at her, smiled and shrugged. "Look at humans: It was easier for us to journey greater distances to find air breathing planets then it was to spend the research efforts in exploiting the outer gas giants. Even now our research people are still conjecturing on how best to use those resources." He decided to turn her questioning about.

"What are you getting at commodore? The Pointies have been aloof bastards. They are still aloof bastards. But they have consented to help us. I can't speak with any authority on what they did thousands of years ago. God knows that they are strange enough. Maybe they were going through a crisis of logic. Will they be assisting me on this expedition commodore?"

There, he had broken her hold. Stiles took awhile to reply. "No they will not captain," she answered curtly. They were on top of the hill. Cromwell looked out into the distance. Paris was visible, marked by the Eiffel Tower. He had seen it as a child with his family. He had kissed Trudy on top of the tower's primary observation deck two days ago.

"Surveillance torpedoes have shown that the Birdies have a concentration of ships around Cheron. Anyway it is a strategically located system: Admiral Forrest believes that if we drive the Romulans all the way back there and then stage an attack that we will be within striking range of their home system." She drew herself up.

"Your mission is to probe Cheron. Star Fleet wants their refueling routes, any subspace eddies, any ship movements or surprises mapped out."

He laughed. "Is that all commodore? Quite likely any surprises, as you call them, will dramatically end my intrepid voyages." Cromwell wiped the bitter grimace off of his face. She handed him a data wafer. "You are to be under way in five days. The details are on the wafer."

That gave them precious little time for goodbyes. He sighed. "I shall assemble my crew commodore. Is there anything else?"

She started down the hill. It was apparent to Michael that she wanted to walk back to her car by herself. Stiles stopped, turned around and faced him. Her face was like that of a hunting lion. Her eyes were focused and shined with a baleful light.

"I'll find out what you know captain. Too many people have died in this war. My Dav—my fiancé, my father; they aren't going to die in vain. I won't allow that." If she was angry and hysterical now he thought that it would be normal. Instead she was cool; no cold he thought.

"There will be a peace commodore. I mean it stands to reason. Eventually both of our sides will grind ourselves down until there is nothing to fight for. I haven't read much history but what I've read points to that. The war will end."

"It can also end with the extermination of one side captain. It's our responsibility to see that there isn't a threat for future generations. It seems to me that people make war because they don't have anything better to do. The Birdies won't be fighting if they are spending their time trying to find uncontaminated food and water on what s left of their world." She started to turn away. "I'll find out what it is Cromwell. You can count on that." Stiles turned away and resumed her trek back to her vehicle.


	39. Chapter 39

The Forest of Al'retanitir, Romulus, the earth summer of 2158

The Forest of Al'retanitir, Romulus, the earth summer of 2158

"This is an ill-conceived plan Tarang," T'Pol told him. Lieutenant Commander Tarang Gupta would be only vaguely recognizable to his mother.

The Romulan physician had completed his work on Gupta. He was completely Vulcanoid as far as his surface features went. Admiral Valdore had assured him that he could pass a Romulan genetic identity screening. He still had no idea of how he was to accomplish his mission for the Romulan officer, or whatever path that he took. Stopping the war seemed like an attractive proposition to Gupta, but how could he trust that that would be so? He shoved a large blue green leafed branch out of his way. The golden, green forest seemed to be thinning out.

"I'm not afraid to die T'Pol." He stopped and took a deep breath. He could smell the damp dirt as the noonday sun heated it up. He wanted to take her hand but was afraid to touch her. She mustn't know what Syrran had shown him. "It's foolishly romantic and human of me but I could have died at your side. But dying senselessly doesn't seem logical; not while we have a chance at life."

"Valdore will deceive us," she countered. "We are like those pieces in the earth game of chess: We are pawns. Undoubtedly he put us here to satisfy some scheme of his. Even if what he said was true: How do you plan on assassinating the most protected individual on this planet?"

"I don't know!" The truth was he didn't even know if he could go through with it if Karzan was here right now, defenseless before him.

She leaned next to him and kissed him on the lips. "I do not know either. But we defeated a Romulan invasion of my world. I believe that we can do this." He felt the telepathic brush.

"Not yet!" he snapped. He turned away from her. "There is…I cannot allow our thoughts to merge." He looked at her. "Please believe me. I love you and wish to spare you…"

"Spare me what? What is it that Syrran told you?" He was disturbed that she knew who his secret had come from. She must have read that on his face. "It was Syrran. Did he forbid our relationship?"

The forest gave way to a dirt road. Gupta was surprised that it seemed to be used for vehicular travel as wheel ruts lay everywhere. There was also evidence of heavy foot travel. Gupta remembered from his indoctrination that many Romulans traveled by foot. Vehicles were the possessions of nobles and guild leaders. Seldom did the common Romulan own one. Gupta looked on as T'Pol unrolled the map that Valdore had given them.

"No, in fact he seemed to think that our relationship was…," Tarang stumbled for words. "That it was fulfilling some destiny. I know that it sounds insane but he spoke of that toward the end. How far do we have to go?"

"Soltac is five point four k'lils in that direction," she answered.

He cleared his throat heedless of rather it was a human gesture or not. "Even in Romulan the proper thing to say--"

"It is," she paused and looked hard at him. "It is…about five k'lils in that direction." She pointed at a curving portion of the road. "It is an imprecise way to speak."

"When in _Rome_," he said with a smile.

"We are not in _Rome,_" she answered. "Nonetheless I understand what you mean. I shall try to be more…relaxed in my speech." He smiled and kissed her.

He looked around and smiled. "We have only to get to the capital, sneak into the praetor's tower and slit his throat. Well, let's be off!"

"I shall never understand humor Tarack," she said. T'Pol was using the name that Valdore had picked for him. "We should get to the capital. That is a good starting place."

"Agreed!" he exclaimed. He was happy despite their condition. Valdore had put them down with Romulan clothing, travel papers and a pouch full of Imperial thrones, the Romulan currency. They had no weapons and no plan and would most likely be caught and die. But they were alive. He kissed her again. The moment was broken when they heard a high pitched scream coming from beyond the turn in the road.

Gupta looked at her. They ran toward the sound. Gupta saw two people scuffling. A large stand of grass screened out a clearer picture of what was going on. Gupta pushed aside some of the tall green blades. One of the Romulans in the altercation was clearly a female while the other, larger one was a male. The male landed a savage punch on the female's face. She fell to her knees clutching a bag.

"Give it to me old fool!" the male bellowed.

"Get away from me you deserter!" the woman screamed back. Green blood poured out of her nose and dripped down her chin. The male drew back to hit her again.

"Don't get involved Tarack!" T'Pol warned.

He sprang out of the tall grass and made to tackle the female's assailant. Gupta had no clear idea of what he was doing but he could not allow an old woman to be brutalized. The robber dodged aside and laughed. The Romulan who had altered Tarang had also used electric shock to maintain Gupta's musculature. He had strength but was still clumsy. Gupta saw the glint of the attacker's blade.

"Stupid fool!" the Romulan smiled showing a mouth full of decaying teeth. He made slow circular motions with the knife. The old Romulan tried to crawl away. The assailant slashed at Gupta. He barely missed being skewered when he heard a hard thump like two logs slamming together. The rock bounced off the Romulan mugger's head. The bandit fell to his knees.

Gupta looked over to see T'Pol holding another rock, ready to throw it. Shadowy figures emerged out of bushes to seize the Vulcan. Gupta tried to assist her but he too was seized. The robber rose shakily to his feet. His face was a bloody mess. Tarang's heart raced when the thug retrieved his wicked looking curved dagger.

"About time you showed up Pakesh!" he said to someone behind Gupta. He looked back and gasped when he saw the Nosferatu like creature holding him: a Reman. He had learned that they were slaves to the Romulans.

A tall Romulan male strode past him. He gave Gupta a look riddled with contempt. The Romulan had a short pate of jet black hair: His sharp aquiline nose seemed to have been broken at one time and clumsily reset. A large ugly scar crossed his forehead and went down to the base of his right cheek. He was dressed as was Tarang and T'Pol: Wearing heavy pants bloused into the tops of comfortable knee high boots completed by a light shirt covered by a heavy, leather like vest. The new arrival grunted at a large, broad, bald Romulan who was wearing a vest over his smooth bare chest. He seized the would-be attacker, holding his arms as one might restrain a child.

"Medric, you are becoming a liability," the Romulan who must be Pakesh declared.

"Let me go A'Zir!" Medric yelled as he struggled against the broad shouldered Romulan. The heavy Romulan grunted in reply. Gupta noticed a jagged scar along the base of his great neck.

"Medric, did I not tell you that we may not rob from the dead?" Pakesh said. Gupta's mind reeled. The dead; that was Romulan slang for the widows of dead soldiers.

"The old one will not need it Pakesh! I wanted it and my need was what mattered! She has more and therefore must forfeit it. That is our code." A'Zir squeezed Medric's wrist causing him to squeal in pain and drop his knife.

Gupta saw the circular brand on Medric's wrist. Pakesh had one as well: That marked them as members of the Criminal Guild. A voice in Romulan came unbidden to his mind.

"The Criminal Guild lives to fulfill their needs. They have limits, but they are few," the voice explained.

"I told you not to rob from those whose mates shall never return," Pakesh said. Despite her pain and humiliation the woman shot a sneer toward Pakesh. A Romulan woman of apparently young age helped the old woman up at Pakesh's bidding. She was dressed as were the males except that Gupta could see through her clothing to the bare flesh beneath. Pakesh searched through Medric's clothes finding some thrones and several smaller denominations. "I've had too many problems with you lately," Pakesh told Medric. He paced over and gave the woman the coins and returned her money pouch.

"My apologies," Pakesh said. "Your mate gave the empire his all. For that he should be remembered and you should be honored." The elder looked in his face. She spat on him. He closed his eyes, opened them and turned away. She hobbled away, cursing.

Pakesh waited a few moments. "Let me kill this hero Pakesh!" Medric roared. He meant Gupta. Medric looked lasciviously at T'Pol. "We can initiate this one into the kali-fei."

Pakesh bent, retrieved the curved knife, flipped it around haft first and made as if to return it to Medric. Medric smiled. He continued smiling for several seconds after Pakesh had flipped the blade over and slashed his throat. Green blood went spurting. A'Zir shoved Medric to the ground and kicked him. Medric let out a gurgling cry of pain and outrage. The group of thugs spread apart to watch Medric bleed out. Pakesh walked over and stood face to face with Gupta.

"Who are you hero?" he asked. He reached into a pocket of Gupta's vest and took out his travel documents.

"My name is Tarack," he answered.

"And this is your awevhoi?" he asked of T'Pol. Gupta understood that the term translated as prostitute with the implication that he was a pimp. Pakesh looked at his ident plate and burst into laughter. He turned to his band. "Tarack here is a mon'zel!"

They too roared with laughter. Mon'zel was a class of Romulan, the members of which were marked by mental deficiency. His instruction had indicated that mon'zel't weren't put to death because they were classed as being marginally functional. They were also excluded from military service which Valdore had explained would cover Tarack. Romulan males of his age were expected to be in service unless they had a legal excuse.

"Are you an idiot, Tarack?" Pakesh asked. "Your plate declares you as such."

"It would appear so," Gupta replied.

"And your awevhoi; is she an idiot too? If that is so then you should have had a certain part of your body removed to stop the spread of idiocy." Pakesh looked down at Gupta's crotch. "The state gives rewards for those who take care of such problems." He brandished the knife that he had killed Medric with.

"I am Tarack's caretaker," T'Pol said. "We are wards of the estate of Administrator Ge'Rac." Valdore had explained that Ge'Rac had been an eccentric minister who also had a mighty libido. He had provided generously for his many and varied progeny. That meant that anyone questioning Gupta and T'Pol's cover would have to conduct a deep and thorough examination.

Pakesh looked hard at both of them. "Release them," he told the Romulans holding them. "You, at least, must be an idiot for traveling on this road during this part of the day," he told Gupta. "And you are a poor caretaker. What is your name?" he asked T'Pol.

"I am called T'Pol," she replied.

"Promise," he said softly. Gupta took in a breath. Members of the Criminal Guild were supposed to be largely uneducated. Certainly he didn't expect that any of them would speak an ancient, dead language.

Further discussion was halted when a small boy burst out of the forest. He made straight for the gang. Gupta guessed from their reaction that they knew who the boy was. The Romulan child was about nine or ten Tarang guessed. He stopped before the criminals, huffing and puffing.

"Monitors Pakesh! Along the road," the boy explained. He noticed Medric's corpse. "They are probably looking for him," he said and pointed.

"They'll be satisfied with finding him," Pakesh said. He looked at Gupta and T'Pol. "You two, I have an uneasy feeling about you. You shall be our guests."

"We do not desire your company," T'Pol said eliciting a sharp look from Pakesh.

"We shall be happy to be your guests," Gupta said. "My caretaker is somewhat moody today."

He didn't feel safe with the criminals but the youth had mentioned monitors: Romulan police. Valdore had indicated that they were comprised mostly of failed military inductees. He had told them to avoid them whenever possible.

"She should think better of those who try to do her a favor Tarack," Pakesh said. "Come, we have a long walk through the woods."

Gupta sat around the fire sipping at the heady kali-fal. The gang's retreat had turned out to be a battered old river boat. Pakesh explained that it is how they got from town to town. Apparently this part of the river was their territory.

Gupta had been introduced to Pakesh's gang or troupe, as the Romulan preferred calling them. A'Zir had been a ship's engineer until super hot coolant gas had nearly decapitated him. His brain functioned but his vocal cords were completely gone. He had joined the guild after falling on his luck after his discharge. A'Zir seemed close to a Romulan named Kaphir.

Kaphir was a tall, thin Romulan who was the son of a successful merchant. Too successful Pakesh had explained. His provincial governor had planted false evidence that Kaphir's father was a war profiteer. The governor had seen to the execution of Kaphir's parents and siblings. The same governor had then seized the business and proceeded to overcharge his military customers with abandonment. Kaphir had only survived because he had been visiting a friend at a provincial university.

The Romulan girl who had helped the old woman was named Altena. Gupta translated her age as almost twenty-five earth years. While still a teenager she had caught the eye of a government administrator. The administrator had offered Altena's father credits and a better position for her but he had refused. That had not prevented the administrator from taking Altena and trying to rape her. She had fought back and left the administrator nearly dead. That act left her little choice than to seek a life on the margins of this society lest her family suffer the consequences.

Gupta noticed that she sat mostly with Haldur. That Romulan was about Tarang's height. Haldur said little. Pakesh told of how Haldur had come to them with the other female in his band: Tisza. There had been a horrific industrial accident. Hundreds of thousands of children had become orphaned. That had occurred roughly at the same time when the empire was preparing for war. Many children had been adopted but many had not been so lucky. Haldur and Tisza had been left to fend for themselves until they had run into Pakesh. Gupta eyed the strangest member of the group: the Reman Elcan.

Gupta listened again to something that Pakesh had said about Elcan; something about becoming a galamide. Tarang searched his someone drunken mind for that term and came up empty. He asked Pakesh to explain.

"They were going to short out his brain," Haldur volunteered. His tone was bitter. "Don't you know anything Tarack?"

"Well, we were rather isolated on the estate," Gupta replied. He turned to Elcan. "What did you do to deserve that?"

"It was an honor to volunteer--"

"You really don't know anything," Tisza declared. "Galamides have their brains cooked and then get implants. The nobility uses them as guards because they can control them."

Gupta tried to disguise the horror that he felt. "Why would you--"

"The overseers on Remus will demand higher production from my clan unless so many of us submit to the procedure. I volunteered to spare my clan the slow death of accidents and radiation poison." Elcan looked straight ahead. "I ran. I did not have the courage to go through with it. I wanted to die except that the masters would not permit that: Better to show my people my shame and tell me that my brood guardians had died of the bone death."

Pakesh raised his mug. They at least shared that custom with man. "The new Romulus…or perhaps it has never changed. We need to be one with our brothers."

"Reunification?" he asked. Gupta took another sip of his drink. He felt rather than saw T'Pol's sharp look.

"It is that which every Romulan looks forward too," Pakesh answered. He got a faraway look in his eyes. "The struggle and our sacrifice now will be justified when we are one with our brothers." He laughed. "Or so they tell us."

"Don't you believe in…that Reunification will happen?" Gupta asked.

"Seems like a good excuse to goad us into more work," Kaphir said. A'Zir grunted and made noises like he was choking. "A'Zir agrees. We were told that these huwans and their allies would fall before our mighty legions; instead more of us go off to war, fewer return."

"I wonder what they are like; these huwans?" Gupta asked. He was curious about the perceptions of his enemy.

"Humans," Altena corrected him. "They are perverts with no morals. They don't believe in anything greater than themselves. They are unbelievers trying to corrupt our brothers. Their allies are no better. They all cavort around together. I have heard that they have strange crossbreeds with the ones with antennae." Her disgust was obvious. "I could not imagine mingling my Romulan blood, rutting with some alien freak!"

A'Zir grunted and made some gurgling noises. Kaphir laughed. "He says that you are too busy rutting with everyone else Alt!" He laughed even after she threw a rock at him.

"That is you speaking Kaphir. You can't make sense of what he says," Altena shot back. There was no animosity here Tarang realized; just a group of friends playfully chiding one another. Tarang laughed and took another drink.

"Where are you and your mate going T'Pol?" Pakesh asked the Vulcan. The insinuation about their relationship didn't escape Gupta. He did not look at her.

"The capital Pakesh," she answered simply. The entire group broke into guffaws.

Kaphir rose and bowed. "Well, excuse me honored governors, we didn't know who you were."

Gupta forced a laugh. He did not understand the gang's source of humor. Pakesh asked him about travel documents. Gupta discovered in a roundabout way that travel beyond a province was not permitted without a sort of internal passport. He felt the brush of T'Pol's mind even through his slightly drunken stupor. He explained that their authorizations were still awaiting approval. It was a poor lie but Gupta felt that it would work in this mad bureaucratic nightmare of a world. Pakesh seemed to accept his explanation.

"Alas, we would take you there," Pakesh said. "You will wait a season with the war on." He eyed T'Pol. "Unless T'Pol is willing to…speed things along with the administrator," he concluded.

"We could get there without a pass?" Tarang asked.

Haldur laughed and held out his wrist. "This is our pass." Kaphir who had seated himself upon a log did likewise.

"I'm not very good at being…a," Gupta stumbled.

"At being a criminal," Tisza supplied. She giggled. When she did that, Gupta thought of his little nieces. "We will go up river to Valtaza soon. We shall make some thrones as players."

Pakesh could read Gupta's confusion. "You must really have been kept on an estate. Although, I suspect that you are not an idiot, just someone who does not want to die in the military. But it is your life." Pakesh stood up. "We are Romulans! The only free Romulans are the governors on top," he paused, "and we on the bottom." He downed his mug of liquor. "Don't you understand the role of criminals Tarack, T'Pol?"

Gupta was careful in his reply. "You have had some misfort--"

"Misfortune; no," Pakesh snapped. He held his wrist out. "If the monitors wanted us they could jail us all in a tenth. We are needed to maintain order."

"But you are criminals," T'Pol insisted. "You represent that which is counter to order."

"A direct female," Pakesh said. "You are practically one of us Promise. No, the government needs criminals to keep the populace in line. When you are afraid of us, you won't mind a monitor accepting a bribe or extorting thrones through some made up charge or trying to rape your child." He laughed bitterly. "But we shall all be saved by Reunification!"

Pakesh sat back down. "I sometimes forget myself. You were wondering about players. We are tolerated only so long as we don't go too far. So we seek other means of earning some thrones." He poured a drink out of a different bottle and took a big drink of it, pulled a burning branch from the fire and blew the liquor onto the branch. The night erupted in flame. Gupta felt the heat.

Tisza stood up and flipped onto her hands and feet. Kaphir reached over and pulled a throne out of A'Zir's ear. They were a circus troupe of sorts! Gupta was surprised yet he was not when he thought about it. Pakesh laughed.

"Our masters pay well to see our talents," Pakesh said. "If you had a talent we would allow you to come with us. But I cannot allow you to ride free."

Gupta wondered if he was recovered enough from Healer Sodara's treatments. He took up three of the fruits such as he and T'Pol had been served when they got to the robbers' boat. Alvin Crosby had always liked when he did this. Tarang concentrated through his drunkenness. He threw the fruits into the air, first one and then another.

"What are you tryin to…." Kaphir started to ask and then trailed off. He stared at Gupta's act in amazement.

Gupta hadn't seen any references to this in his indoctrination. "It is called…juggling," he said. One English word would not give away their intentions.

"Jugga…jugg…juggaling," Kaphir stammered around the unfamiliar word.

Pakesh roared with laughter. "Juggling, I like it! You have earned yourself a place to on the way to see the praetor!" Said in jest Gupta started at that last statement. It was uncomfortably close to what they were there to do. He caught the fruits in his shirt. "But what of your mate, Tarack?" he asked.

Gupta thought for awhile. "Ask her to perform any complex calculation!" Tarang knew that the Vulcan mind was trained to perform complex calculations by utilizing a larger portion of their brains than did man.

They all laughed. "If the government took four thousand and nineteen thrones divided by three hundred towers off of me how much would I have?" Kaphir asked.

T'Pol rattled off an answer without flinching. They all laughed, all except for Elcan. His articulated fingers were punching calculations into a small unit on his wrist. "She is absolutely correct Pakesh."

The group gave T'Pol several more problems. She answered flawlessly. Pakesh seemed pleased and agreed to provide them transport to Valtaza. Gupta finished his drink. It was late. The stars, strange to him, were brightly lit overhead. Pakesh gave them a small tent. Gupta made no pretense about his relationship with T'Pol. He realized that Pakesh would see through it. They went to bed.

T'Pol lay next to him in the small dank tent. "This world is an abomination. These people cannot possibly be related to mine. They should be more advanced. The road that we met Pakesh on was not even paved. Kaphir told me that some of the locals use carts drawn by animals. What has happened here?"

"I don't know," he answered. Sleep was taking him. The trouble, he thought, was that he found Romulus exactly as it should be. He had seen ancient Vulcan through the katra of Surak. The Romulans had merely institutionalized the barbarism of their ancestors. There were no surprises here. Her mind brushed his. He pushed aside the memory of his encounter with Syrran. He thought of the absent member of Pakesh's troupe.

The Romulan youth that had warned them about the authorities. Pakesh had been somewhat evasive about Svaerik's origins. Gupta wondered if he was not Pakesh's son. The criminal leader seemed to care for the child. But Pakesh seemed to Tarang to look after everyone in his troupe. He thought of the boy's future on this lush world.

A verdant planet, its soul was rotten. Svaerik seemed to have little to look forward to on Romulus. He could scratch out a meager living such as Pakesh and his band had or…Or nothing, Gupta thought. He was not born into a government position. From what Tarang had gleaned from the bandits, the average Romulan was one who spent his life under the crushing heel of government. T'Pol was right: This world was an abomination.

The Topaz system, June 2158

"So the prognosis is not good?" Captain Donald Townsend asked his chief engineer.

Marshall Davies planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. He nodded at Sub Commander Z'Tel. "With all due respect to Mister Z'Tel, this thing was put together too fast without any time for space trials. Simulations are okay to determine the load from the subspace field generated by a nacelle but cruising through space is a dynamic proposition."

"We found the installation of the third nacelle to be acceptable," Z'Tel said. "It is after all a decoy and not functional."

"Yeah, yeah," Davies said. "Filled with plasma and some emitters to read like a warp nacelle," he continued. "The trouble is that it was placed at the intersection of where each functional nacelle's warp field lays. Every time we've gone to warp we've been putting micro fractures in the fake nacelle's attachment points. No models could have predicted n-dimensional loads like that."

Townsend could jettison the nacelle but that would bring Romulans around to investigate. The Queen Bitch had collected detailed data on Topaz. It remained to be seen if Townsend could get his crew out of here to deliver the data. So far the Bitch's luck had carried her through.

Captured Romulan computers from Daedelus had yielded no data but it had allowed the Star Fleet to figure out how they operated. So it was that a transmission from the Romulan base on Eldila had provided them with the Romulan equivalent of friendly IFF. But they were up against the clock.

"What about your end Z'Tel?" he asked. "When our IFF mutates have you figured out what it will mutate into?"

"Yes sir," the Vulcan answered in his peculiar down under accent. "The Romulans attach the program to each individual ship. They obviously maintain some master response databank. That is why your Star Fleet has never been able to mimic them."

"You can't fake them out?" he asked.

"Regrettably no," Z'Tel answered.

"We're using the architecture from the information retrieved by Daedelus," Townsend said, more to himself than to those around him. The Queen's engineering space still looked alien despite the installation of SN equipment. "Will our IFF mutate into something that ship they discovered might have used?"

Z'Tel cocked his head to one side for a moment. Townsend wondered if he even realized that it was a human gesture. "It may sir, but that will mean that we will be squawking a code for a ship that obviously should not be here."

"We'll roll with it for now," Townsend said. "I don't think the Birdies are perfect. In fact I think they are like us in some regards. And one constant in fleet movements is that data wafers get switched, and people drop the ball."

"If you mean they make mistakes like…us," Z'Tel responded, "then I would tend to agree."

Uh huh," he turned to Davies. "Stand by to jettison the nacelle Marsh. Can you pump more drive plasma to it so that it makes a big bang?"

"No sir," Davies responded. "But I can attach a warhead from a Spider to it. It will create the same effect as far as sensors are concerned."

"We have made one circuit of the system," Townsend said. "We've got more than enough on ship totals and ground force emplacements. We need to get out of here without the Birdies being any wiser. Setting off a nuke before we go wouldn't be my first choice."

"Perhaps we can factor that into our escape captain," Z'Tel said.

"Really? Do you think?" Townsend asked. He had a sheepish grin on his lips.

He beckoned for the Vulcan to follow him. "I wasn't patronizing you sub commander. It seems like you have begun to think like us."

Townsend entered a turbo tube for the bridge. Z'Tel followed. "It has come to my attention that performing outrageous maneuvers unexpected by the enemy has yielded you a great deal of success, sir."

"If you mean pulling rabbits out of my hat has pulled the blinds over their eyes then you're right," he said.

"Clichéd, but true sir," Z'Tel said.

He shot a rueful grin to the Vulcan. "You've been around our Mister Brack too long." The doors slid open. He liked the fact that Vulcan tubes dropped one right into critical areas of the ship. Townsend stepped onto the bridge with the Vulcan. He had been considering one of those outrageous maneuvers.

"Just in time skipper," Sadler said as she vacated his chair.

"You've thought of a clever escape plan?" he asked his first officer.

"I say we warp out along one of the patrol routes," she answered. "They have close to two hundred ships stationed here. I'd bet that they would just scan us as a straggler trying to meet up with our lead ship."

He looked at his chronometer. "That might have been true about four minutes ago Margaret, but not anymore." He told her about their dummy nacelle.

"What happens if we just let it break off?" she asked in reply.

"That would be highly inadvisable commander," Z'Tel interjected. Townsend was surprised: That had been the most forward that he had ever seen the Vulcan act.

He rubbed his jaw while he thought it over. "I'd do it. The nacelle should drop of warp but from what Marsh said, it's right smack between the subspace fields. I don't know if it would fall out or disintegrate right there."

"Engineers always pad their bets skipper," Sadler argued. "I've played poker with Marsh. He's no different. He's being conservative I'd wager."

"I disagree, commander," he said. "He looked over the tactical plot on the viewer. Where is the Boris Badenov?"

"Making her regular run, captain," Lieutenant Frank McCoy announced. McCoy was operating the sensors under the watchful eye of Chief Paul Aarons.

Townsend examined the tactical plot until he found the converted Sabinus that they had hung the Badenov moniker on. Brack and Aarons had conjectured that the ship was being used as a resupply ship. In the hand full of days that they had been operating here the Sabinus had followed a regular route. Aarons had observed the slight energy signatures of shuttles at each of the Sabinus' stops. The Sabinus was stationary; making a drop no doubt.

"How long have they been there?"

"About three hours, sir," McCoy replied.

"About time for him to be buttoning up and going to his next stop," Townsend said. He leaned back in the chair and examined the plot. "Give me a holo presentation of the system Lieutenant McCoy. Donald watched the sensor display vanished to be replaced with a three dimensional chart of the Topaz system. He stood up and walked over to the viewer.

"If Boris stays true to form he'll make for this point," he said, pointing to a large asteroid. "We think it's a repair facility. Chief Aarons and his cohorts have tracked almost half a dozen ships performing what he thinks are warp engine tests. I agree." He turned back to his bridge crew.

"Being smart little Birdies they decided to put their repair facility away from the high traffic corridors." He had to convince himself as much as anyone else. "There is limited sensor coverage in that sector. We know that Boris is delivering radioactives. Now, we know that isn't a big deal: The Queen Bitch did that on a routine basis before the war. We never had a handling accident but the chances were there."

"You mean to ambush Boris when he is over the facility skipper?" Sadler asked.

"Exactly commander, we launch and then proceed outbound along the route they have been using for their drive tests."

"So the big bird at the repair base isn't around to ask who we are." Sadler conjectured. "What if they have some central controller?"

"Then we're screwed," Townsend said. "But we've been operating right under their beaks now for almost four days. If they have a central command authority then he ought to be plucked and stuffed, because he is doing a piss poor job."

"Boris' power plant is reading hot captain," McCoy announced.

"Lieutenant Mirren, plot a course to come in behind Boris at half an AU," he instructed his helmsman. "Maneuver easy so that it looks like we are preparing to rendezvous for repairs."

Townsend assumed his seat after Mirren's acknowledgement. Seconds later the raider accelerated on impulse. He ordered McCoy to switch back to tactical. The curves of the two vessels slowly closed upon one another. He became concerned when Aarons and McCoy started an animated discussion. They soon informed him of what they were talking about.

"The IFF program is acting strange, sir," Aarons declared.

Townsend nodded at Z'Tel. The Vulcan had a station that allowed him access to the Queen's main computer. The sub commander made vocal and manual inputs to the computer.

"It's starting to mutate sir," the Vulcan said at last.

"Let it run its course," Townsend said in a frustrated tone. He didn't want to alert the Romulans that they had been here. They had gathered good intelligence but much of it would be worthless if the Birds discovered that they had been here. He thumbed the comm. "Bridge engineering," he said. Marshall Davies' voice answered promptly. "Prepare to jettison the nacelle. We might have to make a quick getaway."

Hampton Roads, Virginia, the old United States, June 2158

"You are moving slowly Reed," Admiral Erica Soames said.

The two naval officers were seated casually in a restaurant. The smell of seafood seasoning, fish and spilled beer permeated the air. Soames had chosen this location because it was not crowded between the meal hours and she did not want to meet in private with the major.

She had doubted Kanya Nayyar's story about the major, marking it down as a shared hatred between the two antagonists. But a casual examination of the records had shown that Reed had indeed checked into the Star Fleet dispensary at Alconbury. That had been less than a day after the attack on Nayyar. Soames tried telling herself that it was coincidence. She despised Reed but she understood that he was not a man to be trifled with.

"Recovering from a rugby injury Erica," he answered. He grinned wickedly at her. "I'm still in tip top shape if you'd like to find out. We can get physical if you want."

She grinned back at him. There was no joy or happiness in the gesture. "Maybe I'm too much of a woman for you. In fact, maybe a woman can dispatch you fairly easily. I thought that you were a man's man Reed. You're nothing but a lot of talk."

"I'll show you how much of a man I can be you bitch--"

"Tsk, tsk Malcolm," she admonished him while allowing her eyes to sweep the establishment. Soames knew military intelligence, how to fly an aircraft and very importantly now; how to play a man. "We haven't even been in the sack and here you are using terms of endearment with me."

He calmed down. But rather he was still smarting from his wounds or because he was just feeling low today somehow Erica knew that she was getting to him. Soames decided that as dangerous as it might be she needed to press her advantage home.

"I'm sorry I should not have popped off--"

"Just after the war you investigated a supply officer who was selling chemical explosives to an outer planets mining consortium; the Patapsco Corporation was it not?" She smiled seductively at him and crossed her legs. Soames had chosen an outfit that revealed much of her body.

"That was in the due course of my duties, yes," he answered. Soames sensed that the advantage still went to her.

"A yes or no would have sufficed, Malcolm. Is this why you have such an abysmal failure rate with women?" She turned away from his glare, took a sip at a gin and tonic that the bar tender had made wit too much gin. Soames fairly leered at a middle aged man who had walked in from the street.

"I don't know what this is about Erica," he replied calmly. The serene tone was obviously forced. "I thought that we were in the process of finishing off the Sons' of Terra?"

"They are self destructing quite nicely," she answered. Soames could not say that she was proud of what she had done. It had all seemed so noble but without legal authority the more she looked at it the more she thought that she had reacted as would a criminal. "No, what I was wondering about were some missing explosives."

"You seem to have a record of everything why don't you put two and two together," he shot back. "Or don't you have the intellect to do so?"

She laughed at him. It was a cheap shot. "I proceeded with the assumption that Kanya was not crazy. By the way; she told me that if she ever sees you again she will," Erica paused dramatically. "Break your neck without hesitating."

"I believe that our association is almost at an end my dear," he said. "I have helped you and you have seen fit to turn upon me." He took a long draw on his beer. Reed wiped his lips and looked her directly in the eye. "McCoy was a danger. He is soft! He was beginning to have dreary moral questions about our adventures. Let's be realistic Erica: That could not be allowed to continue. He is a good operator so rather than kill him I chose to give him a motivator." He grinned fiercely. Erica had thought that he would evade her probing questions. That was not the case. "I sent the package through a third party rendering it untraceable. Very good my dear: going on the assumption that I was the villain." He laughed. "In this case you were right."

She looked back at him. Soames had only trusted him so far as she had to. Erica still felt the stab over the deaths of those in Antonov City. She never considered herself a killer, but at this moment she found herself actively contemplating the death of Major Malcolm Reed. This whole unpleasant business had to end. But she could not let it end with the murderer of her subordinate's father running loose.

"You should tell the little mother Erica," Reed said quietly. "I don't think that you have the stones to do it yourself." He dropped his shark like grin. "It doesn't take a Pointie to read your mind dear. I'm a liability and not a very couth person in your eyes." He swallowed the rest of the contents of the brown bottle. "You have your duties in intelligence. It will not be easy." He lowered his voice: "I'm not begging for my life. I'm merely pointing out that a perfectly planned murder takes time. I was lucky that I had the genetic marker to kill McCoy's father. It was much more difficult arranging to deliver the package let me tell you!"

She said nothing. What was left? He knew what Erica was planning. She could use Nayyar, but this was her mess. Besides, Erica thought, she had already damned herself. Nayyar was young and had much to look forward to. It was Soames who had induced McCoy into committing a capital offense. Soames had accepted Reed's help even if it had started out as extortion on his part. This was her problem. She gulped.

"I don't expect that it'll be easy," she said at last. "I've made a lot of mistakes lately. I plan on correcting this one."

He stood up. "Good luck to you Erica! You will excuse me if I don't lay still for you. It has been a pleasure. I really wish that you would look at the positive results that we've made. Morals are sticky little buggers that pin us down to absolutes. Mortals are not absolute; remember that."

Reed turned and left her by herself. Killing him would be difficult; that much he had been right about. She weighed what she had just done. She concluded that she would never have gotten a confession without this confrontation. He was wrong about her not being able to see it through. Now she had the death of Frank's father to answer for along with the Antonov disaster. She would have no problem sending Reed to hell.

Saint Louis, Missouri, the old United States, earth, June 2158

"Here is the wafer my dear," Malcolm Reed said as he handed Jocelyn Stiles a data wafer. "The expression was hacking. It did not have anything to do with coughing. This program will effectively crack the information archives."

She was surprised that the major had contacted her with an offer of help. Reed impressed her as the sort of man who tried to stay on top. She peered down at the muddy Mississippi River as it flowed by on its slow course. Stiles was surprised that more than a few people seemed to know her face. Most of them had complemented her with regards to her war fighting record. One man though, had called her a war monger and thrown in an ancient racial epitaph along with his diatribe. He had tried to spit on Stiles but had only managed to drool down his chin. Jocelyn was glad that Reed had set this meeting up at this out of the way café along the river front.

"I thought that you wanted me to find out on my own?"

"You agreed to meeting me, Jo-jo," he answered. "May I call you Jo-jo?"

"No," she answered simply. He grinned at her. The grin was playful but she felt that he needed her cooperation; her willing cooperation.

"Have it your way then, love," he said. "You were messenger girl for Star Fleet. What did you think of Cromwell and his people?"

She nodded. "They are hiding something. Cromwell is a good officer. If it hadn't been for this war I would be taking orders off of him. But I could see it on his face. It is something to do with the Vulcans. I've read the history. My dad used to talk of hiding things in plain sight. I just don't understand. Are you insinuating that there is a relationship between the Birds and the Pointies?"

"You don't really trust me so I'll leave you to make that determination." He hoisted a glass of beer. "Let me come clean with you. The Sons' of Terra weren't stopped by wishful thinking. I was a member of a secretive group that helped correct things there. I once told one of my associates how we were killing weeds before they had a chance to grow and cause damage. If someone had shot a hot headed Adolph Hitler in his youth, history would be different. My associate disagrees and now I find myself isolated."

"Maybe your associate is right Reed," she said. "SOT is dead politically."

"What about that fellow who spat at you?" he asked. "Oh, I've trailed you since you arrived in the city; just a precaution! It seems that we are about to become a member of an intergalactic community. Instead of doing so haphazardly don't you think it would be better if things were guided? Do you think that the spitter should have a voice in those affairs?"

Her mother and father's voices told her yes. The man might have been full of irrational hatred but he deserved a voice in a free society. But her father had died. Henry Aaron Stiles had believed the best about people. Jocelyn had seen a different side. Would that man have called her what he did if someone he had loved had been incinerated by a Romulan bomb? Where would the war be if Christophur Thorpe had had the full support of the council? Life takes one on different turns she thought.

"Not a serious voice, no," she said. He smiled at her. The grin did not look ravenous. It looked friendly and beckoning and that was worse.

"I'm not speaking of mass murder," he said. He kept his voice at a low level. "Narrow minded politicians need to travel, accidents happen. The trouble with my associate is that she thinks that this is the end. Even if we beat the Birds who is waiting out there next? The Klingons? We have a responsibility to see that earth is spared the further plague of idiocy."

Stiles had already acted illegally on several occasions: shooting at escaping Romulan shuttles, fouling the battle net during the invasion of Deneva and crossing into Vulcan space to pursue the Birdies. It struck her as crazy the notion of playing by rules against an opponent who remained unseen and unknown. Reed had a point. Someone had to live up to this obligation. History had had enough soft peddling.

"Yes," she said at last. Her head was bowed. She looked up into his eyes. "How do we act on this?" She stopped a waiter and ordered a drink.

"Lovely weather we are having," he remarked while the waiter went about his business. The man returned with a drink. Stiles reached into her pouch for a credit piece.

"That is okay ma'am," the older heavyset man proclaimed. "I own this joint and my son and daughter are out there." He pointed towards Kansas but Stiles knew what he meant. "I know that with people like you leading our troops that this thing will be set right."

Stiles didn't know what to say. She did not feel like a hero. She was merely a person doing her job. She thanked the man and asked about his children. They were assigned to Taskforce 9. Stiles assured the man that Zimmermann would do everything in his power to see that the man's son and daughter came home. In that she was telling the truth if her assessment of Zimmermann meant anything. He left her and Reed alone once again.

"I'm not sure as of yet," Reed said in reply to her earlier question. "It seems to me that we have to keep the Pointies at our side. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer as the old saying goes. But that may change based upon how things are unfolding."

She nodded. "I have to admit that having a look see at their technology would be a godsend. We might not be able to use it for this war, but we could build the meanest fleet on the block for the next one." Somehow she realized that there would be a next time. It was foolish to think that there wasn't some other empire or entity out there that would wish them harm. A thought occurred to her. "What about your associate? I suppose that…" she trailed off weakly. She believed that she knew what needed doing.

Reed looked around carefully and casually. "I was working with Admiral Erica Soames. Are you familiar with her?" Stiles gasped. Soames had earned her rank supplying spot on intelligence about the Romulans. She nodded. "She is working with a subordinate named Frank McCoy. He is off world presently. The main problem is the admiral. I believe that she means to kill me."

Stiles leaned back in her chair. What would the pleasant man who had given her a free drink think if he knew what she had done; what she was thinking of doing? But no, Stiles could not; she could not even think the word. She could not kill an officer. Soames she didn't know, but she was curious about how she could want to kill Reed. Stiles mumbled as much to the major.

"I just need an ally my dear," he said. He sounded so reasonable. "The admiral has had a crisis of conscience. It's easy to look back and say we should have turned left instead of right but since time travel is a fantasy we can't do that. Erica needs to look through the lens of what has happened. Mark Hawkins is dead and the Sons' of Terra are increasingly being seen as a new version of the flat earth society."

"A woman helped my mother when Grant tried to assassinate Bin Modi."

"An associate of the admiral's," Reed said. "She is involved with McCoy. But you see my dear: What would have happened if we had not been there?" He put his hand over hers and squeezed. Far from being romantic it was like a handshake that had concluded an agreement. "Sometimes responsible people have to act. It's ugly love but in the end you can spare others unneeded pain."

She withdrew her hand and let out a breath. "Alright, why don't you just tell me what is between the Birdies and Vulcans? Were the Pointies thinking of aligning themselves with the Romulans?" she asked.

"It is more than that commodore," he said. He held up a hand. "You must come to the knowledge yourself. If you don't then there will always be doubt."

"And, what about you? What is your role in all of this?"

"I discovered Admiral Soames activity through a macro computer search. There were bizarre incidents occurring throughout the world. A factory blew up in the US Midwest and an old hangar burned to the ground not far from my flat. I could have apprehended Soames on the evidence that I had but I soon realized that she was actively combating a terrorist group here on earth. The chemicals in the hangar at Mildenhall seemed like so much stored waste—unless one looked at the possible combinations. When I backtracked computer inquiries, I found that most of them were coming from Virginia, in the US."

"That led you to the admiral," Stiles said and nodded.

He nodded in turn. "I observed her and soon discovered McCoy. I think that he is working with the billionaire Micah Brack as well. She was doing good work Jocelyn. One of those fringe groups was planning on gassing the inhabitants of a major city; not very peaceful for pacifists eh?"

He sat back. "As for me, I don't like closed societies where an ID is needed to go to the 'fresher. That is what the Sons' were all about: Laws infringing upon every aspect of our lives." He smiled. The facial gesture once again put Jocelyn in mind of a shark. "I like to be free to move about my dear; that is all."

"Seems like a cop would like ID's and everything that goes with them," Stiles remarked. "But I can see your point. Okay, I'll try to find out what was said on Daedelus. I guess…" A voice cried out in the back of her mind. It told her to get up and leave; while she still could. "I guess that I'll help you major."

Star Fleer Raider Jade Queen II, in the Topaz system, June 2158

"I'm receiving an encrypted transmission beamed directly at us Captain Townsend," Sub Commander Z'Tel declared in his thick Australian accent. Townsend watched as the Vulcan listened into his earpiece.

"No chance that they are sending us the entire Romulan fleet strength in English?" Townsend asked.

"No sir," Z'Tel replied without emotion.

"You'd make a great straight man sub commander. We could start an act. I know this little club in New Orleans." Townsend studied the tactical picture. Boris Badenov was nearing the Birdie repair base. Rather he could now make something of it was in doubt.

"Probably wondering what is wrong with our ident function, skipper," Commander Sadler mused.

"Anyone angling toward us Lieutenant McCoy?" he asked his sensor operator. Aarons had given McCoy his personal seal of approval. Townsend still felt uneasy about having an officer that he had labeled a 'spook' despite Paul's endorsement.

"Negative sir," McCoy responded crisply. "I'm reading the transmission that the sub commander told us about and that is it."

"They'll give us a little time to fix things then they'll send a picket out to get some answers captain," Sadler said. "We have the clearance to make an escape route. We've got a lot of good data skipper. I'm sorry sir but it looks like your rabbits are dead."

He leaned back in his command chair. It squeaked in just the right way. Townsend turned slowly, surveying his bridge crew as he did so. Margaret was right: They had obtained valuable data here. They could jettison the nacelle, jump to maximum warp and escape unscathed. That would save lives. It would also tip off the Birdies. Much of Townsend's data would be meaningless after that. He rubbed his jaw as he thought.

"Sir," a single voice spokeout quietly. Townsend turned to Z'Tel.

"Go ahead," he said. For some reason it appeared to Donald that the Vulcan seemed reserved, almost shy.

"I believe that I have an outrageous idea, sir," Z'Tel said.

"This ought to be interesting," he heard Chief Prescott whisper to a gunnery technician.

"Go ahead Mister Z'Tel," Townsend said. "We don't exactly have hours here."

"Two days ago we observed the Romulans escorting a damaged Sabinus to the repair depot," Z'Tel began. Donald smiled. He remembered the readings that they had taken off of the wounded Cabbage. Star Fleet had messed them up badly. "We are currently five point three--five minutes from that craft; if we alter our heading."

The Vulcan stood up and folded his arms over his chest. Townsend wondered if he had picked that habit up from his time on earth or rather it too was a shared gesture. He listened as Z'Tel carefully sketched out a plan

The Jade Queen would make a close pass of the Sabinus. Davies would jettison the nacelle as planned but with a time delay on blowing it up. The Queen would meanwhile alter heading for a new destination.

Z'Tel had moved to the tactical plot. "We believe that the collection of ships in grid seventeen is a Romulus bound taskforce. We've observed one such taskforce depart already. This one is following the same pattern. If it does as the last one did, it should get underway in thirty-three minutes. Chief Aarons and Lieutenant McCoy have both taken readings showing that their power plants are on a buildup for warp entry. We can—"

"Tail-end charlie out of here," Sadler said in a hushed voice.

The Vulcan's look of bafflement was almost funny. "Who is Charlie?" Z'Tel asked.

Townsend stood up and joined the sub commander. He examined the screen carefully. "Uh huh, we can warp out just outside of the Bird taskforce's sensors. The nacelle will blow up shortly after we go to warp. That'll keep them busy investigating that."

"And after the lickin' that cruiser took they might assume that it blew," McCoy added.

"Meanwhile they'll assume that we are just part of the convoy." Margaret Sadler was already running through course calculations with Lieutenant Stephanie Mirren.

"It's a go then!" Townsend snapped. He had doubted that Vulcans would ever willingly contribute anything to a human crew. Maybe he would have to rethink that view.

Jade Queen maneuvered to within a hundred meters of the Sabinus. The Romulan's once proud raptor was partially scorched and pockmarked where debris had slammed into the cruiser's hull. Leaking plasma formed a glowing cloud around one torn and burned nacelle. Several shuttle hatches were open. The bays inside were black; not a light shown on the embattled Romulan craft. Gas vented on the Queen's third nacelle.

The raider left the useless nacelle behind. It rolled end over end toward the damaged Romulan Sabinus. Several AU's away the last battered cruiser of the Romulan convoy leapt into subspace. Jade Queen stretched away into warp seconds later. The nacelle continued along its way for several minutes, then erupted in a blinding explosion.

That was enough for the doomed Sabinus. The ship's hull was melted away revealing, for a just a micro second the skeletal reinforcement beneath. The Romulan's remaining supply of deuterium joined the pyre. A second fireball briefly lit up the blasted hulks in the repair yard.

"The signal has stopped sir," Z'Tel announced. "I'm reading Romulan cruisers on a vector for the site of the explosion."

"McCoy, what about our convoy buddies?" Townsend asked. "Are they making any inquiries?"

"We are on the extreme edge of the trailer's sensor range sir," McCoy answered. "I doubt that they even read us." McCoy's face was pressed against the hood. "There is no pursuit behind sir."

Townsend did some mental calculations. He figured that they would be out of Topaz's sensor range in another eleven minutes. He thought that if there was no pursuit that he would have his ship gradually angle away from the Romulan group. He explained his plan to Mirren and had her preprogram the sequence. Donald turned to Z'Tel.

"Good thinking sub commander," he said.

"That will remain to be seen captain. I have watched all of the episodes of _The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show_. I am unable to grasp all of the nuances of human culture, sir," Z'Tel explained. "But I believe that there was another rabbit in the hat Commander Sadler."

Tankaara Segment, Romulus, the earth summer of 2158,

It would be another poor town. Tarang Gupta had seen images of the now gone poverty stricken areas of India. These small habitats on this world reminded him of that. Many of the public buildings were run down shells. Gupta was no building engineer but he guessed that they hadn't seen a refurbishment or repair in over a decade. Parts of the street pavement were gone. Muddy ruts took the place of the ruined concrete. But the town's denizens came and they laughed and stood in awe of Pakesh's wandering troop.

"Your mate never smiles Tarack." Tarang Gupta turned and greeted Pakesh. One of Gupta's many tasks he had been assigned was that of pilot for the old battered boat that the troupe called home. Tarang looked ahead to see that they were sailing along the river's deep channel. Gupta looked aft and below to see T'Pol quietly talking to Svaerik. Pakesh followed his gaze. "He has taken to her despite her lack of emotion."

"T'Pol has…a disciplined mind," Gupta explained weakly.

"It's not a criticism Tarack. She is your mate. She just strikes me as…cold. But I'm glad that she has been mentoring Svaerik. He is sometimes too much for me."

"Is he…" Gupta left the unasked question hang.

"No," Pakesh laughed. "It is a complicated story. I took him because a certain senator's daughter had an indiscretion with one of my colleagues. There was a purge. My friend was killed." Pakesh did not seem outraged or saddened. Gupta was discovering that such was life on Romulus.

"A senator's daughter and someone in the Criminal Guild," Gupta said. He was frankly astonished. Then he remembered where he was at. "I'm sorry. I'm not prying. Forget that I--"

"I wasn't always a criminal," Pakesh interrupted. He put a friendly hand on Gupta's shoulder. "Don't be afraid to ask Tarack. I won't give you a permanent grin like I did Medric." Gupta looked down guiltily. He had the late Medric's knife in a sheath hanging from his belt; a gift from Pakesh. Pakesh turned away and walked to the front of the boat's flying bridge. "I was a scholar once."

Gupta looked down to see Kaphir and A'Zir busy pounding a new plank into the deck below. The good ship _Night Wind_ was a work in progress. He turned the wheel slightly as the river bent to the south. The two Romulans below were guffawing and laughing amid their labors. T'Pol and Svaerik were sitting on the deck playing a sort of Romulan version of jacks. In the distance what Gupta had first taken for aircraft started to take shape as the tops of mighty spires.

"What is that?" he asked. Gupta noticed that the ramshackle tangle of forest growth was giving way to a well kept area.

"We are passing by the estate of Senator T'Vim Jecora," Pakesh answered.

The forest ended, giving way to well manicured fields and lawns. Much of the ground was devoted to growing things and Gupta was aghast to see laborers in the fields. True, that farmers on earth still performed manual labor but that was a choice. Gupta knew that food harvesting was mostly automated, but not here. Pakesh walked back to the wheel and reached past Gupta to hit the boat's whistle. Many of the workers looked up and waved. Tarang looked past the fields.

The estate was monstrous. Huge towers rose into the sky. A few aircars circled and then landed on upper story landing pads. It was the first indication of an advanced civilization that Tarang had seen. He sniffed the air. It did not have the characteristic smell of a broken, backed up sewage system that was prevalent in many of the Romulan towns.

"T'Vim had started me in my scholarly endeavors. I would be fighting with our legions but it was felt that I had a gift for the tongues." Pakesh explained. He walked back to the front of the bridge placing both hands on the railing. "But things happen, Tarack. Thrones for the study of ancient languages were needed to arm our mighty legions." Pakesh faced away from him yet Gupta knew that he was speaking now to himself rather than to him. "A single symbol to express the contents of an entire book of knowledge," the Romulan said quietly.

"Ancient Vulcan?" he asked.

"No, I am learned in our brothers' words and symbols. No Tarack, this was something older and far more complex: the third family. Eleven turns of study and that is as far as I got." Pakesh turned and faced him. "I believe that the study was commissioned by the praetor himself." Pakesh laughed. "Or I am boasting to impress you!"

Gupta made out a collection of river barges and wharfs in the distance. "Are we docking there?"

"The seat of Tankaara Segment," Pakesh walked over to stand next to Gupta. "I would not expect to make many thrones there Tarack: The populace is mostly poor field hands. You would have to _juggle_ fiery torches to make these poor ones give up their hard earned thrones!"

Gupta laughed. "We should see that they get machinery to do the harvest so that they make more in profit!" He wanted to know why there was no farm machinery but did not want to come out and ask that question to Pakesh.

"The machines are needed for the war," Pakesh said. "We have colonies on five worlds and use the resources of Remus and yet we cannot even make harvesting devices so that there is more food." The bitterness was out in the open. Pakesh leaned over the railing and spat in the green water.

Gupta knew that he was on dangerous ground but he pressed ahead anyway. "Do you ever think about…I mean is there any group that wants to…" the question was there.

Pakesh lowered his voice. "Change things," he said quietly. "Once we were a robust and free people. Citizenship was a privilege. But then senators took their seats for a lifetime. Soon after that the Tal Shiar began influencing affairs." This last Pakesh said in so low a voice that Gupta could hardly hear him. "We are too tired and beaten now to change things Tarack. Our brothers will reinvigorate us!" Pakesh laughed.

T'Pol climbed the ladder to the bridge with Svaerik in tow. He seemed quite happy. The young Romulan held out a set of oddly shaped cubes to Pakesh. "T'Pol has been teaching me how to write words with these!"

Pakesh tousled his hair. "You may become a literate criminal Svaer!" He looked at T'Pol. "Few Romulans understand the syllabic nucleus of the ancients. You have quite a caretaker Tarack." Gupta noted Pakesh's appraising look.

"Svaerik told me that you were teaching him Pakesh," T'Pol said. "I did not mean any disrespect."

"I did not take offense," Pakesh said. The Romulan looked out at the docks. "Slip into the third berth there Tarack," he instructed. "Try not to be too rough. Altena is sleeping below—as always! She is quite the _vinok_ when she is woken!" He laughed and turned to Svaerik. "Let us go below and break out the stage! There will be time for learning after you have done your work!" The two departed leaving Gupta alone with T'Pol.

"Pakesh was a language scholar. I think that we can trust him…partially," he told the Vulcan.

"Svaerik has a keen mind for one so young," T'Pol said. "Yet it will all be a waste."

Gupta did not look at her as he turned the boat so that it would go into the slip. She knew that he was hiding something. It took all of his concentration to keep her from intruding on his thoughts. Tarang coughed as fumes blown back from the boat's stack assaulted his throat.

"Chemically fueled internal combustion," T'Pol remarked.

"A friend of mine had a vehicle like that that he restored," he said. "They are quite fascinating in an odd sort of way. It will be quite some time before we arrive at the capital with all of these stops."

"It will be difficult to accomplish our goal Tarack," T'Pol said. "This world is a giant prison. Our goal will be a well protected individual."

"His appearances strike me as funny," Gupta said. He meant the Praetor of the Romulan Empire's infrequent public pronouncements.

"That word has the same double meaning in this language as it has in yours," T'Pol said. "I assume that you do not refer to Karzan's humor?"

"No; speaking of which, Pakesh remarked that you never smile," he said.

She stood next to him. "I feel things. You cannot have been around us for this long not to know that. I feel love for you and it is pleasing. Yet the smile is not something that my people have engaged in." Her face formed a horrible grimace. "I shall try to do better."

"Stop it!" he exclaimed, hoping that no one saw her attempt at a smile. Her expression instantly changed back to what it usually was.

"I'm sorry," he said, "and I love you too. Just please…don't make an expression like that unless you want to frighten Svaerik" Or me, he thought. "Just let things come naturally I suppose." He throttled back as dock hands ran out to help the crew moor the boat.

"What do you think of our mission?" she asked him. Gupta guessed that even without mental contact she had learned enough about him to read doubt in him. Pakesh and his crew were busy breaking out equipment for the show and tying the_ Wind_ down. They had a few moments to talk amidst the chaos.

"I despised the Romulans," he answered. "Despised them for what they did and who they were. I know it is not logical. But now that I see them I pity them. Not the governors and those who authorized this war." He waved toward the dock workers. "Those poor _pin'osh; _they are as much victims as those who've been killed in this war. If we can do anything to stop this then we must."

"I wonder if we could influence things so that these Romulans could change," T'Pol said. "Perhaps that was Surak's plan for the Romulans." Gupta shuddered. Surak who was Careaza had planned for the Romulans to go away. He had planted the idea of Reunification with his brother so that the ancient Romulans might have something to look forward to. T'Pol eyed him with a look full of suspicion. He was relieved when Pakesh asked him to stop the motor and help below.

Alpha Eridani, Heliopolis Outpost, the earth year of July 2158

Fred Watson was glad to be out of the shell of the ship. The freighter DeMarco at one hundred and eight meters long had turned into a small closet after two weeks. Or so it seemed to Watson. His strange travel companion had been quite serene for most of the voyage. Dominique Catères had seemed relaxed in the freighter's cramped spaces. But despite the open spaces, Fred missed earth. He missed Roslyn and remembered why he had left the Marines.

"You know," he said to Catères as the two walked down a dust covered permacrete street. "This guy covers his tracks by using his mind on others. We've been coming up empty looking for people who saw Reed. Frankly, I'm not surprised. A trail this old it would be hard for most witnesses to remember somebody even without mind tricks thrown in."

"I can tell that he has influenced some," Catères said. "The mark of the _drak'ha_ is on their minds."

"We need something tangible for when I show up at Reed's door to arrest him."

"You'll have to kill him Fred," she replied firmly. "I hoped by bringing you here you would see that Fred."

"We'll see," he answered with a smile. Avenging Ebenstark's death with another killing wasn't something that he thought his old friend would have liked. "In the meantime I was thinking that we should look for hard evidence."

He explained his plan to her: The outpost was peopled with some interesting characters. Watson knew that the colonial type tended to be tough minded, independent and sometimes slightly eccentric. But most of them shared a desire to be remembered. That is why they had left the sea of people on earth to forge a living at a new place. Watson had heard several references to a man who was keeping a chronicle. He was leading his alien partner to that man.

They crossed the street after giving way to a speeding hovertruck. The man that they were seeking had set up a sort of general store near the edge of the town that made up the colonial outpost. The establishment was made out of the hull of some old ship. Fred didn't recognize the class but guessed that it had seen its best day during the last century. A thin middle aged man with a crop of coppery red hair stood outside smoking a pipe. The smell of the fragrant tobacco wafted toward him. The man eyed them warily.

"Can I help you, officers?" he asked them. Watson scowled at Catères over the somewhat hostile reception and then introduced himself to the storekeeper. "Watson huh; I suppose that is Holmes with you?"

"Constable Catères," she said in response to the jibe. Watson looked at her. After a month aboard a spacecraft with the Reman, he could tell when her mental powers were frustrated. That was the case here and now.

"I run a legitimate business Constable Catères." Watson wondered what business the man did do. But, to each his own, if he was selling something illegal it was only because there was a market for it.

"We're not here for anything you are doing," Catères said. "Mister Thorne, we got your name from the billeting clerk. We are interested in the murders."

"Oh, those! Not much left to go over is there?"

"We are looking at happenings before the actual crimes were committed," Watson said.

"That is different," Thorne said. He loosened up and invited them into his shop. If Jarvis Thorne was doing anything illegal Watson could not spot it. More than likely Thorne was hiding some corner that he had cut, Fred thought. Thorne turned to go into his shop revealing a pistol holstered on his hip.

Thorne saw Watson's gaze. "This isn't earth here inspector." He patted the sidearm. "We've got animals. The worst we call lopers. They come at you with a sort of loping lunge. It looks funny until they rip your throat out."

"Do they cook well over a barbecue?" Catères asked.

Thorne laughed. "You'll do just fine here Holmes."

The store was musty and seemed to contain everything and anything. Fred noted that whereas Catères could not push Thorne's mind she could still read his feelings, or so it seemed. Thorne seemed standoffish towards Watson but quickly warmed to Dominique. Then again it could just be that she had a nice body and Thorne was a man. Occam's Razor Fred reminded himself.

"There were a lot of oddball things that happened here before the murders," Thorne went on to explain. He brought them before a small computer terminal behind the counter. "I guess you got the word that I'm trying to record the history of the colony." They looked on as the screen showed a montage of holophotos. Watson listened with half an ear to Thorne's colorful embellishments concerning each photo. He supposed that he was using his talent as Catères referred to it. Watson thought that it was simpler: A picture was worth a thousand words as they said and he had solved more crimes visually than from witnesses' often garbled recollections.

There were several photos of ships' boats landing and off loading cargo. Fred stared until he started to become bored. There seemed to be a period of meteor showers that was an interesting item for the colonists. A woman had been lost in the wilderness and recovered. Several earth animals had been found mutilated, probably by Thorne's lopers. There was a bad snow storm. The first of the victims had been discovered. More murders occurred.

"Stop!" he exclaimed.

"There he is," Catères said.

"The cold fish?" Thorne asked. They looked at him.

"I remember that fellow," Thorne explained. "He was one of the investigators." The way he said the last word left little doubt about the competence that he assigned to the team of investigators that the navy had dispatched. He went on to explain how Reed and the rest of the team had seemed to bungle about while three more murders and a spelunking accident had occurred. The pictures continued to flash across the screen.

"You remember Reed?" he asked the storekeeper. "No one else seems to," Watson added.

Thorne scratched his head. "I don't think he came up. But now that you mention it no one really spoke much about it after it was over. I asked a few questions in passing; you know. But nothing came of it. I guess I figured that folks wanted to put it behind them." Thorne blinked. Watson could clearly see that he was puzzled. A bell over the makeshift door announced the arrival of a customer. An older weather beaten woman came into the store.

"G'day Dotty," Thorne said in greeting. "How are you today?"

The woman removed pulled back her hood revealing a head of gray hair. She held two fingers over her right wrist. "Still living Jarvis," she announced with a smile on her lips. Watson recognized her as one of the settlement's doctors. Thorne introduced them but the woman who he called Dotty had heard of the two policemen.

"You're not going to accomplish anything," Doctor Dorothy Myers stated.

"Do you remember a naval officer named Reed?" Thorne asked the doctor.

A look came over her. Watson had grown familiar with that blank stare since he had started looking into Reed's doings. He snapped his fingers in front of the physician's face. Her eyes fluttered and she seemed to see her surroundings again. Myers shook her head.

"Now who were you asking about Jarvis?"

Watson was grasping at straws. He mentally reviewed the holos. Fred had read through a brief history of the outpost during his month long journey. He thought that he could call himself somewhat of an expert on the outpost.

"This meteor storm," he began.

"It was one meteor," Doctor Myers added abruptly. "Doctor Rastova was ecstatic! She had hoped to complete a system survey when the naval exploratory group returned. Then the Romulans came. There weren't any more exploratory groups."

Watson connected the holos with what he had read. "That was the woman who vanished."

"It took most of the people in the outpost to find her," Thorne supplied. "She drove that crawler almost four hundred klicks to find that thing. I had to watch the store but I understand that all the searchers found was her, her crawler and some burnt trees."

"One meteor?" Catères asked. "So it wasn't the ordinary pattern of showers?"

"No," Myers answered. "That was what excited Lyudmilla Rastova. She was a planetary geologist and she thought that this was a chance to study something besides the local formations. You would have thought that the chunk of rock was going some place the way she went out of here."

"Could we see the site of the meteor impact?" Dominique asked.

"We have two rescue aircraft," Myers answered. "One of those is in pieces for major maintenance. We have another outpost seven hundred kilometers to the south. We need our planes for that. I don't think that the chief of colony ops will release it."

Cateres was on to something. These _drak'ha_ were not native to Remus or Romulus according to her. They had to come from somewhere. Watson guessed that they could be natives of this world but there had only been one spate of mass murders here. More colonists had arrived especially after the opening shots of the war. Alpha Eridani was a long way from earth and much further from the grasp of the Romulan Empire. Catères had confided to him that Eridani had not been thought of as strategically significant to the Birdie military.

"Rastova was the one killed in the caving accent?" he asked.

"Yes one of the investigators was almost hurt as well," Myers said. She absently scratched at her chin. "It was…a German name: Rademacher that was it."

"No it was that Reed!" Thorne exclaimed.

"Jarvis, I'm a century and ten years old and my memory is better than yours," Myers chided the storekeeper. "It was Rademacher. I don't even remember a Reed being part of the team."

"Funny, you don't remember the ten credits that you owe me from last week's poker game," Thorne shot back. Watson could tell that the outpost personnel were close.

"Okay, sorry to interrupt but if we can't get a flyer what about one of these crawlers?" he asked. He had rough housed it in the Marines, and was not looking forward to a long overland trip. But this seemed like the only way to further the investigation.

Thorne rubbed his hands together and informed them that he had such a vehicle for rent. Watson could see the avarice on his face. He was considering his own meager allowance of credits when Catères doled out several notes. Watson kept his face carefully neutral. Thorne's expression was a study in greed and the glee of unexpected profits.

"You've got to love the store business," Thorne said. He turned to Myers. "I haven't forgotten you doc!"

"I was about to pick up my grocery order but," the doctor turned to him and Catères. "Would you like some company out there? You never know when you might need a doctor. And I know the terrain," she added.

Watson was about to decline. This investigation was personal for him. He had concluded that it was some kind of a blood feud for Dominique. It seemed inadvisable to allow the doctor access to what was going on. The choice was taken from him when Catères spoke up and accepted the doctor's offer.

They concluded the terms and agreed to meet Thorne after lunch to pick up the crawler. Watson didn't plan on going on a camping trip with an empty stomach and the doctor needed time to pack. He also had some pointed questions that he wanted to put to his partner. They left the shop after Myers set up a time to meet them.

"I thought that this was a two man operation Dom?" he asked. Somehow, rendering her human name into a shorter version made dealing with the Reman easier for him.

"Her mind has been touched," Catères answered. "I wish to study it—her further. Also as far as the Reman experience with these creatures we know that there is one _drak'ha _for one host."

He grabbed her arm heedless of the looks that the locals gave them. "Wait, are you saying that there could be another of these things out there?"

"Rastova went out in search of a downed meteor," Catères answered. "It could be just that but then she dies in a cave in followed by three more murders. We assumed that the _drak'ha _migrate using their hosts. Perhaps that was not a meteor, or perhaps my people were wrong about their mode of travel."

Watson sighed. "Okay, if we run into one of these things what do we do?" They found the settlement's one and only restaurant. Watson paused before going in.

"Killing the host doesn't kill the _drak'ha. _ The Romulans used high energy weapons with some success. We Remans discovered that we could deny the creature a host. It is difficult but not impossible. Without a coherent being to inhabit the entity…dissolves for lack of a better term."

"Alright," Watson said. "I always like to get a big steak before I kill an alien mind monster. Want to join me?"

Taskforce 25, Star Fleet cruiser Hastings, in the Narendra system, July 2158

Admiral Pierre 'Grizzly' Oulette looked at the graphic data displays representing his small force of ships. The Amarillos Wolverton, Charleston were supplemented by the Tannhauser class Badr and the destroyer Navaga. The carriers Triumph and Winston Churchill were out of sensor range. Shadowing the group was another new addition: the Conqueror class Excalibur.

Oulette paced around his bridge. He missed Fearless. Hastings was by far a superior ship to his old Pioneer but Fearless had done her job. Oulette had had a feel for his old ship and how to fight her. But Hastings was no slacker. Her new hold full of warp driven Cachalot missiles were augmented by a compliment of Pitbull area defense missiles and four Ultra Zeus lasers mounted in two high speed turrets. Excalibur was similarly equipped. The new class of ship possessed a high speed launch system that allowed it to pulverize a target under a stream of missiles.

But despite the gadgetry it was the people who made the great vessels go. Lieutenant Commander Kelvin Merrick was his new first officer. The Andorian Imperial Guard had dispatched more personnel to serve on human ships but none of them had Talas' rank. Chief Traz had transferred back to the Tellarite Defense Force. Lieutenant Sylvia Moran had replaced the Tellarite on sensors. Chief Robert McGivers was still at the helm. He had matured since he his days as relief helmsmen on the auxiliary bridge. Peter Wilson was still at comm, an extra stripe sat on each sleeve. Oulette had a new addition at gunnery: Master Chief Georgi Tatlin had gone from hero to being jailed by the late President Hawkins.

Hawkins had failed to specify Tatlin's place of internment. Oulette had merely asked the chief where he wanted to go and then made sure that the Star Fleet paid for the best hotel available there. Hawkins had been replaced after his recall and President Pro Tempore Bin Modi had made sure to release Tatlin from arrest; after she had presented him with the Stellar Navy Cross. Oulette had other plans for Tatlin after that.

Pierre had decided to incorporate gunnery and part of operations into something that he was calling tactical. After examining Tatlin's record he thought that he had an ideal candidate for the new position. Oulette had been told to seek an officer for tactical but Pierre thought that experience and ability outweighed rank. At least the new Star Fleet was reexamining how it apportioned rank. The navy had had too many that had waited on time to earn their stripes and chevrons. He looked at his new stripe. He had not changed any Grizzly thought, just his jersey.

"The fourth planet reads as Minshara admiral." Lieutenant Moran's face was glued to the sensors. Intelligence drones had scanned power emanations that might be Bird activity. It was Maxwell Forrest's hope that that was the case. He listened as she continued:

"There is a high level of radiation screening the fourth and fifth planets. It is not naturally occurring sir. Readings from our drones show small power emissions on two of the moons around the sixth planet."

"Radar and sensor pickets, sir," Tatlin added. "If they set off some high yield warheads to obscure our sensors the same is going to be true for them." He turned in his chair and gave the chief an expectant look. Tatlin looked embarrassed. "I suggest that our fighters take out those pickets sir."

He nodded at Tatlin. "See to it then chief. Locate those pickets and send our fighters in along a long ellipse from the other side. Chief McGivers, slow to one third impulse. Continue along this heading but be prepared to go to warp. We'll see how to skin this new bird."

Forrest had also hoped that Oulette would meet up with the Tyrannous class. Intelligence had put together several options for dealing with the latest Romulan threat. Those options were only theory. Pierre and his people were to test that theory.

"Fighters have altered course and jumped to warp admiral," Tatlin announced.

"What do you think Merrick?" he asked his first officer. Oulette had seen the man bumped up in rank but had felt that Merrick only justified his opinion about rank and who should hold it.

"If the Romulans are using this system for a base then we could find ourselves seriously outgunned here, sir," Merrick replied.

"We are probing Kelvin," Oulette said. He sighed. Merrick's answer was conservative. Perhaps they could beat the Romulans if they fought a safe war—in a decade or so.

Several minutes passed. Oulette watched the tactical display as Tatlin set up the fighters to kill the pickets in a simultaneous strike. Moran was still reporting no activity from the fourth planet. Oulette did not like Narendra's planetary alignment. He had taken advantage of that during the opening months of the war. Even with sensors he guessed that the Birds could be deployed around the far side of the inner worlds. The Minotaurs started their run.

"Two and eight from Triumph are reporting electronic jamming," Tatlin informed him.

"Inform Excalibur to prepare to move up," he told Merrick.

Merrick turned to his board and sent the encoded message to the battleship. Oulette watched the Minotaurs exit into normal space. A graphic showed the deployment of two Amazons. Less than two seconds later the subspace sensors showed the mushrooming energy as the warheads exploded over their targets. He waited a full two minutes as the fighters joined up and headed back toward the group.

"Let us see this bird's nest," Oulette said. "First officer, signal the group to jump to warp one at my command. Helm set a course to exit one tenth AU from the fourth planet's equatorial belt." Oulette waited about thirty seconds. Merrick ordered battle stations and then Oulette ordered the group to warp.

"Missiles loaded admiral," Tatlin told him.

"Warp core signatures appearing on subspace sensors admiral," Moran said.

The subject of her readings appeared on the viewer as pinpoints of blue light. They were indeed inscribing an arc around the bulk of the fourth and fifth worlds. Pierre watched as the readings resolved into data streams. The power levels and consumption curves were typical for Romulan craft. Twenty-three of them were emerging from behind the bulk of the respective planets. Six of those were showing inordinately high power generation rates: the new Clavicle class of cruiser.

"Two minutes until warp exit, sir," McGivers announced.

"Romulans moving to intercept us between the moon of the fourth planet and the planet itself, admiral," Moran said.

Oulette looked at Tatlin. It was exactly what they had expected the Romulans to do if they were here. Pierre was surprised at their strength. He wondered if these vessels were manufactured at their home system or the facilities on Topaz.

"Plot a solution to blanket our flanks chief," he told Tatlin. The explosions would draw the attention of the Romulan sensors while they reloaded for a second salvo. If Intel was correct the Clavicles would be dead for several seconds after firing.

"Solution plotted and programmed admiral," the chief answered.

The Star Fleet taskforce stretched forth into normal space. Missiles spat out of Hastings' tubes, went to warp and exploded less than two seconds later. Romulan Tyrannous class cruisers jumped to warp. Several Sabinus and Veronus class ships followed suit. Minotaurs jumped in among the Star Fleet ships and quickly formed into an attack formation.

The prows of the emerging Romulan cruisers glowed as their plasma cannons energized. A hail of missiles was ejected by the Star Fleet force. The Clavicles fired. Hastings was struck amidships but continued on. Badr ejected two missiles which were defeated by a combination of Romulan point defense missiles and neutronium pellets. Those counter measures did not defeat a Minotaur's flight of Amazons. A Tyrannous, in the process of turning away was incinerated.

Arriving Cabbages began launching Aeon fighters. The spherical fighters raked their stubby opponents destroying an attacking Minotaur. Three of the Aeons were cut to pieces by pulse laser fire. Charleston held out as a swarm of Eightballs attacked the destroyer. Arriving Minotaurs engaged the fighters but Charleston turned away with a glowing tear in its port side. Navaga moved to defend the ship only to be struck by plasma cannon fire.

Missiles from Hastings warped away and emerged a split second later destroying an escaping Veronus. Excalibur warped out and began rapidly firing Cachalots. A Veronus and Sabinus were destroyed. The older Romulan cruisers acted to defend the newer Tyrannous class ships. The plasma emitters on those started pulsing with a deadly light. A Minotaur, maneuvering as only a spacecraft could, evaded a flight of Romulan area defense missiles to fire point blank at a Clavicle. The Romulan erupted into a fireball that consumed the attacking Minotaur. A Tyrannous moved against Excalibur striking the ship near its aft section.

The fighters shifted course concentrating their fire on the Clavicles. The surviving Clavicles moved against the tannhausers and the conqueror. Excalibur reeled from two plasma cannon shots. It returned fire in the form of missile after missile. A Tyrannous was destroyed in the exchange. A Veronus turned sharply out of the expanding detonation of nuclear warhead. The Romulan's starboard was a mass of melted charred metal. Excalibur limped away, trailing molten debris as it went.

"Navaga is reporting severe damage to its port nacelle!" Merrick cried. "Excalibur's targeting system is offline. We've lost two Minnies from Triumph and one from the Churchill!"

"Drawing to high equatorial orbit of Narendra III admiral," McGivers reported.

"Surface and subsurface power emanations," Lieutenant Sylvia Moran started. "Reading metals and plastics and possibly cellulose materials; it is definitely a base. I'm scanning one high power source as well."

"A foundry perhaps," Oulette remarked. "Chief Tatlin, are we within Grand Slam range?"

"We crossed the line twenty seconds ago admiral," the chief answered. "I've targeted the ground installations."

"Fighters are reforming an effective screen sir," Merrick chimed in. "They won't be able to hold out long though sir."

"No need for them to do so first officer," Pierre said. "Chief Tatlin, surface bombardment is authorized. Release on your discretion."

Tatlin replied without hesitation: "Firing and away!"

"Commander Merrick, signal the taskforce to go to warp!" Oulette ordered. The tactical view showed that the fighters could screen them and then escape themselves. Twenty-five had accomplished its mission here.

Two larger missiles streaked out from Hastings' keel. They angled toward the planet when they started a wild corkscrewing dive into the planet's atmosphere. The missiles primary delivery system broke into several smaller devices. Romulan rail gun fire and anti-missile missiles flew up to counter the threat. Those stopped as two mighty airbursts went off over the Romulan installation.

Taskforce 25 jumped into subspace amid the backdrop of the atomic carnage below. The Torsk Navaga, battered and leaking atmosphere, hesitated behind the rest of the Star Fleet force. Two plasma cannon hits tore the ship into molten pieces before its matter antimatter reactor took care of the rest of it. Minotaurs laid down a flight of Amazons before conducting an orderly retreat into subspace. A single Amazon got through to destroy a Veronus.


	40. Chapter 40

Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen II, Five light years from Topaz, Jul 2158

Star Fleet Raider Jade Queen II, Five light years from Topaz, Jul 2158

"Mostly ionized gases and subatomic particles," Chief Paul Aarons told him. "The same thing that we've scanned since we arrived here captain."

Captain Donald Townsend rocked back in his chair. He suspected that his ship and crew would have to wait here. He had not known that it would take over a week. He considered his fallback orders. He could order them to return to Vulcan with their data.

"We'll sit it out a few days longer," he said more to himself than the bridge crew. Townsend wasn't going to accomplish anything here on the bridge. This slow monotony felt deadly. Especially after living as they had, with the threat of Romulan detection. "I'm off to see our doctor."

"Are you alright, skipper?" Commander Sadler asked.

"Super," he answered. "No, I wanted to talk to Phlox about some missing spacesuits and a decon job that he had done."

"Captain," Sadler started formally. "Micah would not have concealed anything from us--you."

He had no desire to bring up his first officer's shipboard romance, her eon the bridge. "Let's go see Phlox together," he said to her. He got up out of the seat. Lieutenant Stephanie Mirren was in the process of calling her relief to the bridge so that she could assume the seat. "That won't be necessary helm." He gave Margaret a grin. "Sub Commander Z'Tel, your rank is equivalent to a Stellar Navy commander. You have the bridge."

"Sir?" a clearly skeptical Vulcan asked.

Although assigned as liaison officer the new Star Fleet had not yet worked out any protocols for the Vulcan officer. Z'Tel's express purpose was to advise the human crew where navy equipment was interfaced with Vulcan technology. No Vulcan had ever commanded a human nor vice versa. Townsend sensed that all of that would change, maybe in his lifetime.

"You're aware of our rank structure and you have been in on the refitting of this ship from day one," he said to Z'Tel. "You have the con Sub Commander." He turned on in his heel and made for the lift. Sadler caught up to him.

"A Pointie running the Bitch?" she asked after the lift doors closed.

"Why not?" he asked in reply. "We've had Andorians and Tellarites in command roles. A human is commanding an Andy ship—Alan or something I think his name is." He sent the lift on its way. He folded his arms over his chest. "This war is going to change things Margaret. I don't have to be an expert being overpaid to use fifteen credit words to describe something that is obvious. Things are going to change Margaret." He shook his head.

"You sound like it is for the worst skipper," she remarked.

The lift doors opened. Townsend stepped out with Sadler in tow. "Things change Margaret. Before the war I hadn't worn my SN uniform for almost a decade. The last time was for Stinky Anderson's promotion ceremony. We always got our cargo delivered without a lot of salutes and Hail Mary's. This new Star Fleet; it'll be great I'm sure. But it just won't be the same. No more going out and just exploring and getting the job done. I have a bad feeling that some central planner will dictate everything."

They walked into Phlox's sickbay. "No more cowboys, sir?" Sadler asked. She grinned. "I think you are wrong skipper and you know how few times I've said that to you. We'll have faster ships and the captains and their crews will be out further. They won't be able to call command base for every decision. For the president's federation to work it is going to need cowboys—and girls."

"Cowboys," Doctor Phlox remarked. "When I first learned English on earth I thought that your geneticists had done some cross breeding. My first experience when I toured the American West was quite embarrassing because of that."

"What about our cowboys, doctor?" Townsend asked. He saw Sadler's look of dismay.

"They were minus two suits when they returned," Phlox answered. "The decon is negative for anything out of the ordinary. I read a great deal of Vulcan DNA but that is understandable considering how many of them worked on this vessel."

"It was a lucky hit sir," Sadler protested quietly. "There was an abandoned ship waiting for repairs. Micah said it was a wonder it didn't blow up on its own."

"The captain has been skeptical about our lack of information concerning the Romulans commander," Phlox interjected.

"I couldn't have said it any better doc," Townsend said. He had discussed the matter in private with the doctor several times before this. "Our spooks know more than what they let on. Also I don't think that Oliver Cromwell came back as empty handed as he made out. I served with him a few years back. He's too thorough to leave something go."

"If Micah—if anyone knew what the Romulans looked like, why not reveal it?" Sadler asked. "This is just intimidation on their part. The Birdies present themselves as the unseen enemy in an attempt to scare the pants off of us. That is what the psych boys came down with."

Townsend rubbed his jaw. "Uh huh, but the psychologists have only one flaw: they've never, to our knowledge taken a Romulan prisoner. How can you know the mind of someone you've never met or don't know anything about?"

"Then why hide your identity?" Sadler asked.

"As the captain mentioned it could be a psychological ploy," Phlox took up an answer. "It could have something to do with their appearance; something that might reveal an obvious weakness."

"Yeah," Townsend agreed. "Or something else that is damning."

"Like what skipper?" Sadler asked.

"I'm not sure," he answered. His father would say that he couldn't get his mind around a problem. Donald now vividly understood what that meant. Something was plaguing him; something that should have an easy answer. "Maybe something right in front of my face," he said.

The odd boatswain's call echoed in Phlox's sickbay. Apparently a navy engineer had been emphatic about seeing the electronic whistle incorporated into the Bitch's PA system. Townsend waited while Phlox took the call. Z'Tel's accented voice came over the sickbay speakers. He was inquiring after Townsend.

"What is it sub commander?" he asked.

"Chief Aarons is receiving echoes from a force of allied ships captain," Z'Tel answered.

"How many ships?" he asked.

Townsend could barely hear the background noise of the exchange between the Vulcan and Donald's sensor chief. The answer came promptly:

"He says, 'all of them.'"

Venador, the orbital battery of the 11nth Legion, the tenth of growth

"I depart for Gozai in the morning," Admiral Valdore told the Praetor's Hand. Sinphius glared at him.

"I require you to send the legions that you have built there to here," Sinphius said.

Valdore looked out over the cloud shrouded world below. This battle station had several crystalline composite windows from which to observe space. That was a rarity for the Imperial Construction Conglomerate whose designs tended toward that which was efficient. His back was not turned to the Hand. Such an act would be foolish, Valdore knew.

"It seems that not all of your spies received the benefits of prolonged exposure to vacuum," Valdore answered. "I shall try harder with the ones that I find upon my return."

"Your popularity among our people can be brought to a sudden end Valdore," Sinphius remarked. "As you can be," he concluded ominously. A young, scantily clad female bearing a goblet walked in the room. Valdore doubted that she had seen many turns. He turned away as Sinphius leered at her and took the beverage.

"You will have to wait to kill me Sinphius. The Triple Alliance is very anxious to do that. You can defend Venador with what you have here." This last he tossed in hoping to probe for The Hand's motive.

How could the Tal Shiar expect a victory when they tied up the very ships that Valdore needed to win? The Triple Alliance had begun raids very close to imperial space. Forrest and Stiles were free to strike where they may while Valdore had to plan every attack down to the margin. But he knew that the recent raids were the heart of this interview.

"Very clever of you to build those factories on Gozai, admiral," Sinphius said. "It is obvious that you kept much of your resources away from the eyes of the arbiter. But those resources are needed now to defend Romulus!"

"The Triple Alliance will strike at Gozai!" he insisted. "Even their matter anti matter ships will need way stations to rearm and refuel at to strike at our home. And Romulus is well defended. Or has the Tal Shiar traded away those defenses to build pleasure temples?" He eyed the girl as she left. Valdore wondered how the poor waif had come to this pass.

Sinphius let the insult pass. "You are not using those ships to defend Gozai admiral."

So there was a spy among Commander Korada's crew? Valdore would be sure to inform his trusted soldier. He only hoped that it was not Korada. He remembered with sadness the treason of Baraza; all the more worse because of Baraza's friendship with his son. Valdore could not believe it of Korada, who had been a protégé of his since his graduation from Norcela.

"I cannot prevent the Triple Alliance from falling upon Gozai," Valdore explained. "The Star Fleet ships that survive that assault will be unprepared for the sudden attack of several battle groups of N'Ela cruisers. I believe that I can tip the balance back into our favor."

"The Tal Shiar thinks otherwise!" Sinphius rose from his throne like seat. "An attack on Romulus would be disastrous for our people."

That was it. The Tal Shiar knew that a Triple Alliance attack close to or upon Romulus would be the final pin prick needed to cause the populace to rise up and throw off the Tal Shiar's influence. Valdore knew that the average citizen had become little more than a slave during the last tenturns. Otherwise why would proud fathers permit their young daughters to become as the child he had just seen?

Valdore was powerless. He could kill Sinphius but The Hand was just a representative. There was someone else behind the praetor. He decided to pursue a tactful, logical course and explain the effects of taking those ships.

"This Oulette," Valdore said. He found the name odd and harsh. "He is a small tactics fighter. I believe that Forrest dispatched him to create the very circumstances that you want to bring about: pulling offensive forces back to imperial space. It is a trap that you are stepping wide-eyed into."

"You cannot know that! You are gambling with the lives of our citizens Valdore! They destroyed our shipyards once. The Tal Shiar's military advisors believe that you are wrong. They believe that the Triple Alliance will foray into our space regardless of the fuel and armament situation."

"We have had the advantage of having dossiers on enemy commanders. They do not for us." Valdore wanted to pace about the chamber but dared not. "I believe to complete such a goal they would use Stiles as their commander. Few of their commanders could lead a fleet across that distance, almost out of fuel at the end of their journey and then to start a major battle based on limited intelligence. Stiles is still on earth."

"You still have spies there admiral?" the Hand asked. Valdore could see that Sinphius thought that he had caught him in an indiscretion. The Tal Shiar operatives weren't the only ones who had cultivated a relationship with Vulcans.

"Of course not," he lied. "The earthers have an open society. Stiles' image has appeared on subspace informational broadcasts. She is said to be still recovering from her injuries."

"They have other capable commanders," Sinphius argued. "You simply do not see things as they are admiral. It is our consensus that we need every spare ship to guard imperial space. The praetor will of course endorse our position, admiral." Sinphius smiled in triumph. "You shall send coded messages ordering the N'Ela class cruisers back to Romulus and Venador. I shall give you a timeline to follow. Do not deviate from that admiral. This is no longer a discussion it is an order from your betters."

Valdore maintained his control. He smiled at Sinphius who seemed quite taken aback by the gesture. "It is my duty to serve the empire." For as long as it lasts Valdore thought. He hoped that Sinphius' timeline would allow him some latitude. He took a data crystal containing the details of his orders, bowed and departed.

Where was the earther? Once the praetor was gone there would be nothing left to prop up the Tal Shiar's power. Gupta had not been caught, but was he pursuing his appointed mission? Valdore believed that he would. But it was a race against time. Valdore decided to leave immediately. He sensed that the attack on Gozai was imminent. He needed to exploit that as much as possible, once again with the Tal Shiar actively interfering in his plans.

Tankaara Segment, Romulus, the earth summer of 2158

"You are merely tossing one item in the air followed by another," T'Pol told Tarang Gupta. Three _pela_ fruits lay smashed on the ground before her feet. A'Zir issued a gurgling laugh at T'Pol's efforts at juggling.

"It is part show," Gupta said. He retrieved three of the fruits from a box and started juggling them. He had expanded his act to include knives. So far he had not lacerated himself and the audience seemed to love it.

"I am growing tired of being the," T'Pol hesitated; "the amazing, alluring T'Pol."

"You have to be that since Tarack is not alluring and really not very amazing," Altena said. Gupta had an uncomfortable notion that the young Romulan woman meant exactly the opposite as she claimed. Pakesh had told him that she had a crush on Gupta, although the Romulan term was quite different.

They were at a small factory town in the segment. The locals were allowing them to use the city circle. Gupta understood that the area once held special meaning as the place where citizens could compel their senators to answer questions. The circles had not been used for that in many turns.

"Well, you cannot expect me to calculate cube roots as fast you can, T'Pol," he argued. "Most roots that I'm acquainted with are edible." He smiled. Altena laughed much more than the humor called for.

"This is the last show!" Pakesh exclaimed. "There will be a few administrators and intercessors in the audience tonight! We might even make enough thrones to buy fuel for the _Night Wind. _ But we won't make anything while you play with one another. Finish the stage!"

Kaphir had walked into the tent behind Pakesh. "Government workers!" he cried. "We shall make a profit in this segment after all."

"Remember you fool," Pakesh said as he turned on Kaphir. "Fleece their minions but never…never touch a chosen one! Make sure that the administrators' servants are unhappy. We know that probably means that they hate their master and there is a reason for that! The feeling is probably mutual and the administrator won't mind if his servant is robbed."

Gupta helped A'Zir, Kaphir, Altena, Haldur and Svaerik lift the platform onto its supports. Pakesh was no slacker and threw himself into the final completion. Several of the townsfolk were assembling around the circle. Their children looked on and laughed. They had seen the troupe perform before. Gupta saw Pakesh look at the crowd. For just a mil he scowled. The troupe finished the rest of their chores. Gupta approached Pakesh when the two of them were alone.

The Criminal Guild leader stood watching as the gathering crowd cheered the arrival of a group of young soldiers. The soldiers took off their ornate, shiny golden helmets to reveal their faces. Even at twenty-six earth years it immediately struck Tarang how young the soldiers were. These were nothing but boys! Gupta recognized the sashes they wore as belonging to those who had just completed the Romulan equivalent of basic training.

"Something is troubling you Pakesh?" he asked.

"Soon all of the young will be star stuff," Pakesh replied quietly. "That is what happens after our enemies incinerate our ships…star stuff." The Romulan's pensive mood dropped. "But no, I thought that I seen Amof. He is a monitor from Krocton Segment. But why would he be here? Ah, I am getting old Tarack."

"Mistaken identity," Gupta said. "We shall soon be at the capital." Tarang watched as the crowd started to build. Old men and women assembled. They all mostly wore nondescript gray coveralls. Most of their faces and hands were smudged and dirty. More than a few of the laborers had persistent coughs and even a few of the children as well.

The small city had a brown pall over it. Industrial pollution was a thing of the past on earth and the allied worlds. Gupta had never smelled such odors in his life. It seemed to be the norm here. T'Pol had discovered from Kaphir that Romulan industries were operated solely for war output. Control of the byproducts seemed to have escaped the designers of these places.

"Yes we shall," Pakesh agreed. "Tell me Tarack, what are your plans after that?"

Should he lie? "T'Pol and I have a task to accomplish once we get there." While not the truth it was not a lie either. He could see that Pakesh could read into what he was saying.

"Our destinies are what we make of them," Pakesh said. "Even slaves might look to the stars. But I sense something about you. I have since the first dawning that we met. It is what kept me from slitting your throats." Gupta realized how lucky he and T'Pol were. Pakesh was absolutely serious. They had nearly been killed. Pakesh was speaking again. "You would make an excellent criminal Tarack. You have more than paid for your passage and I suspect that if you find T'Pol a cold _me'gat_ that Altena would warm your bed."

"I uh…I uh had…hadn't really," Gupta was surprised to find himself stuttering in Romulan. He was glad that he had not burst into English. Pakesh laughed and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "There is time to think Tarack. The tattoo is mostly painless."

The crowd was in full bloom. Pakesh signaled that they should begin when Gupta noticed a ruckus coming from the crowd. There was some shouting and Tarang couldn't help but notice that it had been started by the one that Pakesh had identified as Amof. T'Pol ran over to join him. Pakesh headed toward the back of the stage. Gupta could see that he was ready to get the gang together to flee if need be.

"This seems to be a concerted effort," the Vulcan whispered to him. Gupta nodded toward Amof and gave her an encapsulated tale of what Pakesh had told him—minus the conjecture about Altena and him. "Yes, he is the initiator. He arrived with several others."

"They promised us victory and now look at the proud soldiers!" a bedraggled Romulan male roared.

Another nameless protester started up: "All of our thrones for pretty uniforms and what have we got—nothing!"

"Those thrones should be spent for our children!"

"They led us into this war!"

"We are losing!" another shouter proclaimed. A rock struck a young soldier who had removed his helmet. The townspeople, shocked at first started to join in the hostility.

Gupta was aghast. Military service was a highly praised virtue in this society. What was happening here? The soldiers turned to defend themselves. This seemed to incense the crowd toward further violence. Pakesh barked a command for them to run. He noticed Pakesh bolting past them.

"Go with the gang," he told T'Pol. He kissed her lips and left her to follow Pakesh. She would not obey him, he knew that.

Gupta ran through the crowd. Some of them were fighting with the young soldiers while others seemed as surprised as he. One of the protestors pulled out a stinging device such as the monitors were wont to use. Tarang had a hammer in his belt that he had been using on the props. He took it out and swung it down hard on the protestor's arm. The Romulan screamed and dropped the device. Gupta kicked him, producing a grunt and knocking him over. He seized the sting rod and caught sight of Pakesh again. The troupe leader ducked into a narrow alley. Tarang followed. The alley narrowed. It reeked of urine and garbage. Gupta burst out into a type of courtyard. Pakesh stood surrounded by Amof and two other agitators.

"Another of your fools Pakesh!" Amof spat out upon seeing Gupta.

Amof and his partners were armed with knives and chemical pistols. Gupta had thought to jam his confiscated rod into his tunic. He saw Pakesh's old revolver discarded on the ground before him. One of the protesters drew a bead on Tarang. He held his arms out.

"Why did you attack the soldiers Amof?" Pakesh asked. Gupta had become aware that even Pakesh had a stubborn streak of fidelity and reverence for the empire running through him despite his opinions about Reunification.

Amof wrinkled his brow. "We are losing Pakesh. Those fool recruits will be radioactive debris half a turn from now. Someone is at fault, yes?"

"That is wrong Amof and you know it!" Pakesh exclaimed. "We have always done business a certain way."

"Sadly, that must change Pakesh," Amof said as he leveled his pistol at the troupe leader's head.

Several things happened. T'Pol slithered over a wall behind one of the agitators and administered a pinch to his neck. The hoodlum dropped bonelessly to the ground. A large piece of concrete flew by Gupta's head narrowly missing him. It did hit Amof's gun hand sending the pistol flying. Gupta pulled out the sting rod and flicked the switch to high. He threw it at the remaining agitator. The Romulan let out a high, piercing scream and collapsed, twitching but unconscious. Pakesh leapt forward and tackled Amof. He was soon on top of the monitor with a knife at Amof's throat.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Amof as he dug the tip into the side of the monitor's neck. A trickle of green blood ran down his neck. "Consider your answer carefully Amof. If I think that you are lying I'll cut you and let you bleed slowly."

Gupta stood transfixed. A'Zir seized the unconscious form of the protestor that T'Pol had administered her pinch to, and twisted his neck producing a harsh crack.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "They have been neutralized. They are not a threat." A'Zir croaked at her and then administered the same treatment to the one that Gupta had felled.

"No evidence Promise," Pakesh said to her without removing his gaze from Amof. "Tarack, go through their garments. Remove everything there." Gupta hesitantly did as he had been told. He retrieved the stinger.

"In my pocket Pakesh," Amof pleaded.

Gupta went about the sickening business of rifling through the dead Romulan's clothes. There were two thrones and three towers, an ammunition clip and some _flalv. _The last was a type of narcotic chewing tobacco favored by some Romulans. He moved on to the next corpse while he briefly observed Pakesh holding an amulet. As Tarang knelt he saw that it was a type of seal such as Admiral Valdore had once given him. He was somewhat surprised when this body yielded a folded decorative sash that someone in the Imperial Information Administration would wear.

"Tal Shiar," he heard Pakesh hiss. They all snapped their heads around to see the chief of the gang examining the seal. Pakesh looked over at T'Pol. "That touch Promise, can you do it to Amof here?" When she agreed that she could, he ordered her to do that. A'Zir grunted in surprise and amazement when Amof lost consciousness under T'Pol's ministration. "It seems that you no more than mathematics and the nucleus of language Promise. You must show me how you do that." He motioned for A'Zir to help him stand Amof up. Elcan burst into the alley's end.

"We are almost packed up Pakesh," the Reman said. "Haldur obtained some fuel from an administrator's yacht." Obtained being shorthand for stole.

"Burn the stage!" Pakesh said as he supported half of Amof's weight along with A'Zir. "We'll stop by F'Lil's for lumber to build a new one." He started back through the alley with his burden. "What of the townsfolk?"

"They scurried to get to their homes before the monitors arrive."

"See to the burning then my friend," Pakesh said.

"I'll do as you bid, Pakesh," the Reman said. The tall alien faded into the gathering darkness with startling speed.

"Pakesh, what are you going to do with him?" T'Pol asked. Gupta could hear her concern, the plea for pacifism.

"He bears a seal Promise. His minions will be searched and perhaps the pack leader will investigate but he won't find his operative."

"You cannot kill him Pakesh!" Gupta was surprised at her fervor.

"If he lives then we die Promise!" Pakesh smiled. "Consider T'Pol, the fish will eat well tonight."

T'Pol hugged him. He had met her on the bow of the _Night Wind. _ The darkness was complete. The sky was dotted with the bright blue and white stars. Normally Gupta would have noted the sky's beauty. Tonight he was drained.

"You are disturbed," she commented.

"I just participated in slaughtering someone T'Pol. I do not think that I shall be alright for some time." He drew his cloak around him. A season like fall was descending onto this part of Romulus.

"I am sorry Tarack. That was not necessary." She stroked his face tenderly.

He sighed and paused in thought. "Yes, yes it was," he said at long last. She started to protest. "Listen, Amof was a leader of a Tal Shiar cell. The riot was to be blamed on us—on Pakesh's troupe."

Gupta shuddered as he recalled her Pakesh had led Amof to believe that he would release him after he told everything that he knew. As soon as Pakesh had been satisfied with Amof's information he had proceeded to disembowel the Tal Shiar agent. Gupta saw Pakesh, Haldur and Elcan come from below deck. Each bore a large bucket, a bucket full of Amof. They were headed aft to dump them into the river. He turned and faced forward.

"They are losing Tarack," T'Pol said. She looked around to see that they were alone. She lowered her voice. "The Triple Alliance is winning."

"How can you know?" he asked softly. The answer crystallized before him. It had been there during Amof's torment: They needed someone to blame defeat on. The Tal Shiar was setting the stage. Gupta remembered one of the luckless young soldiers; his skull had been shattered by a rock. These people were seething with anger underneath it all.

They were silent for a long time. She took his hand. Her skin was warm and dry. He looked into her eyes. Something was there. He looked away and waited. She felt her mind and accepted its gentle entry. She knew.

"How long?" he asked after several minutes.

"A quartenth Tarack," she answered. "You were drinking with Pakesh and Haldur. Your mind was open. I am sorry."

"No, it is alright," he said. "How do you feel?"

"Pakesh says that I do not smile," she answered. "It is more than being unfamiliar with the gesture. I am empty Tarang." He snapped his head around to see if anybody could hear. He was shocked at her slipup. "Everything is a lie. Vulcans have our integrity, now that is meaningless. It was all a lie!" He was even more surprised to see tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Careaza atoned for his sins T'Pol," he said. "I was there—in a way. He saved your people. He gave you the foundations of logic."

"He was a murderer!" her voice had lost all semblance of Vulcan calm.

"He regretted everything T'Pol. Look, until you found out, you had a certain reverence for Surak. Believe that in the end Careaza died as the Surak you know. I suppose…I suppose that we elevate the heroes and villains of our past, when the truth is that they are as frail and bumbling as we are."

He kissed her. "I do not know Tarack. I must meditate and reflect." She wiped away her tears.

"Mediate and reflect later!" Pakesh roared. He was walking toward them with a bottle in his hand. He was smiling broadly. Who would have suspected that he had just cut someone open and allowed them to suffer? "We have work to do in the dawning." He offered the jug of kali-fal to Gupta. "You might need this," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

Gupta accepted it and drank the harsh whiskey. He looked at T'Pol and offered her the bottle. She too accepted and drank. The three stood thus in silence, looking ahead into the night. The water gurgled by.

Alpha Eridani, the earth year July, 2158

"Charming countryside," Fred Watson announced blandly. Once one got over odd shaped leaves and trees with different hues it was really not so bad. From what he had read of Alpha Eridani this place would be a thriving economy soon. But right now it was a wilderness that was going to be rain soaked, again.

"A lot of this has grown over Fred," Doctor Dorothy Myers said in an apologetic tone. "This is the area but these folds look pretty much the same."

Do you think? Fred wanted to blurt that out but decided against it. He looked at his partner. She mouthed an English negative toward him. Did that mean there wasn't another _drak'ha _or what? He pulled his rain cap over his head and made for the top of a gently rising slope. He was careful to go slow to facilitate the centenarian doctor. He stopped and scanned the countryside; again nothing.

"We've been out here almost two days," he said.

"Perhaps this line of investigation was wrong," Catères said. He shot her a look of disbelief. He was out here at the Reman's suggestion. He looked out over the tree covered hills.

"No," he said after a long silence. "No, I've never tracked a serial killer but this—person." He had almost said thing. "This person is just a criminal. They all make mistakes." He looked around for several minutes. "I see evidence of old fires and new growth." He was a detective not a geologist but he had his native common sense. "Except over there," he said and then pointed to an area that looked like a clearing. Catères gave him a knowing look. "It's just a clearing!"

"We haven't explored that section," Myers said. Watson actually liked having the old woman along. Myers was a retired navy surgeon who had a tough quirky edge. Instead of taking care of her he had quickly discovered that except for being a little slow she was quite capable of taking care of herself. The doctor examined her handheld. "But a meteor would come make a cut in the ground."

Unless it wasn't a meteor, Fred thought. They proceeded on their way. The forest wasn't thick and the crawler traversed the few kilometers in lees than an hour. The doctor told an entertaining story about a starship captain who had an itch in an embarrassing place. A simple skin rash, the alien spores were easily killed with alcohol. Her description of the captain jumping out of the treatment bed, minus pants, after she had poured the alcohol on him was quite vivid.

"This looks familiar," Myers said. She pointed out a grove of trees. "Those are pucker trees. The fruit is edible but they are sourer than an Andorian _nac'ta_ fruit. Like I told you; we found Rastova around an area like this."

"But no meteor," Dominique added.

"Look, I'm no detective Fred," Myers started, "but I have to wonder how finding a piece of rock is going to lead you to a killer."

Catères brought the crawler to a stop and they got out of the vehicle. "The doctor might have met someone out here." The Reman looked around. Fred guessed that she was using her abilities.

"A ghost?" Myers asked, meaning people who stepped off of landing boats and vanished into the wilderness of new colonies. Fred knew that many of them returned after discovering that long term survival in the wilderness was not like their childhood weekends at Uncle Earl and Aunt Betty's camp.

She shook her head. "Lopers take care of most of those. I recall a fellow who told Jarvis that he wanted to commune with nature. Thorne sold him a bunch of survival equipment, even a rifle and a pistol. We found the top of his head a few months later. Still had his hat on!" She grinned.

"The magnetometer is almost off scale Fred," Catères told him.

They plunged through a little thicker undergrowth. Watson ran his thumb along the safety of the old slug rifle. He had seen a loper. It looked like a nightmarish cross between a wolf and a rat. Fred understood that his unfamiliarity with the sight of it was partially what made it so frightening. He also understood that these lopers, fierce as they were, were just animals. One had run off when it had spied the comparatively larger crawler coming at it.

"Stop!" Catères exclaimed.

He spun around. "Do you—see anything," he asked. He had wanted to say sense.

"Yes," she replied. Dominique pointed. "You are about to fall into a hole."

Fred looked down to see that there was indeed a tree limb covered ditch before him. His probing gaze spotted something beneath the undergrowth. Watson also thought that the limbs had been placed there rather than falling from trees to land there. He took a look around the area and carefully propped his rifle up against a tree. Watson then scurried down the side of the depression, bent down and started pulling away branches. Catères joined him as a large white, quartz-like rock took shape before them.

"Milla could have told you better," Myers said. "But that rock isn't natural for around here."

"Scorch marks down the side of this crevice," he said. He looked toward the sky. "That thing came down here." As he removed more branches he was struck by the fact that the rock looked artificial. He remembered a school play that his granddaughter had appeared in. The stage had been set with hokey looking foam pieces that were supposed to be rocks. This was not foam, but it had that same faked look; just on a larger scale.

"Looks like about ten meters," Myers said in amazement. "How on earth did the search parties miss this?"

"Perhaps they had their minds on the doctor," Catères commented. Fred looked into Dominique's eyes. Or perhaps something was in their minds he guessed.

Watson stepped back. It looked like a huge arrowhead. There was indeed a furrow behind the rock. The lay of the hill would have made the thirty meter swath practically invisible. The meteor was long but Watson thought that unless there was more of it beneath the ground it was relatively flat; less than two meters at its thickest point. Fred saw part of the alien dirt dug away. He walked across the meteor's surface to that area, removing branches as he did. Catères followed.

"You two, be careful!" Myers admonished them.

"What do you think Dom?" he asked quietly.

"I don't sense anything Fred," she answered. "But one could be here."

"Whoa, would you look at that," he said as they saw where the earth had been dug away. A dark recess in the rock turned out to look more like a crawlspace sized tunnel. He shined a light into the opening. Fred looked at the Reman and then scurried down. He did indeed see a crawlspace, one that looked manufactured.

"Okay, what do you think?" he asked softly.

"One of us is going to have to go in," Catères remarked.

Watson rolled his eyes. He remembered Lieutenant Karl Ebenstark saying that when they had made the crossing from the Sark. Watson didn't expect that he'd have to breathe vacuum here, but he didn't like the thought of going in there. Dominique could read changes in him he supposed. If anything happened to her in there how could he know? He nodded at her, shrugged and pulled out his plasma pistol.

"Don't wait up for me," he told her. "I might stop to have some drinks with the boys." He grinned and hunkered down into the hole. He shined his torch into the tunnel and started in.

The smell of mud and decaying leaves gave way to a weird antiseptic smell. Watson thought that it had an underlying scent of ammonia. He was no geologist either, but he doubted that anything natural had carved these passages. He scrambled forward at a crawl until he spied a passage off to his right. He shined the torch around him and then satisfied that nothing was in here he shut it off. A dim glow radiated from the right tunnel. He crawled back toward the light. He could barely hear Dominique's words.

"It looks like," he yelled. Watson paused; it looked like a crazy power plant. "I don't think that this thing is natural!" He switched the torch back on.

The small face was gray and terrifying. It was a man with an angry glare. The attacker's eyes stared into his with a lifeless look. The man jumped on him before he could bring his pistol up. Watson's gun went clattering onto the floor. Watson struggled against the man. His assailant was cold and felt dry. He flung the attacker off and rolled up to a crouch. He could hear Catères yelling and scrambling into the chamber. He felt for his weapon, found it and started to raise it.

"I'm all right! I'm all right!" he gasped. Watson was shaken but he realized that his adversary was probably harmless. The man no, boy he thought, looked to be dead. The corpse's skin was dry and crackled. Watson flung some of the desiccated skin off of his hands.

Catères came to his side. She examined the boy. "Odd looking," she commented. "He must have crawled up into that small space." She pointed to a very small crawlway about two-thirds of a meter off of the floor. "You must have nudged him loose when you went by."

Watson took a breath and recovered his wits. His mind was racing. "He isn't local."

"He was probably one of the pilots of this," she looked up at the chamber's roof.

He looked at the glowing crystalline chamber beyond the passageway. He was no engineer but with a little imagination he could picture a sort of engine room. Crossing passageways led off into small rooms that each held a single slab. Were these quarters? Watson turned around and shined a light into the nose of the craft. There were no seats but what he had taken for layers of rock at first glance looked like they could be control panels. He turned around to see Dominique running a long hand over a glowing section of the wall.

The living chamber changed before Watson's eyes. A soft mattress appeared on the slab. The light came up to reveal a soft carpet growing across the floor. A basin appeared against the far wall. Watson looked at his partner in bewilderment.

"Uh, don't swipe at anything else in here," he warned.

"I won't!" she answered emphatically.

"Is he from your neck of the woods?" he asked as he pointed to the boy. He looked human to Watson.

"No," she answered simply. "I believe that despite his appearance this dead one is older than he looks."

Watson looked again at the fierce little face. "Well, he was pissed about something before he died."

Catères went over the body carefully. Watson looked on. There was no forensic pathologist available. Myers could confirm things but the examination told him that whatever had killed this small being was something internal. At least, Watson reminded himself, if his insides were as human as his outside looked. Catères motioned to go forward. Watson crawled behind the alien to what he had taken for the control center.

Another small body, its face twisted in a grimace of anger lay off to the left of the tiny bridge's entrance. Watson took the lead and examined this body: like before there was no visible evidence of trauma.

"You told me on the way here that these _drak'ha _can leave a host."

She looked at the second body. "Such might be the result but these creatures are not men. Their facial expression might mean anything.

"I don't know," he answered. "I know we—men haven't branched out very far but we're discovering that humanoids share a lot of traits. A smile to an Andorian means the same as a smile to us." He looked at the body. "I don't think this little fellow died of asphyxiation and we aren't reading radiation." He reached out absently to lay a steadying hand against the wall. He heard the sharp crack of rifle fire from outside.

The chamber filled with light. Two pillars rose up out of the floor and turned to comfortable chairs. The nose of the craft went transparent, revealing a concerned looking Doctor Myers standing over them. She was pointing her rifle at a felled loper. The dead beast's blood made a puddle that they saw through the transparent material of the ship. Watson vaguely heard Myer's disjointed cries from the direction that they had come from. He shook his head as the slab before him turned into an instrument panel. A voice sounded in the ship.

"Fal-ou'tang, fal-ou'zizam, fal-ou'moc, fal-ou'taloc," the voice droned in a mechanical tone.

They looked at one another. "It's a countdown!" they both blurted out. "Move!" Watson ordered.

Catères moved agilely but looked back to see that Fred was keeping pace. He fairly rolled around the corner back into the main access corridor. Dominique's svelte form darkened the exit. Fred could clearly see a brighter glow coming from the aft section of the ship. He slid on the wet floor. He felt her long thin fingers clutch the fabric of his rain slicker. She pulled him out into the daylight. He stood up, his knees protesting after being bent for so long.

Myers was already moving back. Fred thought that she was moving much quicker than she had been. The trio went at a fast jog through the trees. Watson heard a high pitched whine behind him. He felt a rumbling beneath his feet. They were soon running flat out. Myers, for her age seemed to be doing fine. He looked back to see the arrowhead shaped craft rise up and then claw its way skyward. He slowed down, gasping for breath. A new sun blossomed in the sky for a brief instance.

"It's a, It's a damn good thing that thing didn't explode here," he gasped.

Myers, her face remarkably calm and her breathing very normal hefted her rifle toward him. Catères hissed and kicked out at Myer's arm. The doctor held her rifle with one hand, reached out and grabbed Dominique's shoulder twisting the alien around. Myers shoved Catères head squarely against a tree. The alien's head made a sickening thunk against the hard tree bark. Catères fell back in a heap. Watson drew his weapon but he suddenly couldn't see Myers.

She had to be right there his mind screamed! He felt terror building in him. Fred had been scared many times in his life. The things that had frightened him were tangible things. He sensed that this fear was coming from outside. He did not own this fear. Watson caught sight of Myer's shadow. He raised the pistol and proceeded to blaze away at an overhanging tree branch. There was a snap as the branch fell away from the tree and a crack as Myer's rifle discharged. She seemed to appear before him, the rifle on the ground before her. Her wrinkled face was a horrible mask of feral anger. Blood ran down her arm where the heavy branch had hit her.

"Kill you both!" she screeched. "Make you suffer!"

Fred shook his head as the last vestiges of the outside fear sloughed off. "Put a sock in it!" As much as he liked Myers he found he had no difficulty punching her in the head. Myer's head snapped back and she stumbled. Watson wasn't twenty anymore but he knew that that hit should have put her down. Her eyes focused on his. She lunged for the rifle. He kicked it away and leveled his pistol at her.

"Kill you both!" she hissed. A wicked smile was pasted on her lips. "You can't live out here!" She turned and ran toward the crawler with unnatural speed. He leveled the pistol at her.

"Okay here's hoping that I can just cripple you," he said as he squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. The cell was empty. "Goddamnit!" he cursed. He fished in his pocket for another power cell. He was losing sight of her.

Watson gathered his strength and prepared to follow. He turned and looked at Dominique. Blood was pooling in the leaves beneath her head. He looked back through the woods. Myers was no where to be seen. He cursed under his breath and knelt by the alien. He needed her to live. Watson just realized that the reason Catères had advocated for the doctor's company out here was that she needed bait.

Star Fleet Heavy Cruiser Excelsior, First Star Fleet, five light years from Romulan occupied Topaz, Jul 2158

"They know that we are coming," Admiral Maxwell Forrest concluded. He shot a warning glance toward Captain Donald Townsend. "You probably did give them the slip out there captain," he told the raider commander. "My point is that we have made no pretense about retaking this world."

"The sooner we start the sooner it will be over," Tas Shavma declared. He thumped a hairy paw onto the surface of the conference table.

"I agree with him," the Andorian General Antor added. "The human Minotaurs can attack along the z-axis. With our new forces we should be able to push into the inner worlds where our carriers can launch fighters."

"We have determined a high probability that that is exactly what the Romulans planned for general," General D'Ston said. D'Ston was extraordinarily tall Vulcan. Although he had surpassed two human centuries his hair was still jet black. He stood over the conference table. He switched the tri-viewer's image to a particular part of Topaz's inner belt.

"Captain Townsend's data yielded several major points," D'Ston explained. "The cruisers of the Vulcan Defense Force can easily penetrate to the inner worlds. But it is there that the Romulans' constructed their best defenses." He pointed out plasma cannon stations on both of Topaz's moons and several that stretched out along different approach corridors.

"Unshielded ships cannot expect to survive near the orbit of Topaz Prime," D'Ston continued. "Logic suggests a combination of shielded cruisers and fighters to go against the enemy gun emplacements."

"Those cruisers wouldn't last long general," Forrest pointed out. "Even with shields it is a gamble as to rather your ships could open enough holes for our fighters to exploit."

"Do you suggest another plan of attack?" the Vulcan asked him.

"We commit our entire forces to an expanding pincer," Forrest answered. "Foolish in a two dimensional environment but as we secure a small area of space we spread out from that. We can hold the space over Topaz and still retain most of our forces to deal with their outer belt taskforces."

He watched as D'Ston looked to his aide. Major Taan was a short, squat Vulcan. He was younger than D'Ston but gave Forrest the impression that there was more. Taan's uniform was ill fitting. That was a violation of military protocol that might've slipped by on a human or Tellarite vessel, never on a Vulcan ship. Forrest guessed that Taan was some kind of Syrranite observer. If he wasn't a Syrranite, Forrest guessed that he most certainly had been sent by T'Pau.

"We disagree," D'Ston said at last.

"Vulcan shields could save many lives," Antor interjected.

"We would take a season to integrate them into our ships icehead!" Tas Shavma bellowed.

"The shavma is correct," D'Ston said. "We disagree on tactics." Forrest could see that the Vulcan officer was deferring to Taan. "There is time to discuss this. Admiral Forrest proposes a three week fleet exercise. This seems prudent to us."

"We've been out here far longer than we should," Antor said. "A Romulan patrol could scan us despite the natural cover that is here."

"None of us have fought alongside Vulcans," Forrest said. "And none of our planetary nations have ever conducted fleet maneuvers on this scale."

This first fleet of the fledgling Star Fleet boasted just over one hundred and fifty vessels of war; nothing like the numbers that the Birdies had thrown up, but the allied ships were better. Forrest was thankful that they had proven this again and again. If the Romulans had had this Tyrannous at the outset of the war things would have been different.

"I'd like the department heads to submit ideas on reducing the time we spend on exercises," Forrest said. "Keep in mind that we need to do this to successfully integrate. It would be disastrous to enter Topaz space and conduct an uncoordinated attack." He stood up and asked for questions and suggestions. Neither of those items was forthcoming.

The conference chime sounded. Forrest nodded at an Andorian chief who then caused the doors to part. A red shirted ensign paused, looked around nervously and then entered at Max's command. Christ, I have pants older than this kid Forrest thought. He wondered how his son was fairing. Maybe he should try to patch things up with Derrick he thought. The ensign handed him a printed dispatch. He dismissed the young man and read the message. He turned and surveyed the audience.

"Admiral Oulette has been successful," he said simply. "A fighter patrol from Valley Forge scanned two taskforces of Romulan cruisers outbound from the target today. Their heading was for Romulus."

"We'll put a tail on those sons-a-bitches!" Admiral Frank Buchanan exclaimed. "Make sure they don't turnabout on us. But this is about the time a max boosted subspace message would take to get from Narendra to Romulus, a short time to think and then to Topaz. What's the composition Max?"

"Almost two thirds of the signature returns indicated Tyrannous class power plants." Forrest smiled fiercely as he delivered the answer.

"Grizzly put a bug in their asses," Buchanan said. "Their military has to think that we are coming directly at Romulus."

It was sooner than expected. If true, Max thought that someone on Romulus was scared. These were Vulcans with emotion; strong emotion from what Forrest had been briefed. He looked at the two calm, complacent Vulcan officers. He found it hard to believe that the two races had once been one.

Three weeks was too long. "We need to act. I'm revising the schedule. We attack in ten days! If we have to train our people around the clock then we'll have to do that. Have the surgeons standing by with sleep aids for breaks and stims for long duty watches."

"Ten days is doable admiral," Commander Carmella Howard responded. Valley Forge's surgeon was an attractive redhead. Max knew that she was a competent officer and surgeon but he couldn't help being a man. "I can set up a schedule of induced sleep so that we arrive fresh at Topaz."

"It will be difficult," D'Ston said. "But our crews do not long rest periods admiral. We shall comply."

The briefing room emptied out. Frank Buchanan remained behind. Forrest couldn't help but notice Buchanan's unauthorized tailoring job. Gold stripes adorned the collar of Buchanan's jersey making it looked like the admiral was wreathed in lightning bolts. The admiral lit a cigar. Forrest had been expecting this discussion. He had hoped that the business of planning a war would head it off. Buchanan walked over to the pane of transparent aluminum and looked out. Forrest saw the Valley Forge's commander's reflection wreathed in smoke.

Beyond the pane the great form of a Surak class cruiser sailed past the window beside a Tellarite destroyer. The ships were less than two kilometers away. These were the command ships for each race. A Minotaur streaked by the slower moving cruisers. The fighter jumped into warp. Max knew that it was taking up a patrol route.

"Seems unfair not to invite everyone to this party Max," Buchanan said.

"Stiles is still recovering from her injuries Frank," he said.

"My ass, Max," Buchanan snapped. "We've been friends a long time. I probably know you better than your ex-wife did. Don't lie to me sir."

"An expert in forensic data analysis found that an anomalous computer file had been zipped from Beagle with Trafalgar's signature on it." Forrest folded his arms over his chest. He walked over to stand by his friend.

"Try English Max," Buchanan chided him.

"Taskforce 18 took the lead at Deneva because thirty-three's computer network went down. I've been very interested in why, because we can't have that sort of thing happen again, not at a critical time like that."

"Sabotage is a serious charge Max." Buchanan turned and faced him. "Hell, even if she did what I think you are suggesting, why not let it go?" Forrest started to answer when Buchanan plunged on. "What if the Birdies wanted to talk then? Are you going to damn the girl because of a might have been? The Romulans should've talked two years ago instead of nuking our people. I don't know what a Romulan is like Max. But I know that someone who does something like this needs to be smacked back hard. They need to understand that there are consequences."

"Damnit Frank! We can't have officers running off half cocked. I know she lost people in this war. It is no excuse for her to wage her own private war. We have to be better."

Both humans fell silent as the Surak stretched away into subspace. The melancholy boatswain's call sounded two seconds later. Forrest wasted no time hitting the acknowledgement.

"Sir," Commander Maz'n's voice called out over the room's speakers. "Pointie cruisers are going to warp," the Tellarite announced.

He looked at Buchanan. "Where are they going Maz'n?"

There was short pause while the Tellarite shouted orders at the bridge crew. Seconds later he replied: "They are on a course for Topaz, warp seven admiral. They are not answering our hails."

"I'll be right up," he said. He released the call button and turned to Buchanan. "What the hell?"

San Francisco, California, the old United States, July 2158

Jocelyn Stiles was enjoying the weather. But in spite of the warm, humid breeze she wanted to be back in space. If not for the conundrum that Malcolm Reed had posed she would be bending every regulation she could to get back in the command chair. It would take that she thought. Admiral Forrest was exercising his authority to hold her back. That was not official, but it was known.

She looked into the deep blue waters of the Pacific. The Vulcan compound was located near to the Pan-Indian compound overlooking Half Moon Bay. Stiles had some questions that she wanted answers for. Regardless of her desire to know she slowed her rented triwheeler so that she could watch the gentle waves breaking against the shoreline. The serene view helped her to marshal her thoughts. Stiles sped up until she saw the entrance for the compound. She turned the car to her destination. A human woman in the shimmering red dress uniform of Star Fleet Security checked her identification.

"You're on the appointment roster commodore," the ensign told her after looking onto her handheld. "Ambassador Soval is expecting you." The girl, actually only a few years younger than Jocelyn started to salute her in preparation for waving her through when Stiles asked her a question:

"How do you feel working this post?" The ensign looked surprised. Stiles guessed that her surprise was that a high ranking officer was bothering to ask her anything.

"It's okay, sir," the ensign answered. "I mean the Point—Vulcans they are just there. They don't seem either bad or good one way or the other. It's odd at first; like a professor I had at West Point, nothing was ever seemed good enough for him, sir: not because of expectations, it was just the way he was." The ensign absently tugged at her hair. "I wanted a deep space assignment but who doesn't sir. I'm not complaining. Someone has to do this. I have six more months and then I'm up for rotation sir."

Stiles asked the security officer her name. She didn't promise to help the woman get a combat assignment but she did tell her that she would do what she could. It seemed that if Admiral Forrest got his way, Stiles would be lucky if she could do much of anything. Had he discovered what she had did over Deneva? No, she would be in a facility being watched over by people like this ensign if Forrest had discovered her activities. The guard waved her through. Stiles let the car's autodrive guide it to parking. The vehicle stopped. She got out and made her way toward the compound's main building. She followed a stone pathway bordered by white gravel. It was eerily quiet.

Stiles was surprised when the ambassador himself greeted her before a small bed of flowers that had not developed on earth. She had expected to be met by some functionary. Actually Jocelyn was surprised that the Vulcan had granted her an appointment at all. Forrest had flatly told her that her early sortie into Vulcan space had been a point of contention during the early part of the negotiations.

Jocelyn remembered not to offer her hand. "Good day commodore," Soval said and bowed his head slightly.

"Good day ambassador," she answered formally. There was an awkward silence. Two humans would probably break the ice by commenting on the day. Stiles decided to launch right into the reason for her visit.

"I've been on detached duty while I recover from injuries, ambassador." She was long since healed she knew. "I've had a long time to think things through sir." She had information from Malcolm Reed.

"It is reasonable to pause and think commodore," the ambassador commented. He motioned in a very human way for her to walk with him. "I get rather cold when I stand outdoors. I hope that your injuries do not hinder you when walking?"

"No they don't," Stiles answered. Cold she wondered. It was almost thirty-two C she thought. She fell in alongside the Vulcan while remembering that Soval was old. "Sir, I had some questions about Vulcan's decision to finally help the alliance."

"The change of governments yielded a positive result for your people commodore." Soval led her along a meandering path overlooking the bay. "Vulcan once had great oceans. I find this scenery strangely compelling because of that."

"I've been reading a lot of your ancient history sir. Vulcan was nearly destroyed."

"Our race nearly committed suicide commodore. Vulcan, our world would have survived and in time life would have returned."

"I suppose that earth was lucky sir. But I guess that luck isn't a Vulcan concept."

"Random chance favoring a particular outcome?" he asked. "We acknowledge that it is there. But I have observed that you humans have a notion that you can sense the outcome of random events. Given the chaotic patterns of existence that seems an outlandish concept."

"Maybe," Stiles said. "But whatever the outcome we were luck—fortunate that we could settle things among the warring parties after the Third World War." Jocelyn saw an opening. "Vulcan didn't seem to have that problem, ambassador. I've read that your people went through a period of—a savage colonization period. One of the warring parties left for deep space."

"That is true," Soval answered. "There was never a reconciliation such as humans experienced."

"I wonder sir; would a people become consumed with that reconciliation even after thousands of years?"

He stopped and looked at her. "That group is no more. It is regrettable that the only option was to ostracize a large portion of our race, but Surak teaches us that there were no other choices at that time. So inflamed with hatred and lust were my ancestors that peaceful solutions were out of the question for them."

"And they never survived?" she asked.

"I do not know. It seems unlikely. The ships of that era could barely exceed warp one. A journey out of the Vulcan system would have taken a long time. A journey to another star would have taken almost a lifetime."

"And the Vulcan Space Command of that time conducted a thorough search of the space near Vulcan three hundred years later. Any survivors from those refugee ships probably would have been discovered don't you think ambassador?"

"I am not aware that such a search was ever conducted. It is a part of our history that we have turned away from. It is…discomforting to consider that we were once brutal savages." She looked on as Soval looked out over the ocean. Stiles could smell the salty tang in the air.

"Well maybe your ancestors were just doing an examination of local space, sir. I wonder what those Vulcans that you exiled would be like now—I mean if they had survived?" She didn't wait for a reply. "I don't know. Maybe they would forget about that separation from a long time ago. Or maybe memories of what was would become a major part of their lives."

"The Rihannsu are no more," Soval said.

"You know that my ship scanned a Romulan vessel leaving your system ambassador? The Romulans used Vulcan space to hide in quite a lot. Admiral Forrest tells me that the High Command raised objections to my going in there after them. But the High Command didn't seem to object when it came to the Birdies. I guess those fantastic Vulcan sensors could see us but not the Romulans? I was lucky to get my taskforce past your pickets. The Birdies were getting past left and right it seems."

Soval looked at her. Stiles swore that she could see an emotional reaction from him. Almost the same expression her father would get when he bit into something that he found tasteless. He looked again at the ocean and then back at her.

"It was thought by many that Minister V'Las was in collusion with these Romulans. It appears that particular problem was remedied."

Vulcan inscrutability, she thought bitterly. Was Soval lying? It didn't seem that way. Stiles' research hadn't been conclusive. President Thorpe was one of the most thorough and open presidents to have held the seat. Yet his report on the Vulcan summit had been strangely sketchy. It wasn't until she had read through the minutes and reports for what wasn't there instead of what was, that she had found something.

Beyond the diplomatic wording and long winded declinations there really seemed to be no reason for the Vulcans' sudden change of heart. The V'Las government was gone but from what she had read of Syrranites they seemed more inclined toward real isolation for the red planet. There was no reason, and in fact T'Pau had been resistant to an alliance until the return of Daedelus and the ensuing summit.

"Why would your ex-minister be interested in an alliance with the Romulans ambassador? You weren't invited to the decision making process were you?"

"Prefect T'Pau and I have had differences commodore," the Vulcan answered. "I am not concealing a truth from you Stiles. I too, have had questions about the change in Vulcan policy. But my people are going through a change, somewhat akin to your world's Islamic reawakening. We cannot be what we were." He eyed her. "What are you suggesting?"

"That your ancestors didn't die in space. Your teams never found anything ambassador. If these Rihannsu had died you should at least have found their ships, some pieces of wreckage, a plasma decay trail. There was nothing because somehow your ancestors beat the odds." She could see that Soval found her assertion repugnant. He was silent for a long time. Jocelyn continued.

"Why did the Romulans drive us off of Deneva? As far as we know they never offered us a direct reason for their actions. Everyone has wondered what we did to piss off the Birdies--"

"That is a colloquialism for making one angry," Soval said. Stiles thought that she could actually see expression in his stony face. It was one of someone asking some very basic questions. "What if the attack was never directed at you or the allies; what if there was another target?"

"Topaz was the hilt of the dagger ambassador," Stiles explained; "a jumping off point and logistics base for this sector. But Deneva, Deneva was the point of the dagger. We always thought that it aimed at us but why do that when Wolf was in a far better position? I'm good at fighting a taskforce ambassador, not at the big picture stuff. But if it was me in charge over at Birdie command I would have brushed us off of Wolf. We might never have recovered from that."

"You are insinuating that this dagger was aimed at Vulcan all along?" Soval asked in reply. She nodded. Soval stopped and turned away from her. Stiles could hear the sound of the ocean it was so quiet.

"Minister V'Las actions weren't logical," Soval said, still with his back to her. She realized that he was speaking more to himself than to her. "Why would he consort with an aggressive, underdeveloped race?" He turned and looked into her eyes; "unless that race was related to ours. V'Las always spoke of how we were in decline. He once told me that we needed an infusion of new ideas. But that is only one possibility, others could be had. I must speak to someone." He gave her a quizzical look. "If this is true why are you telling me commodore?"

"Your people have been reluctant to give us technology," she started. Stiles raised a hand to his objections. "We'll win this war without your weapons. Besides; your people are right: we could never adapt them in time. But we are going to win this war ambassador." She folded her arms over her breasts.

"I've read that you may be the next prefect, or whatever the title will be."

"You want our weaponry?" he asked her without ceremony.

"Eventually yes," she answered. "I can see sir that you didn't know. I'll let you come to the answer as I did. T'Pau and President Thorpe want to keep this a secret. That won't happen after we hit Romulus. Your people will need all of the support that they can get after that."

Stiles expected an argument from the Vulcan. Such a long time had passed. Stiles was about to speak when Soval finally said: "Unless your forces don't go to Romulus."

"What?" she asked. She had heard him clearly but the ramifications of what he had just said were just hitting her.

"The agreement does not call for a direct exchange of technology. Rather, T'Pau negotiated an agreement to allow aliens to attend the Vulcan Science Academy. This is antithetical to the Syrranites. Some of those had been calling for isolation. It is possible that President Thorpe used the knowledge—if true as leverage. In return your people would keep the secret. If the Romulans are indeed the descendants of my people then that knowledge could cause our society harm. That would not happen if an agreement had been struck not to pursue the war to its logical end."

Stiles hadn't considered that. What would happen if the allies didn't go all the way? Her Dave was radioactive dust because of the Birdies. Her father had been caught in the bombing of Panama City. Surely the president would continue the war to the end. Stiles reeled when she thought of those she had lost; of what so many of them had lost. Who would speak for the dead? Who would avenge their murders? She realized that Ambassador Soval was speaking again.

"I must speak to Augustus Kirk," he said. "This speculation is troubling."

"I'll give you a few days ambassador." Stiles gave him the code to her handheld. "Let me know when you are ready to speak again."

Stiles had come here intending to blackmail the Vulcan with the knowledge. She had thought that it would come out in time. Stiles figured that she could secure Soval's guarantee of advanced technology in the interim. Jocelyn had come to believe that the president was sitting tight on the secret until there could be some sort of preparation for the population. She had wanted to use that time to her advantage. But what if Soval was correct? What if there was no intention to finish the war? She needed time to think.

The Wilderness of Alpha Eridani, July 2158

The fire was warm and cheery. Normally Fred Watson would have enjoyed the campfire. Right now he knew that they needed it to survive. He tossed another piece of wood onto it. He had gathered a stack of fallen branches. The alien wood gave off a fragrance that smelled like rotten flowers. But it produced heat and light and those things were important right now. He poured a stiff drink of coffee and looked at his charge. Catères was beginning to stir.

She babbled in what he assumed was her native tongue. Her eyes fluttered open beneath the bandage that he had wrapped her head in. Dominique looked at the fire and then at him. Her eyes held a lucid look. That was good Fred knew. Had she been human he would have tried to keep her conscious. But he decided in the end to let nature take its course.

"How do you feel?" he asked. He poured some water into her canteen cup and handed it to her. Catères drank greedily.

She felt her head. "I believe that…how do you say; it is only a bump."

He looked around the encampment. It was dark beyond the fire illuminated shape of the crawler. Watson had laid out a pattern of sensors to alert them if the doctor or a loper came sniffing around the camp. Myers was thankfully unarmed. He still could not believe the ferocity of her attack. Watson turned back to Catères. He let her do the talking.

"I didn't want to tell you Fred," she started. "A_ drak'ha_ is energy. One cannot simply go out and set a trap for one. I had thought that the doctor might prove useful as a host. I had ampoules of neothorazine to anesthetize her. I had hoped to do that and somehow drive the_ drak'ha_ out where it could not inhabit another host."

He was disgusted and disappointed. "Is Dorothy dead?"

"We believe that the host is treated to a euphoric vision while the_ drak'ha_ takes hold." She sat up and extended her cup. He poured her more water. "There is a small hope that we could save her—if we drive out the creature that is in her. But it must be soon."

"Where did it--"

"The loper," she cut him off to answer. "I told you that_ drak'ha's_ can use higher animals. It must have sighted us and waited until we went into the ship. I was stupid to leave Myers alone!"

"Is that a touch of sympathy Dom?" he asked her. "That isn't very Reman of you."

"No, I'm sorry about the doctor. The loper would never have approached us unless we had something to attract it. I am not without heart. If we acted quickly the doctor might survive. You can't simply deal with these creatures like you would a serial killer or thief. I know that you want to believe that Fred but some things simply can't be."

He had mulled over that very notion. Dominique had told him about the nature of his enemy for the past month during the cruise. Watson had heard, but deep down he realized he didn't listen. He had not wanted to listen. Fred sighed and looked around. Dom had said that there was a chance to save Myers, slim though that seemed.

"You are fortunate to be alive, Fred," she commented.

"I…felt afraid," he answered, "and then I realized that she was making me feel that way."

"It was trying to feed," she told him. She sat up slowly. "May I have some coffee Fred?" He poured some out of his thermos for her. "That is probably what saved your life. I had thought that your mind would be resistant to a takeover. That is why Reed didn't kill you in Oklahoma."

"Okay what is next?" he asked. He thought that he knew the answer.

"The creature will be stronger in a more organized mind. I don't think that it will go back into an animal's body. I cannot sense anything, but Myers is probably out there watching us. We believe that_ drak'ha_ retain their life experiences. That means that we are probably being hunted by something that knows this planet, has hunted in many other lifetimes and does not want to see us return to the settlement."

"Oh…joy," he said. He finished his coffee and stared into the fire. "So you think that we can isolate this thing and get the_ drak'ha_ out?" She replied in the affirmative. "Then we can do that for Reed."

"There is no more Malcolm Reed, Fred," she said. "And my plan is just an idea based on data from the Romulans. What are you going to do Fred; go to your superiors and tell them that you need to arrest a naval investigator, take him to an isolated and secure area and drive an energy being out of him? I'm not even sure that will work."

"Well, we know that Reed picked this thing up here." He scanned the darkness surrounding them as he spoke. "Those fellows in that spaceship must've been carriers." Watson didn't like the way that this was going. "Okay, we test out your theory on the doc." Fred sighed. Myers might live, but he had his doubts about that. It was sounding more and more like the ultimate solution was a cold blooded execution of Reed.

"What about Jack the Ripper?" he asked. "Did he just go away or what? How many of these things are there?"

"How many humans are there?" she asked in reply. "_Drak'ha_ are nomadic. Your ripper might be one of these creatures or maybe a different one altogether. They do return to what they see as fertile hunting grounds. Earth would be that as you are still unaware of what you face. It's possible that the ripper left after feeding. Even ancient man would have realized something after a series of these attacks."

"The restoration of law just after the Post Atomic Horrors," he said. "There was a spree of killings up until then. When people started dealing with the behavioral aspects of crime instead of blaming outside influences the crimes dwindled. When I studied criminology I always wondered why the murder rate dropped so sharply. None of the theories seemed like a good explanation."

"I thought the same thing when I was indoctrinated in earth history. I never suspected_ drak'ha_ involvement. But you are correct: the rate dropped very steeply. Perhaps several_ drak'ha_ were there and after man restored law and order they found it untenable to stay."

Fred took out a map of the area and unfolded it. She moved over beside him to look at it. He spent several minutes studying the terrain. Eridani was a beautiful world. The continent that the outpost was set up on consisted mostly of arboreal plains, out of which several steep, rocky mountains sprang. Watson found few places for an ambush. The forest was teeming with lopers and a type of large, harmless simian creature. Either of which could act as a carrier for the Myer's parasite. Watson continued looking.

"Look at this depression," he remarked. "Jarvis Thorne said that a large meteor flattened that out less than a year ago. He said that the colonists thought that they were being hit by the Birdies."

He looked at her. "You said that this thing is experienced in hunting. Okay, we have to work that to our advantage. We passed just south of that. If we wanted to shorten the route back to the outpost we would've cut straight through there except that it's too deep for the crawler."

"Few large animals would hunt in there," Dominique remarked. "It is rocky but offers little in the way of cover. If the crawler broke down…"

"Yup," he said, "that is what I was thinking. Myers might attack us in there." Watson paused to think. "We'll follow the pattern. I didn't figure traveling by night so I'm guessing that Myers would find it strange if we did. You okay to travel?"

"I am whole," she answered. "I agree with your plan. I don't know if it is sensitive to my mind. If it thinks that I am just another human it might be more likely to move against us."

He grinned sheepishly. "I hate to ask, but can you put your radar in standby?"

"I can limit my sensitivity, if that is what you mean," she answered. "We might not have an advantage then."

"Okay-dokay," he answered. "It's a level playing field. We can leave the Doctor Strange stuff at the door."

Palermo, Sicily, the old European Hegemony, earth, Jul 2158

Database intrusion was becoming second nature for Admiral Erica Soames. When she had started her covert and illegal effort to fight the Sons' of Terra she hardly knew anything about being a spy. Soames had spent endless hours analyzing radar and sensor returns and studying images for tactical and strategic value. All of that had nothing to do with penetrating organizations, gathering information and using all of that to set about destroying that group. But she had learned. Erica could now sneak around a database with the best of them. That was how she had gotten into the former Naval Investigative Service, now Star Fleet Security Division's assignment roster. Malcolm Reed was here in Italy.

The major was tasked to investigate a local politician who was using his influence to charge extra credits on military supplies. Soames found the whole idea very mundane but then she remembered the United Earth Stellar Navy before the days of President Thorpe. She remembered unfilled requisitions for vital supplies, politicians turning military project credits into local spending sprees. There was a place for people who investigated such things. There was no place for murderers like Reed.

What would her father think? Soames was driving a stolen triwheeler up a twisting highway toward Palermo. She had dyed her hair black but allowed some gray to show through. Her trip had started as Admiral Erica Soames returning to her home in England. From there she had become a red head for a journey by local shuttle to southern France. Soames had changed to a blonde for the completion of her trip by hovership to Sicily. The car had been sitting unlocked near the arrival terminal. Erica had disabled its tracking system and took the car with only a brief flash of remorse.

She checked her directions against the car's antiquated navigation computer. Several roads had changed although Erica doubted that it was for improvements given their condition. Several times she had run over bone chattering ruts in the pavement. She had slowed to be cautious only to find that the locals were driving like it was a road race. But in spite of all she was near to her destination. She spotted a dirt road leading to a villa atop a hill. Soames pulled the car onto that and behind a sheltering stand of trees. She popped the car's wing like door.

The summer heat caused her to catch her breath for a moment. She opened the small travel bag that was setting on the seat beside her. She fished out a pair of binoculars. The needler that she had gotten off of a drunken street thug was beside the empty spot created by the glasses. The two decade old weapon had a folding stock that could make it into a small rifle. Not known for their accuracy needlers threw out a hail of fire. That is all she thought that she needed for Reed. She looked to the north looking for the squat form of a warehouse.

Erica rapidly became frustrated. No such building was evident. She spied some small delivery vans stopping at a particular location. That was it, she thought. Reed had told his office that he would start his investigation there. He had arrived late so Erica figured that she had some time to set the stage. Satisfied that she had found her target she got back into the car. It was late morning and the road was sporadically empty. She waited for a long pause in the traffic and pulled out.

Soames fancied that she was driving like an Italian as she wrung the three wheeler for everything it was worth. She passed and cut off an old man who responded with a very ancient and western hand gesture. Erica smiled, waved and blew the man a kiss. He faded in the background as Soames drew near to the small industrial park. Several villas and apartments bordered the narrowing street. Ancient Sicilian architecture mingled with twenty-second century utilitarianism. Soames liked the jumbled confusion. She spun the car into a parking area behind a villa.

Soames gathered her bag, wiped down the interior of the vehicle despite her wearing of artificial prints and got out of the car. She walked about fifty meters to another grouping of apartments. Erica had watched a young mother careen to a stop on an electric scooter. Her child was perched perilously before the girl. Erica was nonchalant as she watched the girl and her baby walk into an apartment. She stopped at a public comm access and dialed a number. It belonged to a Sons' of Terra supporter who had been quite vocal about using violence. Erica wanted to obscure things as much as she possibly could. There was no answer but that was fine. Reed drove by in a rented groundcar.

"Bloody!" she cursed under her breath. She had expected a few more minutes in which to set things up. She looked at the back of Reed's car and then to the abandoned scooter.

Reed's car rounded a corner. Soames sprinted for the scooter while silently thanking an old boyfriend who liked to ride two wheeled contraptions. The girl had even left a helmet. It fit Soames tightly. She mounted the scooter and hit its simple push button starting system. Erica put her bag into the mother's makeshift baby carrier. She retracted the kickstand, shakily balanced herself and sped off. Her body remembered how to turn. She hated the flamboyantly marked black and pink helmet. It distorted her peripheral vision. She sped down a narrow alley while getting her bearings. The politician's warehouse was coming up. So was Major Reed.

Everything slowed for Soames. Reed was holding one of Star Fleet's new experimental hand lasers. It had looked like an overgrown electric shaver with a pistol grip Soames had thought. Reed was smiling as Erica leaned the scooter over. There was a flash. A burst of heat flashed across Erica's back. She barely righted the bike while reaching into her bag.

In a flip of the wrist and flourish that would have made an ancient American cowboy jealous she opened the needler's stock. Erica pointed the weapon toward Reed and squeezed the trigger while twisting the throttle. The scooter accelerated bringing its front wheel off the ground and nearly throwing Soames. Reed had been hiding beneath an awning. The stone wall of the building behind him exploded in dust as the slim needles rained into it. Soames brought the scooter to a sideways skidding stop.

Reed was swiping at his eyes but held the laser level in her direction. Erica twisted the throttle causing the bike to spin around and take off. She fired another burst of the needler toward Reed as she felt a searing pain across her shoulder blades. Erica had what seemed like a minute to watch the awning collapse onto Reed. Angry onlookers ran out of stores. A bottle hit Soames' helmet. She was thankful that she had decided to wear it. Erica raced away, narrowly missing a large stone that was hurled at her.

She had a plan to get back to America, if she could avoid the Polizia. This round had gone to Reed she groused bitterly. Somehow he had realized that she was hunting him. But as distasteful as this whole business was she knew what had to be done. She raced the stolen scooter out into the countryside while considering her next move. Soames drove off the pavement onto a winding country road.


	41. Chapter 41

Riverside, Iowa, the old United States, earth, Jul 2158

Riverside, Iowa, the old United States, earth, Jul 2158

Augustus Kirk stared intently at the fluorescent bobber as it floated past him several meters away. The English River was low despite a recent rainy spell. Kirk absently waved at some gnats that were in a swarm before his eyes. He pushed his sunglasses closer to his eyes. It was the middle of the afternoon and almost thirty-two C. There were probably no fish to be caught but Debra had devised a fiendish chore list. Kirk sighed.

He supposed that he should help his wife given that he would be away to Tellar next month. Small ripples radiated out from the float. There would be time to install new cupboards in the pantry. Perhaps there was a hungry fish or two out during this time of day. He started to take up his fishing pole when he heard someone pushing aside brush behind him.

"You know honey," Kirk started, "I think we are overdoing the remodeling. Maybe after I'm done here, how about we go to Cawley's for steaks and a few beers?"

"My name is not honey," a flat, emotionless male voice replied. "I do not eat meat but I might enjoy an alcoholic beverage with you Kirk."

Augustus didn't turn around. He looked at the float for evidence of more aquatic activity. He supposed that this visit was to be expected. Kirk had been dreading it. He had mulled over a hundred possible conversations in his head. Should he lie? Kirk shook his head. Perhaps Soval was here for something entirely different. He turned and looked at the Vulcan as Soval stopped to stand beside where Augustus was sitting.

The Vulcan was dressed in a nondescript dark grey suit with the letters and symbols of the Vulcan Diplomatic Delegation adorned on the right side of the jacket's front. Despite the heat of the Iowa afternoon it looked to Kirk like Soval was cold. Kirk looked down at the small cooler he had brought. It contained two bottles of beer buried in ice. He, bent over opened the lid, fished one out and offered it to the Vulcan. Much to his surprise Soval took the proffered beverage.

"Major Lasuda persuaded me to try this, Kirk," Soval said when he must have read Kirk's surprise. "It reminds me of a Vulcan grain. My people serve it cold at the end of a meal."

"Beer flavored oatmeal?" he asked in reply.

"Essentially, yes," the Vulcan answered.

Several minutes of silence pass. Kirk, usually adept at small talk found that his voice had dried up. He turned back to monitor the float. Kirk took up his fishing rod. He started to crank his line in when Soval told him to stop.

"Assuming that float is a perfect sphere its depth in the water suggests that some weight hangs from it." Kirk saw Soval looking out into the blinding, rippling glare of the water.

"There is a sinker on there," Kirk said. He rushed to explain. "It is a piece of lead that--"  
"I am aware of its function Kirk," Soval responded. "I studied fishing as it seemed from the writings concerning it that it was the closest thing to meditation that many humans ever achieved. But I did not come here to discuss fishing." Kirk thought that Soval was actually uncomfortable. "We Vulcans have not made many friends among you humans. I speak of personal associations and not the relations of our governments. Yet I had reasoned that I could count you as a friend Kirk."

"You can Smiley," Augustus answered.

"Then as a friend you would not withhold information from me," Soval said.

"It can be a friend's duty to withhold information that might be hurtful too." Kirk sighed. He put the rod back into its holder and grabbed the second beer.

"Are the Romulans offshoots of my people, Kirk?"

Augustus was taken aback by the Vulcan's candor. He knew that the information was being shared by as few as possible. It surprised Kirk who thought that Soval would be told as he was the hotshot in the selection for prefect. Kirk looked at him and nodded.

"They never told you I see," Kirk said. "Who did?" Kirk listened while Soval told of his meeting with the Star Fleet officer Stiles. "So she came to blackmail you more or less?"

"My time among your people has allowed me to understand many of your colloquialisms. Stiles did indeed plan on blackmail. Is there a plan to stop the war; to force a settlement without attacking Romulus?"

"President Thorpe and the allied leaders believe that the only hope for the federation is from preserving the secret and bringing Vulcan onboard. He thinks—and so do I, that there won't be an alliance once the secret is known."

"You have a bite," Soval said. Augustus looked at him and then at the bobber. Small waves were radiating out from it. Kirk put his beer down and took up the pole. "Stiles is right." Kirk nearly dropped the pole. "This war must be concluded, even at the risk of your president's vision."

"That could be hard on your people Soval," Kirk said.

"Sparing these Romulans could be…hard as you call it on every race in this quadrant. This is an enemy that won't stop. They won't relent and they can't see the reasonable solution to a problem. Do you understand that even after the initial nuclear carnage on Vulcan the ancestors of the Romulans didn't stop? They continued because they had encountered resistance. Six hundred million dead on earth after your last war; our entire population was reduced to under ten percent of what it had been. Unspeakable acts were committed by the survivors. But none of that stopped the early Romulans, not until the coming of Surak."

"Look Smil—Soval, I have my doubts about this plan." Kirk took up the rod although he had lost his appetite for fishing. He stood up out of his chair. "For one thing it calls for the cooperation of the Romulans. But this is a gamble. You whipped our asses at poker. I happen to think you cheated--"

"Vulcans don't cheat," Soval protested levelly.

"Right," Kirk answered. "But my point is that this is the same thing. The stakes here are a lot bigger sure." Kirk had taken up the line. He felt a hard pull on it. "I can't predict the future. I don't know if Thorpe's federation will happen or even if all this planning will be for nothing. But if," Kirk started and looked around to make sure that no one else had strolled down the path. "If I understand you and Stiles, and I've read some of her proposals. You are talking about the killing of every Romulan. I'm not sure that we should be a party to that. I want to win and kick their asses as much as anyone. But some things have too high a price attached."

The float went under the water. Augustus jerked the rod back. He started to fight with his catch. Kirk's heart was not in it. He thought of the deaths of billions of Romulans. Sure there was hatred there. But what would the people, the men and women who exterminated an entire race, what would they be like? He mentioned his thinking to Soval.

"The Romulans may not offer you a choice, Kirk." Soval watched as he reeled in his catch. "I believe that I understand what you mean. Circumstances may dictate otherwise. You must convince the Romulans of your resolve and I do not believe that is possible. Even if you succeed you leave future generations a dreadful curse. They will be back. As soon as they have rebuilt and find an advantage and see a weakness they will be back. Their vengeance will know no bounds."

The fish flopped in the water. Kirk was surprised to see that it was a fair sized channel cat. He got into the fight in spite of the gloom that he was feeling. He kept the rod low and the tension on. Kirk continued cranking. He started toward the waterline to affect the final act of pulling the fish ashore. The wily cat had other ideas. It made a lateral move swimming upstream thus escaping the taut line. The fish's tail slapped the shallow water. The catfish's head went from side to side, somewhere in that motion expelling the hook.

"Damnit!" he cursed.

"It got away, Kirk," Soval declared dryly. Augustus watched in frustration as the Vulcan knelt by the water's edge. They both watched the fish swim away into the depths. "Perhaps that is it."

"Huh?" Kirk asked.

"You brought the fish near to being caught and killed and then it escaped." Soval gathered up a handful of water and looked at it. "Perhaps that is the solution for the Romulans. Bring them to the point of near total destruction and then create an escape."

Kirk recalled Thorpe's recitation of the findings of Cromwell and his crew, of Syrran's pointed lectures on his ancestors' brutality. Thorpe had repeated much of it for his benefit. Soval was right. He had seen it when the president had confirmed his suspicions and told him about the Romulans. He put the rod down and looked at the Vulcan. Maybe Soval was right about this.

"The president is desperately looking for an answer," Kirk said.

Soval turned his hand and let the water back into the English River. The Vulcan stood. "I have no specific military strategy in mind Kirk."

Kirk grinned. "That is why the president is smarter than the both of us. He has hired these smart men in uniform to figure these things out."

"Then I shall tell him of my…idea," Soval said. "I shall…ensure that your name does not come up. I thank you for telling me Kirk."

Kirk knew that Vulcans didn't like to be touched. Nonetheless he walked over and seized Soval's shoulder. "You're right: I should have told you. I'll get cleaned up and we'll go to see the president together. You called me a friend. That is what friends are for." He understood what Soval had told him about friendship and what it meant for a Vulcan. "I'm honored sir."

Soval cocked an eyebrow at him. "You should be Augustus."

Heliopolis, Alpha Eridani, the earth year, Jul 2158

Fred Watson was sore and beaten. The right side of his face was numb and swollen. He was nauseated and sensed that he was drooling. At least he was conscious. Fred sat up to see a concerned Dominique Catères looking at him. She had fared better since the denizens of the outpost had not chosen to beat the crap out of her. The former Doctor Dorothy Myers had one upped them.

The doctor had hiked up a fairly steep mountain. Not far, but enough to get into line-of-sight with the outpost emergency center. Myers had told them that two earthers had tried to kill her. The enraged colonists had worked to fix one of their fliers. They had caught Watson and his alien partner out in the rocky impact crater.

Watson's real, and Catères' faked credentials hadn't extricated them from the colonists' wrath. Many of the settlers took a dim view of authority figures. A part of Watson's mind concluded that that was why they had left earth for the wild. It was easy for them to see him and Dominique as two earthbound ruffians and the doctor as a victim. They had been captured and taken to the fliers' hold. Fred hoped that they would land soon. He was about to do something embarrassing.

"We are fortunate that we are alive," Catères said. "It was a good decision to resist them Fred. It concentrated their anger away from Myers." She looked around. They were locked in a cargo pod with their hands restrained by plastic straps. The only lighting was a dim backup red emergency light. Dominique pulled free hands out from behind her back. He gaped. "I still have some of my Reman strength and dexterity," she explained. She moved her arms back behind her when they heard voices. The container lid flew up bathing the container in harsh artificial lighting.

"You two bastards comfortable?" Jarvis Thorne asked. He shook his head. "I had a bad feeling about you two. Cops are always bad news. Can't you keep your murdering and thieving on earth?"

"We won't make any assumptions here, Jarvis," a male voice declared. Fred recognized Cameron Menendez. Menendez was a rancher and mechanic and a man who was the closest thing to a mayor or administrator that was on this world. Menendez ran a hand through his thick mane of jet black hair. His hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a ponytail. "I'll make subspace inquiries about you two. In the meantime we'll have to figure out a place to lock you up. We don't have crime here—or haven't until recently."

"This isn't what it seems sir," Watson said. He had been on the other side of a badge and knew to show some humility here. His authority was gone.

"What is seems like is two strangers abducting and trying to murder a respected citizen, Mister Watson." Menendez sighed and looked at him. "You don't look like a bad man but why would Dotty tell such a story? How did she get hurt? Do you have a better explanation?" Fred looked at him and blinked. He guessed that the alien entity story wouldn't play well.

"And you miss," Menendez said as he turned to Catères. "You look like a refugee from a beauty contest. Do you have an explanation?"

"We are law officers Mister Menendez," she declared in a respectful tone. Watson watched as she stared into the older man's eyes.

"Yes," he replied at last. "You are law officers." Menendez looked at Thorne. "We should release them while we travel. What can they do in the flier?"

"You're the one who wanted them tied--"

"I don't know what they are up to but they are dangerous," a feminine voice interrupted. Myers stepped into view above them. Watson could see the mental spell break over Menendez.

"We aren't untying anybody until we get them to a lockup!" the rancher exclaimed. Dominique had been pushing him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as if waking.

"Are you alright to be here Dotty?" Thorne asked. Watson had to admire the man's character however misplaced his feelings were.

Myers stared at them. "I've seen decompressed spacers and radiation burns that sent some of my nurses off barfing. I'm okay Jarvis, thanks." She shook her head. "I just don't understand these two."

"Mister Menendez, we are starting down," a voice boomed out of an overhead speaker.

"We'll get strapped down," Menendez told the others. "Mike is a good pilot but this boat doesn't have a gravity web." He looked down at Watson and Catères. "Hopefully if we get shook up you won't break anything in there." He started to close the lid on them.

"Mike is circling and I've stood on the decks of a hundred ships' boats Cam," Myers told the man. "Let me have a minute with them, please." Menendez was about to protest but Myers was a respected figure here. Thorne shot her a look rife with concern but left them be. The two men went forward after gaining Myer's assurance that she would return to the passenger compartment soon.

Myers but not Myers smiled at them. The grin was cold and evil. "I've played this game while your people wore animal skins and were discovering fire. You can't be blamed for losing." Myers looked at Dominique. "You are not like this other one. This host has medical knowledge. Maybe I'll dissect you to figure out what you are."

"How many of you were there?" Watson didn't plan on losing this opportunity.

Her smile faded. "The other was stronger. It made it to earth. Soon, so shall I." The smile returned. "Your world is legendary among us, agent. We have feasted there many times. You should have seen the Dark Ages!" Myers eyed Watson playfully. For a second he felt like a bug in a killing jar. "I traveled with Vlad Dracula. Just being there to absorb the fear was a glut! Do you know what being impaled is like Watson? Perhaps I'll show you."

"You sound like a cheap horror novel," Watson answered quietly with a smile pasted on his lips. Myers hadn't heard him so she stooped closer to listen. Fred lunged as far as his bonds would allow. "Boo!" She jumped back.

"It must have been hard in an animal," he mused. "No intense passion, all instinct; you couldn't play things out. It was kill or be killed all for a brief taste of it, huh?"

"You cannot comprehend!" Myers hissed. Her face was a mask of rage. Gone was any semblance to a kindly old lady.

"Is the doctor alive?" Dominique asked. "We just wish to catch your…partner. He is creating mischief beyond murder on earth."

Myers recovered and smiled. "She is a young girl in a warm place. As to my companion; I shall not hinder its feeding. We are the stronger. It is our place to feed on inferiors."

"All talk," Watson interjected. "You are just another variety of crook. I'll be out of here and we'll get you. I wonder if we can drive you out of Myers? You were talking about dissection. That cuts both ways. I can't wait to see you on a slab being poked and prodded. Maybe we'll find some Pointies to work on you!"

Myers hissed and growled and dropped all pretense of being human. She raised her hands like an animal. "Kill you both!" she screamed. The cargo area lit up.

"What is going on?" Menendez's voice demanded.

She turned on him. "Kill you! Make you suffer!"

"Don't you have any original lines? You're nothing; you'll be back in the woods!" Watson bellowed; "scurrying around with all the other animals and you have the nerve to call us primitive?"

"You can come with us, cooperate," Catères said. "We'll see that you are not harmed. I'll see to that."

"What is going on?" Thorne's voice added to the melee.

Myers looked around wildly. She was caught, exposed to Menendez and Thorne. She screeched and dropped like an empty sack. Dominique sprang out of the cargo pod. Watson forced his way to his feet. He felt the plastic strapping around his ankles snap. He reeled as the aircraft's wing dipped. He saw Catères confronting an enraged Menendez and startled, confused Thorne.

"You can't run!" Watson shouted as he struggled to remain standing. He looked straight at the colony leader. "You can't jump to Thorne. You're screwed! We'll let the experts strap you to a table and see how you work. Maybe turn what is left of you onto the Birdies!"

"Kill you all!" Menendez screamed. He pulled out an old style revolver and swung the barrel toward Thorne. Dom tackled Menendez sending his bullet astray.

"Defend yourself you loud mouth!" Fred shouted at the storekeeper. Watson steadied himself on the lip of the container. Menendez threw Dominique off like she was a child. Watson used the rough metal of the pod's lip to saw out of his straps. Thorne slowly drew a plasma pistol out. Fred could see the man's confusion. Menendez stooped to recover his pistol but the flier's buffeting sent it skittering across the deck.

"Everyone hold still!" Thorne yelled in a surprisingly commanding voice. His plasma pistol was leveled toward all three of them. The flier hit some rough air sending the shopkeeper banging against a bulkhead. His pistol discharged in a flash. The flier seemed to turn and turn.

"I've lost primary hydraulics!" the pilot's voice announced over the speaker.

Fred leaped out of the container his feet connecting solidly with the rancher's midsection. Menendez hit an opposite wall making a resounding impact sound despite the padding. Fred looked back to see the source of the flier's trouble. Fluid shot out of a metallic line onto the floor of the cargo hold. Watson also spied Dom's kit of hypo darts.

He turned in time to see Menendez roll across the deck, recover his pistol and shoot at the shopkeeper. Thorne screamed, dropped his gun and grabbed at his arm above his elbow. Blood spurted out from between his fingers. Catères rolled into the rancher and seized his gun hand. Watson lunged for the kit. He loaded a dart into the receiver and turned in time to see Menendez gleefully choking Dom. The rancher's big hand was trying for a better purchase on Catères' neck. Watson aimed and fired.

He lunged forward kicking at Menendez's arm. The rancher's strength was running out of him like water out of a punctured bag. Catères peeled his hand away and slithered out from beneath her attacker. Watson felt the flier roll out. He loaded four darts into the receiver.

"You okay partner?" he asked Catères. She croaked in the affirmative. He could see red, raw marks on her neck. "Let's go." He led the way to the cockpit. Dominique stopped and settled Thorne.

Fred pushed the door open to see two startled pilots turn and gawk at him. "Is the hydraulic problem fixed?"

"Yes," one of them answered.

"Shutup Mike!" the other interjected. "That is the--"

"Does this thing have some kinda auto land?" he demanded.

"Yes," Mike said again whereupon Watson calmly shot him with a dart, followed by the other pilot. He moved between the two as their consciousness slipped away. A casual question to the rapidly fading Mike led him to the fliers' autopilot. Watson engaged it.

"I've anesthetized Myers," Catères announced. "I think that the_ drak'ha_ is still in Menendez." He motioned for her to help him pull the pilots out of their seats.

"I've got this thing in a circle," he told her. "It looks like it has vertol. I want to put down out of town. Is Myers alive?" Of course she must be if Dom had doped her.

"Barely," Catères answered.

"Who are you people?" a white faced Jarvis Thorne asked as he stumbled into the cockpit.

"We are cops you dumb ass!" Fred answered. "Now sit your happy ass back down somewhere while we land this thing." He wanted to slug the storekeeper but realized in the end that Thorne was trying to do the right thing.

"There's a clearing ten klicks north 'o the settlement," Thorn told them as he sat down and threw on a lap belt.

"Do we have to kill Menendez?" he asked Catères as he climbed into one of the pilots' chairs.  
The cockpit door burst open. A swaying Menendez leered at them. "Kill you both!" he slurred at them. Thorne's pistol was in the rancher's hand.

Catères looked at Fred. "We are out of control!" She screamed convincingly. "We are going to die!"

Watson had logged about a thirty hours in a Marine jumper. That is to say that he could fly about as well as a cow. Nonetheless he reached out, disengaged the autopilot, slammed the thrust levers full forward and jerked the control column forward. Menendez fell back screaming and ranting about murder. Menendez's gun discharged blasting a hole into the flight deck's ceiling. Everything not secure blew around in the mini tornado that the decompression had created. Catères continued screaming about their impending deaths. If he didn't regain control he thought that might be true. Thorne was mumbling and Fred realized that he was praying in an ancient, dead language.

Watson tried reconnecting the bird's autopilot. "Flight conditions prohibit autopilot use. Please consult your flight manual," a pleasant, mechanical female voice informed him.

"I don't have time you bitch!" he yelled.

There was a sound of inhuman wails coming from the cargo compartment. Fred found the PA system while fighting to control the flier. He announced in a voice not insincere that they were going to crash. The control column shook in his hand. A red light illuminated and the female voice chimed in telling him that the right engine was out. The inhuman voice screamed and begged to get off of the aircraft. Fred saw that they were upside down. He struggled to right the artificial horizon when there was one long drawn out scream that faded to silence.

"It's gone!" Dominique announced. She leapt forward into the other seat. Fred got the plane righted. A green light flashed on the auto controller board. Catères slapped the lever down. The flier steadied out.

"Where did it…"

"It exited Menendez without a host," she explained. "I wanted to try something like this but I hadn't planned on really risking our lives. According to," she turned and shot a glance at Thorne. "According to authorities that is how one is removed. Rather it is dead in the sense that we understand death, I cannot say."

"You examine everybody with a fine tooth comb partner!" he said. He studied the navicomp's position report. Catères meanwhile found the clearing on a computer chart. He punched in the position and told the autopilot to land there. The flier seemed to be responding.

"Okay," he said to Dominique when he had recovered. "Okay you win; I won't try to arrest Reed. I can see now that these things can't be treated like an ordinary crook. At least we think we have a strategy to deal with him." He hated the notion that wouldn't be able to make a righteous arrest, but he smiled nonetheless. "Hey, good job back there."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Good cop, bad cop with Mister_ Drak'ha,_" he answered.

"Thank you Fred," she answered. "You senses guided you into forcing the creature to expose itself. This one spent many human years in an animal. Flushing Reed out will not be as easy as this was."

The Sh'Raan class cruiser Mortax, The Topaz system, the earth year July, 2158

General D'Ston studied the images from the bridge viewer. The planet that the humans had named Eldila was marked by a triad of Romulan plasma cannon emplacements. Superior Vulcan technology would help here but victory would not come easily. D'Ston had decided in concert with his most experienced commanders to divide his force into three attack wings.

Careful study of Romulan defenses had shown, obviously, that the more concentrated defenses were toward the inner planetary belt. D'Ston was reminded of Andorian defenses in this regard. D'Ston's attack strategy was simple and logical. The center wing would make a feint toward the inner worlds while the other two attack groups would dismantle the weaker outer defenses.

"We are near to the exit point general," Lieutenant Talok reported. D'Ston's operations' officer had had a good future with the High Command. That was until the coming of Syrran. Much would change now, much that D'Ston had reservations about. "The outer wings are altering their headings to engage the bases on Eldila and MelKaluch."

"We can generate a sympathetic harmonic that should temporarily obscure their sensors general," Sub Commander E'Ton reported.

"What is your estimate for the effectiveness of such a ploy E'Ton?" he asked the sensor officer.

"The humans assess their adversary's subspace sensor capability as very basic general," she answered. "We concur with this estimate. Even so the harmonic will only be effective for perhaps three hundredths."

"The vessels Salus and Vizak are engaging the cannon emplacements that the humans have labeled Omaha." Talok's face was pressed against the sensor hood. His fingers made deft, yet predictable inputs into Mortax's computer. The view switched to the battle.

The Sh'Raan class Salus maneuvered until D'Ston almost lost sight of it amid the vista of the gray rocky world beneath. Pinpoints of lights made a patchwork beneath the cruiser's silhouette. D'Ston was not surprised to find that missiles were rising to strike at Salus. Particle beams lanced out destroying several of the missiles. Vizak glided past its companion ship. Bright white plasma rocketed out from Eldila.

Perhaps they had been wrong in their estimate of Romulan capabilities. Vizak shields lit up after a direct hit from warp driven plasma. Missiles bypassed Salus to engage the stricken cruiser. Vizak fired a volley of particle beams toward the surface. A great white flash followed one of the beam's scorching hit. A second blast of plasma hit Vizak destroying a third of its drive ring. Vizak fired again at the surface. A mighty eruption of light followed. A plasma cannon emplacement was no more. But D'Ston looked on in distress as Vizak exploded; a victim of a virtual rain of missiles.

"We shall have to modify the plan E'Ton," D'Ston told his aide. Major Taan had elected to stay among the humans. He had given D'Ston no explanation and only a cryptic warning concerning what he might see here.

"Order the flanking wings to make warp passes," D'Ston said.

"Enemy attack wings organizing for a resistance general," Talok informed him. "One hundred and ninety eight enemy warships accounted for," he added.

Great odds seemingly; D'Ston's force of thirty eight ships was all that remained of the once powerful High Command Navy. Yet he knew that his ships held an advantage in power, speed and technology. And his mission was to weaken the defenses here prior to the arrival of the allied forces, no more. He was still puzzled by Taan's orders relayed from the prefect, which had ordered them here before the rest of the Star Fleet.

D'Ston watched Salus enter warp. A cascade of Romulan missiles exploded one after the other in its path. The cruiser burst back into normal space, or rather the three pieces of it did. The broken, glowing hot bow of Salus rolled through space. The rest of the once mighty Sh'Raan class was hardly distinguishable as a starship.

"They seem to possess knowledge of our warp entry equations," E'Ton said.

"Incoming communication on_ k'al_ frequency, general," a technician informed him. "Direction indicates that is being sent from Topaz Prime. The transmission has a video overlay general."

"The Romulans?" E'Ton asked. Nothing in their data had suggested that the Romulans had ever spoken with their enemies.

"Perhaps they see the futility of this conflict," D'Ston declared. "Ensure that no computer virus is in the transmission and if it is clear put it on the main viewer."

An image appeared. D'Ston had been a soldier and explorer for all of his adult life. He had seen many things. Logic and the cold equations of science explained many of the wonders that he had seen. Fighting with the Andorians had showed him a vivid demonstration of cruelty. Yet here was an image that left him speechless.

"I am Colonel Satei of the Romulan Imperial Navy," the being on the screen stated. "I greet you my brothers! I ask for no quarter yet I must know why you align yourself with the prey? Do you not see that it is our destiny to rule over these inferiors?"

Was this a deception? The Andorians had tried such. Yet the being who addressed him did so in D'Ston's tongue. He asked Satei to explain himself. D'Ston also muted the transmission long enough to give the orders for his ships to proceed inward. The outer wings were encountering stiff resistance.

"Do you not recognize your brothers?" Satei answered. "I have studied your career General D'Ston. You are not as the Syrranites. You believe in the superiority of our blood though you do not voice that opinion. We are the descendents of Careaza!"

"The Murderer?" D'Ston asked. For Vulcan history labeled few of its characters with negative or positive attributes, except in this case of Careaza the Murderer. Ancient texts spoke of how this one leader had brought them to the brink of destruction. "This cannot be. Those ships could never have made the journey to Romulus."

"The Gods of old favored the strong, general," Satei answered. D'Ston saw the golden helmet tucked under the colonel's arm, the martial uniform, the metallic weave and gloves. The few surviving images of those who had marched beneath the raptor's wings came back to him. "Do you doubt the evidence of your senses D'Ston? Do you doubt what your logic must be telling you? Apart we are two great but dispirited races. Together we can be great…again."

The great raptor emblazoned on their ships, the wanton manner in which they had attacked the humans; these things crystallized in D'Ston's consciousness. Taan's warning, now the meaning behind it became clear. The odd, illogical manner that Minister V'Las had shown before his death; he must have known. D'Ston stood up out of his command chair. He surveyed his bridge crew. He saw the emotion there; the emotion of shame and humiliation. Vulcans had wrought this horror for the humans and their allies. Now they were presented with this shadow of the past. All of his force commanders were seeing this he knew.

"Once your ancestors nearly destroyed us," D'Ston replied calmly. "We expelled you lest you murdered us all. It seems that you have not learned much in the ages since. It appears that you have not changed since your expulsion. That is unfortunate. My mission is now clear for me Colonel Satei. I must apologize. None of us can leave here colonel." D'Ston severed the transmission from his chair.

"It becomes clear E'Ton," he told his operations' officer. "We cannot allow this abomination from our past to continue. Continue to execute my orders. Notify the attack group. All Romulan ships and stationary defenses in the system are to be destroyed; no matter the casualties. Do you understand sub commander?"

"I am relaying your orders now general," he answered.

Vulcan cruisers tore through their opposition. Badly outnumbered, their particle beams made short work of the Romulan Sabinus and Veronus class ships. Single Vulcan ships warped through groups of twenty and thirty Romulan ships. The Romulans suffered badly as they lost a third of their ships in minutes. But their superior numbers told on the Vulcans.

A Surak maneuvered clear of a group of Sabinus cruisers. Another group of Romulans turned and fired massed plasma cannons at the Surak. The Vulcan's shields gave way within seconds. It fired its particle beams in vain. More plasma fire cut the Surak into four molten pieces.

Three of the great Vulcan ships were swarmed with missiles. Multiple nuclear explosions battered at their shields until they were vulnerable. Other marauding Sh'Raans concentrated their fire on ground batteries. The cannons on Eldila fired until a concentrated blast of particle beams turned the emplacements into a nuclear bomb. But the Romulans learned. They brought the Vulcan ships out of warp by littering their paths' with missiles.

Mortax had fought its way clear to Topaz. A debris field of twisted molten debris lay behind the Sh'Raan. Two more Vulcan ships followed at a distance. Mortax rained down particle beam fire onto the defenses of Topaz. One by one the Romulan weapons fell silent. The once green verdant surface was already becoming choked with dust and debris. The surviving orbital batteries defended their base.

The Sh'Raan maneuvered to avoid a flight of Romulan missiles but did not avoid fire from three plasma cannons. Shield emitters exploded on the hull of the graceful arrow shaped vessel. Its smooth hull was pitted, burned and blackened. Its drive ring left a trail of metal as it angled closer to the surface of Topaz.

Elsewhere the Romulans must have realized that their superior numbers were not helping them. Their great force of ships was less than half of what it was. Destroyed orbital defenses floated weightlessly. They had been reduced to glowing radioactive debris. Romulan ships starting making suicide runs against the Vulcans.

A mixed group of nine Veronus and Sabinus cruisers fought a single Vulcan Surak. The Surak quickly dispatched two of the Romulans and left a third badly damaged. Three of the Romulan survivors jumped to warp directly into the path of the Surak. Two of those were destroyed in warp. The third collided with the Vulcan cruiser splitting the Surak into two pieces which then exploded.

"Svarem, what are the damages," D'Ston asked the technician. Svarem was a recent graduate of the High Command's rudimentary training program. He was now first officer since the deaths of most of D'Ston's bridge staff.

"Engineering no longer responds, general," the youth told him. "The operations' monitor shows that our warp drive is damaged possibly destroyed. "There are decompressions reported from seventy three percent of the outer stations. Shields are gone since the emitters have been destroyed. I am receiving a message from deck nine, weapons section that there is one functional particle beam emitter left." D'Ston forgave Svarem because of his inexperience. The status board showed that Mortax's engineering section was decompressed and lethally radioactive. No one would ever respond from there again.

"Helm answering general," Technician Tal reported. She too was a recent graduate from the High Command's most basic military training course. "That suggests that we have at least partial impulse."

"One surface installation remains general," a nameless sensor operator reported. "It is their primary--"

"Warp core breach is imminent," a calm, mechanical male voice announced. D'Ston understood that the computer was making the announcement. There would be no engineers to respond to Mortax's impending destruction.

D'Ston climbed out of his seat and hobbled over to the communications' station. He had shut down the nerve impulses from his right leg. A piece of shrapnel had penetrated his knee. He supposed that his leg could have been saved.

"Tal, alter our heading for the surface installation," he instructed the pilot. He calculated the time until warp core breach and instructed Tal to hold for his mark. He opened a channel to what remained of his forces.

"This is General D'Ston," he announced over the encoded frequency. "Our final duty is clear before us. This vestige from our savage past must be removed. The cost of doing so is no longer a consideration. Those who survive will do whatever is called for to remove the Romulan forces here."

"Our world has changed. Many of us will not be able to change with it. Such is the nature of growth, the cycle of life." D'Ston looked at his bridge crew, so young and yet they showed no fear. They held their emotions in check. "My associations with you have proven fruitful. It has been…an honor for me to command you; live long and prosper." He turned away to Tal. "Engage."

The great bulk of Mortax sliced through Topaz's atmosphere. The Vulcan cruiser's hull glowed first red and then white. The light from the superheated metal lit up the remains of a small unkempt farm. An old tractor stood where its engine had lost power. Delicate chimes sounded as a light wind blew the remains of an owl shaped wind ornament. The small sound soon became overwhelmed by the leading edge of Mortax's air displacement.

The Vulcan cruiser roared overhead. The earsplitting blast of the ship's sonic boom drowned out any other sound. The few trees and grasses that had recovered from the Romulan attack were flattened. A split second before Mortax plowed into the soil of Topaz its warp core breached. The explosion first pulverized and then incinerated the Romulan base below.

The resulting explosion spread out from the base. The small wooden farmhouse was caught in a conflagration of wind and heat. The house's windows blew in and the roof peeled away to become a projectile. A great mushroom shaped cloud climbed into the sky within sight of the house. The wind settled down. The chime, still somehow surviving, fell to the floor of the porch.

Star Fleet Heavy Cruiser Excelsior, First Star Fleet, entering the Topaz system, Aug 2158

"We're receiving the final reports from the lead surveillance Minotaurs, admiral," Captain Nakamura's electronically rendered voice reported. Maxwell Forrest acknowledged the call and informed his XO that he would be out momentarily. He switched off the connection.

"Why?" he asked. He looked hard at the office's only other occupant. Major Taan was sitting but still looked rigid and controlled.

"You got what you wanted admiral," the Vulcan answered. "Topaz has been liberated and your entire fleet is intact. Without knowing the exact logistics situation on Romulus one might conclude that your forces are now poised for victory."

"None of your forces survived!" he exclaimed. He stood up out of his seat and balled his fists.

"Please admiral, contain your emotion," Taan said. "Prefect T'Pau could not govern in the shadow of the High Command. That organization was antithetical to the philosophy of Surak. It would not just fade away admiral. The prefect's solution was both logical and eloquent. Your forces were aided, Topaz is clear and the last of the High Command is no more."

"You're talking calmly about the deaths of almost forty thousand of your people, sir," he retorted.

"I regret each and every one of those needless deaths Admiral Forrest. I regret that the Romulans chose to start a war. I mourn for your people who died on the colony here. But I could not prevent any of that. Consider their sacrifice and mourn their loss admiral. But do not disdain that which they did." Taan conducted himself as if he were giving a lecture.

"Remove the emotion from the problem admiral. Prefect T'Pau had a problem with the vestiges of the High Command. Star Fleet had a problem with the Romulans on Topaz. Both of those problems are now gone."

Max took a deep breath. Taan was right. He should have known that this was going to happen. The president had been cloistered in with Syrran and T'Pau. When Thorpe had told him that he would have the cooperation of the High Command it had seemed like the president was holding something back. He supposed that it was a Vulcan thing. Would thirty thousand Vulcan soldiers really have been that disgruntled? Was death the only solution for them?

"They would never have fully acclimated to the new Vulcan," Taan told him, seeming to sense his thought. "Could you, Forrest lay down your weapons if men turned to pacifism?"

"Actually that is every human soldier's dream major," he answered in a soft voice. "And I rather fancy myself more of an explorer Taan. The Romulans have decided my career plans lately." He doubted if Taan had been told about the Romulans. Forrest motioned for him to follow him to the bridge.

The Vulcan stood up. "I hope that you can return to exploration admiral."

Me too, he thought as he led the Vulcan down the passageway to Excelsior's bridge. Forrest stepped inside the darkened bridge. His ears instantly picked up the hubbub of reports coming in from Minotaur patrol sweeps. They had arrived here less than four hours ago. They had since found nothing alive, no Romulans, Vulcans or human survivors.

Forrest caught the end of a garbled transmission. Transmissions were improving as the radiation level dropped back to something approaching normal.

"Zilch for here too, Excelsior," a nameless pilot announced. "I've over flown the old colony's central hub. Something big went off on the surface; like three or four Grand Slams all going off at once. There are some metal and organic readings further out; nothing on what those are yet; probably whatever was left of our colony."

"Can we put down a security contingent?" Captain Yoshi Nakamura asked.

"Radiation is the short half life stuff command," the voice answered. "I'd say you could put our guys down but I wouldn't get anywhere within two hundred klicks of the old hub."

"Acknowledged," Nakamura answered. "Continue your sweep and advise of your findings." The captain bowed his head and cut the connection.

"I suppose that life boats are ruled out?" Forrest asked.

"Since you've ordered the patrols to go to search and rescue mode they haven't found anything." Nakamura slammed his fist into the console; "Nothing bigger than a maintenance access hatch!"

"Chief Harris?" Forrest asked the NCO manning the sensors.

Harris shook his head. "Radioactive debris and trace gases," he reported; "no active power sources, no subspace fields, nothing. I've overlaid the findings from Intel with the battle damage assessment. The batteries on Eldila and MelKaluch are gone. Orbital batteries are gone. There are metal fragments that read like the typical hull composition of Birdie and Vulcan cruisers, but no large pieces of debris. These guys put up one hell of a fight admiral."

Forrest tugged at his gold command jersey. Even with laser measuring devices the fit was still off. He walked over to the vacant command chair and sat down. Nakamura must have ordered video from outside to be displayed on the viewer. As Excelsior rounded MelKaluch the scalding rays of Topaz illuminated a glittering mass of metal fragments. All that remained of the ships and crews that had fought here. Max felt like some king from the ancient days; presiding over a field of death. Taan took up a position beside his chair. Nakamura joined him on the other side.

"I'm sorry for you loss major," the captain told their Vulcan guest. Taan bowed his head and accepted the human gesture. "I wanted to win here….but not like this."

The bridge was silent. The worst thing, Max thought, was that Taan was right. Looking at this from a coldly logical viewpoint this was a victory. The High Command fleet was no more but up until the last few months the attack on Topaz was going to be a primarily allied affair. These same allies now had an intact force of ships with more on the way. Unless the Romulans were turning their industrial output around then victory was indeed in sight. But was it the victory that the president had asked him to seek?

Forrest had a war to win. "We have to be careful," he said. "They can come around at us from another direction—but we can start to mitigate that threat now. The Birdies are before us. Now we can take them on at a time and place of our choosing." He stood up out of the chair. "Move the troops in. Send the beachers down to the surface. We are here to stay."

Krocton Segment, Romulus, the earth summer of 2158

Tarang Gupta had been practicing with the long knives. He had gotten over the fact that these same knives had been used to cut up Amof. They really were deadly sharp. He followed them casually with his eyes as he worked the audience into a minor frenzy. He was glad that it was approaching winter here. He hated to think what juggling the knives with sweaty hands might cause. It helped that T'Pol had taught him some Vulcan concentration techniques.

"My uncle once dropped one of these between his legs!" Gupta exclaimed. "He isn't the same anymore since he lost a little something. But we still keep him around." His other mind as Vulcans called it monitored the spinning blades and coordinated his hands as he spoke. He caught one after the other in his hands. The last he caught between his knees. The male Romulans in the crowd winced and then laughed.

Gupta took up a blade as T'Pol reentered the stage. Some of the crowd started shouting questions at her while a few made some boisterous and rather lewd comments. She held a basket of_ pela_ fruits.

"The wonderful thing about my craft is when my mate gets angry with me!" T'Pol picked out a fruit, made an exaggerated wind up and threw the fruit at Gupta. He flipped a knife in the air and neatly bisected the citrus like fruit. They repeated the act to drive home just how sharp the knives were. "It saves me from getting hit in the head!" Gupta made some theatrical dodges and weaves, apparently just missing being smacked in the head by flying produce.

A few of the male Romulans laughed. Apparently although this society was heavily male dominated it seemed like the females had managed to rule in many of the households. Gupta imagined that it had always been so but also understood that Romulan women were moving into typically male professions as more males went off to war. Gupta juggled some more, letting the knives land point first to imbed themselves in the stage. He stopped and bowed to raucous cheers. Gestures of respect and thanks paralleled many of those done on earth and Andor. Gupta and T'Pol left the stage.

The crowd cried for more but gradually broke up as they had been one of the troupe's last acts. Tarang guessed that Kaphir and Altena had been working the crowd in a different way: separating luckless spectators from their thrones. He peeked out from behind the stage to see a small fight break out over a lost cash pouch. Cruel looking monitors used pain wands to break up the fight. The Romulan version of policemen would receive a cut of the booty from Pakesh.

Pakesh walked up to them with his customary smile. Gupta remembered that he had killed with that same smile on his lips. "We are going to the capital!" the troupe leader cried.

Gupta looked at T'Pol. He had thought that this was as close as they were going to get through the gang of criminals. Passage into Kalenara City was as difficult as Gupta had read that going from country to country on earth had once been. Pakesh had been to Kalenara as a scholar and once as a member of the Criminal Guild, but no more than that.

"How did you mange that?" T'Pol asked.

"Why, you did it Promise," he answered. "And you Tarack; we were selected with two other troupes to entertain the senators. It is quite an honor. Not very lucrative, squeezing politicians is dangerous to one's health. Of course there will be blood screenings and identification seals to be made."

"A once in a lifetime opportunity," T'Pol remarked. Gupta was glad that she had been able to meditate and center. The news about Surak had been a shock but that had not proven enough to shed a lifetime of control.

"We celebrate tonight!" Pakesh declared. "But we must work like_ mil'n_ in the dawning. We wouldn't want all of the great folk to see us unwashed!" He went on to tell the rest of the gang.

T'Pol looked around to see that they were alone. "It'll be like entering a type of jail from what they have said. We shall have to break from the troupe after we get there."

"I think that we should let things play out there," he countered.

"And do what?" she asked; "become criminals?"

"I don't know yet!" he hissed. "I just know that this activity of ours worked better when we took advantage of events rather than forcing things."

"This is not my home," she said, choosing not to say the word Vulcan. "Karzan lives in a guarded fortress. Rumor has it that he is little more than animated flesh being operated by some controller."

"We must find the_ man_ behind the curtain," Gupta remarked.

"Find out who is in control of the praetor and act against that person?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," he answered. He looked around to confirm that no one was listening. "I think that the Romulan solution seems to be to kill someone. The_ Vulcan_ solution is probably as absolute. I think that what is called for here is a_ human_ solution." He felt along the curve of one of his pointed ears. "I begin to wonder if the good admiral has any plans to reverse this," he said meaning his genetic change.

"I have been considering the same possibility Tarack," she said. She reached out and touched his face. "Perhaps it is logical and necessary that we die here; if it stops this war."

"That's what I meant by a different solution," he said. "I'm afraid to die but I understand that that might happen. I don't want to see you die." He leaned in and kissed her. "There has to be another alternative."

"_Human_ optimism," she replied slowly. "We never really understood that; how men could remain positive in the face of a problem with no logical solution."

He laughed. "Sometimes we have just acted. It wasn't always logical and it didn't always produce good results. Perhaps we need your people's discipline."

"Perhaps we need you optimism," she retorted. He gave her a look of surprise. She seldom admitted that Vulcans were anything but perfect. She looked away from him. "I need to help Haldur pack up the canvas."

"I promised Pakesh and Elcan that I would help with the dawning's receipts," he said. Gupta thought that T'Pol was the logical candidate to help with the troupe's accounting but Pakesh seemed to have taken an interest in grooming Tarang for a position in the guild. Gupta had also run PanPac as part of his cover on Vulcan. He had run the produce company's Vulcan operation showing a tidy profit. Perhaps he did have some business acumen he thought. He kissed her full on the lips. "I'll see you later tonight."

They went their separate ways. Gupta stopped to help A'Zir tear down a support for Kaphir's magic booth. Tarang really did no more than steady the beam while the muscular A'Zir did the heavy work. The big Romulan grunted his thanks at him. He wondered if surgeons could restore his vocal cords; Gupta thought that at least they would try to do so, on earth. The Romulan stalked away with a shoulder full of beams and guide wires. Tarang turned and almost ran into Altena. She smiled at him. She was dressed in a dreary gray cloak.

"I was hoping to see you tonight Tarack," Altena told him. "Will you be my partner for_ T'flal_?"

"I will," he said. He found that he enjoyed the Romulan game that he had nicknamed liar's chess. Played with three teams of two much of the game was based on bluffing. Opponents had clues about the other teams' movements but had to narrow down those guesses to make decisive moves. He and the Romulan girl had made several thrones from the others while playing the game.

"That is well," she said. "We will clean out the pouches of our friends!" She looked up at him and parted her cloak slightly to retrieve something from an inner pocket. She was quite naked beneath the cloak and he knew that she wanted him to see that. "I saved this for you!" she said as she handed him a small box.

It looked like a device of some sort he thought as he turned it over in his hand. "What is it?"

"I don't know. You are clever," she answered not too truthfully. "I got it out of the pocket of one of Amof's monitors. I saved it for you." Gupta liked to think that he was clever and guessed that in some ways he was. But this piece of technology would be better served in the big hands of A'Zir. The device's controls were quite small and he noted, quite complicated. "Maybe you can figure out how to make something of it."

"I don't know," he said. "Perhaps you should give it to Pakesh. He'll probably reward you for it."

"Pakesh is very generous," she answered. Altena looked up at the dusky night. The first cold stars of night were appearing in Romulus' sky. "He would give me a throne or two. But I do not want any thrones. Pakesh speaks well of you. You might one day have your own gang." Altena reached up and touched his hair. It had grown quite long lately. "But I do not desire Pakesh's generosity." He put the device in his pouch.

He was silent as he was afraid of what she did desire. The Romulan had made no attempt to close her cloak. In fact she moved quite close to him. Gupta wanted to step away but did not want the girl's contempt. Survival in the gang had come at the price of cooperation and acceptance. He remembered Chief McCoy speaking of the negative effects of rocking the boat.

"Pakesh has been lucky in taking us all in," she remarked. "Many gangs stay close through family ties. We could go off on our own. I have some thrones saved. We could buy a small dwelling; perhaps farm until our children are older. I could bear you many children Tarack."

"Me and T'Pol are…" he started and drifted off. Her hand drifted down along his neck.

"She is cold and unloving," Altena told him. She smiled again, reached down and closed her cloak. "I am jealous but you will come to me Tarack." She kissed his lips. Tarang had to admit that she had an affect on him. He instantly felt ashamed but part of him realized that he was reacting as an emotional, hormone driven being. She giggled and left him to do her tasks.

Gupta recovered and made his way to the small home that the gang had rented to conduct business. Whatever reason he was here on Romulus, Tarang suspected that it was not to become a hard working farmer, chasing after his and Altena's children. He entered the small common area to find Elcan sorting currency.

"F'Lil's lumber and supplies were costly," the Reman told him. He handed a long, stiff, paperbound book over to him. Gupta's eyes scrolled down the figures. The riot had been costly. The gang had barely broken even.

"The harbor controller discounted fuel to us," Gupta told Elcan. He retrieved a receipt from his pouch. "Pakesh agreed to rent ground from him…" Gupta realized that he had pulled out Altena's gift to him. He also saw that the Reman was transfixed by it. "Do you know what this is?"

"A controller," Elcan answered. He seemed unable to take his eyes off of the small disk shaped device.

"Altena…acquired it," he said. Gupta sensed that this was a time for candor. "She gave it to me."

The spell seemed to lift off of Elcan. "It is a controller for a galamide," Elcan said. Gupta could hear bitterness and dread in his tone.

"A galamide?" he asked, astonished. The electrically lobotomized Reman's who were made into such served only higher ranked Romulans. Besides Elcan, Gupta had not seen another Reman while he had been here. None in the crowds they had entertained were that high in Romulan society.

"Altena got it from one of the monitors," Gupta explained. He remembered the riot, remembered his and T'Pol's last discussion about the praetor. "Tell me something Elcan," he paused as he thought about this question. "Has this…has any Romulan…"

"A citizen, submit to the procedure?" Elcan asked bitterly. "Such an idea is…" Elcan looked at Gupta. There was a growing look of surprise on the usually expressionless Reman's face. "Such an idea is unthinkable."

"Unthinkable," Gupta remarked. "Unthinkable, like a riot against our soldiers is unthinkable?" Gupta pocketed the controller. "Something is going on here Elcan."

"Something best left unsaid," the Reman remarked. Elcan turned back to the task of counting. Pakesh entered the room in a flourish.

"Ah," the troupe leader remarked. "Here you are both stealing my thrones!" Pakesh laughed. "You will make a poor farmer Tarack! But Altena will make you an excellent mate!"

Gupta blushed. He wondered what else Pakesh knew. But then again the gang boss had been the first to tell Gupta about Altena's attraction for him. Gupta merely turned to help the Reman continue counting. Pakesh roared with laughter.

Norfolk, Virginia, the old United States, Aug 2158

"Tsk, tsk, Erica," Major Malcolm Reed admonished Erica Soames. He had sat down opposite her at a restaurant frequented by the officers and enlisted personnel of Star Fleet Security. Erica did not look at Reed.

The owner of the seafood restaurant left a beer for Reed and the order of steamed clams that Soames had ordered. "It's on the house admiral!" the portly black man told her. Soames had known him only as Terry and knew that this establishment had been in his family for at least three generations. "I do declare that it'll be a shame to see you people go. Won't be many of you shuttling over from Frisco for lunch," Terry lamented.

"Why not move to the bay?" she asked him. Soames and the rest of her people were being moved to the new Star Fleet Headquarters in San Francisco. Like many in the military it was just a move to Soames. But she understood that it would be hurtful to the locals.

"Oh, I'll do okay ad'mral," Terry answered. "My family is sitting on a bundle of credits. It's just that I'll miss you folks. So many of you like family," he said.

"I'll try to stop by Terry," she promised. He nodded and smiled and then begged their pardon as he went off to wait on some new customers.

"Next time Reed," she remarked nonchalantly.

He laughed. "That was clumsy and stupid of you. But there are more fingers pointing at SOT." Reed took a drink of his beer. He sighed and Erica sensed that he was dropping his arrogant attitude. "I've wanted to help you Erica. This new union of Thorpe's won't survive unless it is helped along. Can't you see that you are the good guy here Erica. Do you think that Mark Hawkins or Carson Maclaren cared one wit about their actions? Your conscience is exactly what makes you suited to be the shepherd."

She looked around the restaurant. A few college students were making noise and watching the vidcaster. The two of them might as well be alone for all the attention anyone was paying to them.

"You tried to murder Kanya," she said flatly. "You killed Frank's father."

"Miss Nayyar should care for her son and otherwise mind her business!" Reed spat. "As for McCoy, I told you my reasons. He was becoming weak. He hasn't the stomach that you and I have Erica."

Erica felt a sting at the remark. McCoy wasn't weak, he was strong. And that was the trouble. Sooner or later a good man like McCoy would have turned away from what they were doing. Right or wrong, she knew that Frank looked at how the results were achieved.

"He's a better man than you'll ever be," she retorted. "A better person than I'll ever be," she added. "What did you come here for?"

"To offer a truce," he replied. He looked around the restaurant. "The Sons' are almost gone. People are more liable to believe in astrology than to buy into the Sons' message. We must forget about them and be ready to move into the next phase."

"What might that be?" Soames asked. She wanted to bite her tongue but she was curious about Reed's thoughts.

"A few politicians are dragging their feet when it comes to the federation," he explained. "I suppose it is natural clannishness but there is also a fear: a fear of losing power. There are already a few of them lining up to make sure that the tax dollars stay on earth."

"Thorpe is going to turn the treasury over to the federation," she countered. "There won't be an opportunity for the locals to much of anything. I suppose you have an extreme solution?"

She couldn't bring herself to say murder. That seemed to be the major's solution for everything. He seemed to read her thoughts and responded by explaining his ideas.

"Nothing of the sort," he continued while passing a data wafer to her. It lay on the table top. Erica was unwilling to touch it. "Girardeau and Weems are both easily scandalized, so was Ratazzi. Your little play there almost finished a legitimate investigation." Reed was interrupted by a hubbub of voices.

Erica watched Terry turn the volume of the establishment's old vidcaster to maximum. Soames saw the image of a fresh faced newscaster who she knew had once worked for Carson Maclaren. The smarmy young woman now wore a United Earth flag in the collar of her severe light blue suit. Erica supposed that patriotism could be both a fad and a deep seated belief all at the same time. It just depended on who was pushing it.

"President Thorpe will speak on the announcement in just a few seconds," the reported said. Erica thought that that she wrinkled her prim little nose a bit at the mention of the president's name. "But to repeat what we've been told: Topaz has been retaken. We still don't--"

"Good afternoon to those in the western hemisphere," President Christophur Thorpe's pleasant but rather old looking image announced. Soames had to giggle at the obvious use of the president's communications' override that had cutoff the rather pompous young lady's transmission.

"Star Fleet Command has received this past hour, a maximum boosted subspace message from our forces at Topaz." Thorpe removed a piece of crisp, clean paper from an inner pocket of his suit coat. He read off of that. "Admiral Maxwell Forrest reports that an assault force, spearheaded by the last ships of the Vulcan Defense Forces engaged and defeated the Romulan forces occupying Topaz."

Soames knew the president well enough to see sadness on his face. "The death toll among the Vulcan forces was high: at just over forty thousand. No Vulcan and no Romulan ships survived. Star Fleet Security forces have landed on Topaz. Admiral Forrest says that we are there to stay this time." He folded the paper and put it away.

"This is an occasion for happiness and one for sorrow. Many of our friends have died, many more will die. Such is the nature of war. It is said among many cultures here on earth that one would never start a fight, but that person would finish it. To the Romulan praetor I say: we never started this fight, but we will end it. There is little chance for negotiation. That is my warning." Thorpe's grim look was replaced with a soft smile.

"To those here and across the galaxy it is a time for a celebration. But remember to honor those who made this victory possible. We have a moment's happiness. The soldiers have more work ahead."

Thorpe spoke for a few more minutes. The news was mostly good, cheery news that people needed to hear. He finished and was replaced by the somewhat miffed newscaster. She immediately set about reporting the dreadful loss of life and the horrible cost of the war. Terry turned the 'caster off amid shouts and boos.

"You've got to hand it to SOT," Reed said, "Even after all of this time they are still trying to pull defeat from the jaws of victory. Don't you see the need to do as we have been my dear?"

She stared at her drink and the clams. Erica's appetite was gone. Reed's proposition was tempting. Soames thought about history, about how many opportunities that had been flittered away over personal ambition and plain stupidity. Perhaps there was a place for a group to make sure that didn't happen. But that organization didn't need killers like the major. Soames smiled at him.

There were strong suspicions around some of her and McCoy's activities. People in high places, including the president, were asking questions. Erica had been thinking about simply ceasing operations. She looked at Reed again. It would be awfully convenient if the president's investigators found someone who had caused these things, someone who would accept the blame for the illegalities done against the Sons', someone who would be found dead, someone like Reed.

She pushed the wafer back to Reed without touching it. "Perhaps you are right," she said.

"You don't want the information then?" he asked her.

Soames smiled. "From a man who can obtain genetically coded poisons and such?" she asked and shook her head. "No thanks. You can zip the information to our data dump as we've done before."

He smiled his shark like grin. "Very well dear," he said. "I won't offer my hand, but we have a truce?"

She smiled and nodded. As far as you know, she thought. Erica was beginning to think about Kanya's speculation about the Doomsday Vault. Finding that would be the one thing to tie Reed to everything. That would be especially true if he died there.

Romulan Imperial Cruiser Riitraxa, near allied space, the earth year, Oct., 2158

"Centurion Baraza, is their carrier still unaware of us?" Admiral Valdore asked his bridge monitor. He still had little trust for his former protégé.

"I believe so admiral," the centurion answered. Perhaps Baraza had shed his allegiance to the Tal Shiar. How could he ever trust him again?

His bridge crew stood around the central control hub. The humans and their allies allowed for the installation of padded chairs to withstand changes in the gravity generators. It chafed Valdore when he thought of all the injuries Romulan bridge personnel had endured because of this stand on your feet design. Valdore walked around the hub and observed.

He paused to observe the formation of his N'Ela class ships. A fold in local space allowed Valdore's ships to observe a degree of invisibility. He had discovered that the Tal Shiar was expending funds to find a device that did that. While he thought that such a shield of invisibility was a worthy support he would rather have seen the people's tribute spent on things that would help the empire now.

Senator Vrax stepped into the command center. The politician looked small and old beneath an ill-fitting golden battle helmet. He greeted Valdore while taking in the situation. Valdore reckoned that Vrax had not seen combat in many tenturns. Yet it was a sign of the senator's character that he was in the command center at all.

"What is our intelligence on this ship?" the senator asked.

"We believe that it is the _Franklin Roosevelt_," Valdore replied. "That carrier is attached to their Taskforce 13."

"_Roosevelt_," the senator rolled the strange word over in his mouth. "He was an emperor of a nation state on old earth?"

"M'Lingla is in position admiral," Baraza announced. "Our forces are poised for the attack."

"Move to combat stations and report to me when that is complete," he told the centurion. Valdore turned back to Vrax.

"Very good," he said. "The nation was called the United States and it still exists on earth."

"Message from Velaza, my admiral," the centurion standing watch at communications announced. "Our lancer was unable to find the rest of the Triple Alliance's ships."

Valdore remained calm and acknowledged the message. He would have preferred to battle all of thirteen's carriers. The alliance carriers and their fighters had started making deeper forays into imperial space. Valdore had resigned himself to that after the loss of Gozai. Vrax walked over to lean against a support. Valdore joined him.

"The Vulcans repudiated us at Gozai," Vrax declared quietly. Valdore had made him privy to the intelligence that the only surviving ship had collected.

"I told the senate that now was not the time!" he whispered. "Preparation was needed, at least a tenturn's worth." He slammed a gloved fist against the bulkhead. "It is all immaterial now. Our only hope is that the Tal Shiar relinquishes the ships about Venador."

"Do you have a plan?" Vrax asked him.

Besides relying on a genetically modified human and a Vulcan woman? He could hear the senator's unasked question. He had no other answer, no schemes. He had looked at siphoning off ships when they rotated for yard work but the Tal Shiar proctors had taken control of the maintenance schedule.

"I thought not," Vrax concluded. He laid a gloved hand on Valdore's shoulder. "I have not lost faith in you admiral. No matter how great or mighty one is there is always a problem that is insurmountable. I also believe that there are facts that you are unaware of."

"What might those be?" he asked sharply. Valdore knew that information had value as power. He had always prided himself on gathering all available information before proceeding.

"I still have connections among the senatorial network." Vrax looked past Valdore to where a banner bearing their proud raptor hung from the bridge's aft wall. "There have been rumors of riots—anti military riots admiral."

"What?" he asked. Valdore was astonished. He had heard that there had been some disturbances but had put it down to the usual; poor work conditions, a food shortage or exorbitant pilfering being done by monitors. But no Romulan would rally against the Imperial Forces.

"Riots have broken out in several segments," Vrax explained. "Mostly directed at new soldiers and sometimes even returning veterans. There seems to be a growing anti military sentiment."

"Crews are at stations admiral," Baraza reported. "Missiles loaded and laser crews are reporting energized."

"Relay the message to the other ships," Valdore replied. "They will follow behind us as planned. Set engines to bend space at a time factor of 2.6." Valdore walked over to the commander's board. "Attack," he ordered.

Vrax stood bide him at an auxiliary station. Valdore swallowed against the wave of nausea that hit him as Riitraxa bent space for their targets. They would be in range of Triple Alliance sensors too soon, but he had planned for that. Valdore watched as the carrier's escorts fanned out in a protective envelope. Riitraxa exited the volume of twisted space for normal space.

"Launch fighters," he commanded.

Valdore waited and followed the progress of the dispersal. The human _Powhatons_ reentered normal space just where he had thought that they would. Named for indigenous tribesmen from earth's North American continent Valdore always found it strange that so many human fighting machines were named after them. Romulans would never name a machine after a defeated race. Their fighters were away.

Valdore watched the energy readings as the Tabol fighters saturated space with small antiship missiles. The alliance escorts slowed and launched a hail of counter missiles. His force of five cruisers responded with electronic counter measures and maneuvered to retreat: all except for the two N'Ela class ships. Their space bending fields rebuilt, the ships named for a majestic hunting beast leapt away toward the carrier.

"Move to intercept the escorts," Valdore commanded. "Concentrate fighter attacks against the lead _Powhaton _and move our ships to attack the remaining two."

Valdore absently watched the power readings for his new ships increase and then drop off. The earth carrier had been hit twice by plasma. He quickly ordered a flight of short range missiles followed by a volley of long range weapons. Their new warheads were equipped with larger yield warheads. He thought that was one of the few sane things that the design bureau had come up with. The earth ships must've lost scanners for just a brief instance. The uhlan at weapons announced that their plasma weapon was charged and ready.

"Fire primary!" he ordered. Valdore had not personally directed a battle for some time. He missed the little taste of death, the feeling of triumph.

The _Roosevelt's _reading went off scale and then plunged to near nothing. They had succeeded in destroying the carrier. The interior lights dimmed to near darkness as Riitraxa's plasma cannon fired. One of the escorts was overcome by the combination of missiles and plasma. M'Lingla's coded return vanished. The alliance had scored a kill. Valdore ordered a second volley and a turn to escape.

A second earth escort was hit and slowed. Valdore studied its readings. The Triple Alliance crew might be able to repair the damage, perhaps not. Riitraxa's space bending field was fully energized. Valdore ordered the pilot to twist space. Riitraxa jumped away. The third enemy escort stayed behind. Valdore guessed that it was to conduct rescue and recovery operations.

"A great victory admiral," Vrax declared.

"You command Baraza," he told the centurion as he removed his battle helmet. "Remember that this is a ship of the empire, not the Tal Shiar. Set a course for the recovery point." The words stung and were meant to. He left with Vrax in tow.

"Too few now my friend," he said when he and the senator were alone in the central core. "For every carrier that we destroy five will come to replace it. I cannot see holding the Triple Alliance off for much more than a turn….unless." Valdore's mood was dark. A thought jarred him out of his funk.

"These riots," he asked. "Do your agents know their cause?"

"Blame for the losses from this war," Vrax answered. Valdore could see that he was not saying everything that he knew. He prodded further.

"This is disturbing Valdore," Vrax said at last. "There are reports of veterans having some sort of disease of the mind. They have returned and committed heinous acts."

"We've fought wars before this," Valdore said. He climbed slowly to the habitat deck. Valdore could climb faster but didn't want to outpace the older Romulan. "This has never been a problem. Do the healers have an explanation?"

"The monitors dispose of the bodies," Vrax answered. "There is no behavior leading up to this, therefore no reason has been found."

"I do not like this," Valdore said. "Inquire further my friend. I feel that something is happening. Call it my battle sense. I feel like an enemy is gathering in secret."

"A scheme of the alliance?" the senator asked.

"My friend, I wish it were them," he answered softly.

Space Station One, earth orbit, Oct., 2158

"Sir we don't have the crews to get to you now," the beleaguered engineer told Captain Donald Townsend.

Lieutenant Frank McCoy looked at Micah Brack and rolled his eyes. The group sat in a maintenance office. Beyond a large pane of transparent aluminum lay the great bulk of the Jade Queen II. Star Fleet had ordered the raider slipped into one of recently enclosed repair bays. The source of Townsend's frustration was plastered on his ship's hull.

"Do you see that goddamned bird on my ship?" he asked the engineer. The man looked behind him and nodded.

"Do you think that a Star Fleet ship should have a big goddamned Romulan bird on it?" Townsend asked.

"Excuse me captain," Micah Brack interjected. "What is it that you can use Chief Ryan?" he asked the engineer.

"A case of whiskey mostly," Ryan replied tersely. He gave Brack a hard look. "Seriously though; if I had my druthers I'd get two hundred cases of laser welding rods, a few hundred barrels of preformed pressure sealant and about fifty new environmental units for type nine pressure suits." Ryan sighed and massaged his temples. "I have about as much chance of getting those things as I do a new hole in my--"

"Granted," Brack interrupted.

"Wha…," the engineer started in amazement.

Brack pulled out his pouch and fished an old styled business card out of it. "There is a net code on there. Just call that and ask for those things. They'll be here before tomorrow morning. What kind of whiskey do you drink?" He handed the card to Chief Ryan.

Ryan took the card and looked at the name. "You are him aren't you?" he asked. Brack just nodded in reply. Ryan turned his chair back toward Townsend. He stroked his chin for a moment. "I think that we can reschedule a few jobs captain. Tell you what; that is a big nasty bird on there and we have other ships that are scheduled for this bay. My boys will have that thing off by tomorrow. We'll start your refit right away."

Ryan turned back to Brack. "The environmental units are a godsend I'll not deny that. My guys are working round the clock. That is bad enough but hey; there is a war on. I understand that and so do they. But I just had a girl pulling a sixteen hour shift nearly die of hypothermia out there."

Townsend stuck out his hand. "I appreciate what you are doing. My crew has been out awhile but I'll get my engineer to spot you a few people." Ryan seemed about to protest when Townsend continued: "Marsh will want to jump in and see what you are doing to the bitch. Don't take it personally. My engineer is persnickety."

Ryan rose and shook Townsend's hand. "I appreciate the help."

They all thanked the engineer and departed. Frank walked with Brack and the captain. He recalled the first time he had been on this station. As a young spacer second; the passageways had been a squeeze for more than one person. Now they were replaced with broad corridors bustling with activity.

"You gents can take a shuttle," Townsend told them. "You did a good job back there at Topaz." They made their way to across a pressurized gangway to the Jade Queen II. Townsend walked with them to shuttle bay one. He bid McCoy wait as they entered the bay's lock.

"You owe me two spacesuits Mister McCoy," Townsend told him. Frank could feel the heat in his cheeks.

"We jettisoned those--"

"As a ruse?" Townsend gave him a hard look.

"I can't answer you sir," Frank said.

"I'm a pleasant fellow McCoy," Townsend said. "I may have a loose command style but I've performed every mission. I haven't had much to work with except a good crew and a good ship. Trust was a part of that. Do you know what the Romulans are?"

"No," Frank lied and it stung. "I can't say anything else sir."

"Well, I guess you've got your reasons mister," the captain said. "Good luck down there. I've heard the scuttlebutt about your family situation. Don't turn your back on that obligation okay?"

"I won't sir," he answered. Deep down Frank was afraid. More afraid than when he and Brack had been aboard the Romulan ship. The two men shook hands. Frank joined up with Brack who was leaning against a shuttle smoking a cigarette.

"I never knew you indulged," he remarked.

"This used to kill a lot of men," Brack answered. "It's a nasty but sometimes pleasant habit. And…I can't be killed." He stood up, smiled and exhaled the last of it and staunched the butt out against his boot heel. "Let's get going."

"Alright," Frank answered weakly.

"Are they waiting for you?" Brack asked.

"You mean Kanya and the baby?" he asked as they boarded the shuttle, sealed it up and started preflight checks.

"No, I mean Scooby-Doo and Velma," Brack retorted. "Of course I mean Miss Nayyar and your son." Frank watched Brack's fingers speed through checks and instrument readings.

"It's a lot to deal with," he said. "Eileen is gone. I'm not some loser running around fathering kids and then taking off. It is just that I always assumed that the Thomas' would take him. They made it plain that they hold me responsible for her death. They are right."

"Call for clearance and advise me when we are decompressed please," Brack said. Frank called the Queen's bridge. He was told to wait. The shuttle hatch rolled open seconds later admitting Commander Margaret Sadler.

"No one can predict the future, Frank," Brack told him. "Consider what you two had."

Sadler slid forward and kissed Brack. "I got an early pass after all Micah," she said.

Brack smiled. Frank could see a note of sadness behind it where he doubted that Sadler could. "We'll tour France Margaret. Did I ever tell you that you look like Joan of Arc?"

"Believe me commander," Frank interjected. "He knows what he is talking about. He was there." Frank listened into his earpiece. "We have clearance."

"You and me are already an item Micah," she said. "But flattery will get you everywhere."

The bay doors slid open revealing the larger maintenance space's harsh artificial lighting. Brack maneuvered the craft out and around the greater bulk of the Jade Queen II. The shuttle exited a smaller opening. The great blue earth was before and beneath them.

Frank's mind wondered about the odd couple. Micah had once told him that Sadler had a timeless youth about her that few people possessed. He had declared that even when Sadler was old physically she would still be young. Micah had told him that that was the real key to immortality. Frank looked at the majestic scene beneath him.

Europe was cloud covered and the Atlantic was gray and forbidding as the shuttle slowed and descended. McCoy saw the Atlantic seaboard as they drew closer. Atlantic City was ablaze with lights as Brack turned the shuttle to the north. The shuttle slowed and flew overhead peaceful bucolic farms nestled in amongst bustling little towns. Frank was happy to be home no matter what was awaiting him on the ground. The old US Air Force base took form in the distance. A formation of cargo shuttles were climbing out for orbit.

Star Fleet had reopened the base as a supply and distribution center. Frank saw a deep pit in the ground where one of the old airplane hangars used to be. He had caught a news item about that. Emory's new matter zapper was being put in here and at San Francisco. A few months ago Frank was wishing that he had never emerged from the beam after that crazy episode in New Mexico. Now at least he wanted to live again. Brack set the shuttle down gently.

He laid a hand on McCoy's shoulder. "Good luck Frank. You two are starting on a new beginning. Whatever happens between you and Miss Nayyar, remember that there is something more important between the two of you."

"Thanks Micah," he answered, "for everything." Frank unbuckled, got up, went aft and retrieved his kit. He stepped out onto the tarmac after bidding Brack and the commander a final goodbye. He was just another red shirted officer among many.

Frank saw them standing behind a low permacrete barrier. She looked tiny and not at all dangerous in a light jacket and jeans. The baby looked small and quite white in Kanya's dark skinned hands. McCoy gulped and walked up to them. Kanya looked at him. Neither of them seemed to really know what to do next. Nayyar held his son out to him. The boy had his dark hair but the blue eyes were Eileen's. He clumsily accepted the living bundle.

He was out of words, and so apparently was she. He looked down at the child. "Well, I'm home," McCoy said.

Star Fleet light cruiser Daedelus, near to Romulan space, Oct 2158

"Standing by for warp sir," Lieutenant Kay Stansfield announced.

Captain Michael Cromwell stood over Chief Peter Custis as the sensor operator analyzed the latest readings. He was not pushing. He was curious. Space was practically infinite yet distances and the demands of fuel dictated certain routes and courses. Cromwell had sat down with Stansfield to design a spiraling search pattern. The meandering route took them into Romulan space while allowing them the widest possible search volume. After several boring weeks they had finally come up with something.

"Stand by on that helm," he told the lieutenant. He looked back at Custis who had finally unglued his face from the hood of his scanners.

"Most of them read as Clavicles captain," the chief told him. "They have started to exit warp just at the end of subspace scanner range."

"A subspace eddy?" he asked.

"It's possible, captain," Custis answered.

Cromwell tugged at the bottom of his jersey. His last set had been too short, these were too long. He walked back to his command chair and seated himself. The Romulan returns slowed and then vanished without an increasing internal power reading. That confirmed in Michael's mind the existence of an eddy. He ordered Stansfield to set a course for that, at warp one. He watched as Daedelus pursued its prey.

"We'll have to be cautious around that thing sir," Commander Philip Devlin told him.

Quite a few centimeters shorter than Cromwell his new first officer was another American like commander, now Captain Somers. Devlin was short and squat with a head full of fine, dark black hair. His accent proclaimed him from the northeast section of his country. He had said that he was from New York after Cromwell had made the unpardonable mistake of asserting that the Bronx was a village new Boston.

"They are either making for Romulus or Cheron," Cromwell speculated.

He knew his mission. Cromwell had used some of the time to explore possible refueling points. It would be a long haul even for the new matter, anti matter ships. The Star Fleet needed bases for supply and also places for concealment as they finally confronted the Birds in their own space.

"The last of the Birdie ships have entered the eddy," Custis advised them.

"Let's see what our scanners can do at the mouth of this eddy commander," he told Devlin. "Helm, accelerate to warp three."

"Scanners forward sir?" Devlin asked.

Cromwell didn't know if any Romulans were behind them but he doubted it. He decided that the risk was worth what the extra boost to the sensors would provide. He nodded at Devlin. The image on the viewer changed to a graphical representation of the elongated subspace distortions generated by the eddy.

The Stellar Navy had learned just enough about these subspace phenomena to know that they were unstable. Used to facilitate star travel they were never relied upon. If one was charted it was used if available but not counted on in fuel calculations. What had happened to subspace to create these pockets was still unknown. Cromwell reflected that man was still in the early stages of space exploration. Like mariners of old for whom the mechanics of weather and ocean currents were still unknown; subspace was still a mystery.

"Slow to warp 1.5," Cromwell ordered. These things were best approached slowly.

"I'm getting echoes from the other side captain," Chief Custis advised him. "This eddy seems to curve. It looks like the Birdies are bearing for Cher—Jesus Christ!" Cromwell saw Custis' whole body grow tense. "Eddy changing shape!" he exclaimed.

"Alter heading by thirty degrees!" Cromwell snapped.

Devlin echoed his orders while he took hold of Cromwell's chair. Just in time as the warp speed course correction caused a fluctuation in the gravity web. Cromwell took hold of his armrests. He glanced up to see the tendril of subspace reaching out for them, or rather his starship rushing toward the anomaly. He ordered Stansfield to drop out of warp. She acknowledged his command.

"We're caught!" Custis blurted.

"Helm going unresponsive sir!" Stansfield's voice joined in the chaos.

"What is our speed?" he asked in a tone that he might use to inquire about finding directions to a clothing shop.

Stansfield shook her head. "It went off the scale and…we aren't moving at all, captain."

"Switch to external view," Devlin snapped. He looked at Michael who nodded in turn. He was glad to see his new first officer showing some initiative.

The viewer changed from graphs and numbers into a twisted rainbow streaked visage of subspace. That was not normal. Cromwell could feel his ship shaking beneath him. He was aware that it was reverberations sent through the artificial gravity. He also knew that his ship was being subjected to strains it was never meant to deal with. The bridge lights flickered and went off. Emergency lighting cast a dim light on them.

"Bridge, blowout on deck five, section nine," the Andorian engineer Taln's voice announced, over the bridge speakers. "Structural indications are showing micro fractures forming along major bulkheads."

"Status of warp field?" Cromwell asked.

"Collapsed sir," the Andorian replied. "We shouldn't be moving except for normal space motion!"

Cromwell realized that his ship was coming apart around him. He saw little point in sending his crews to the shuttles but he nonetheless flicked on the ship wide address system to order the evacuation. Just as abruptly as the ride had started it ended. The bridge viewer showed an image of crystal clear stars. The shaking subsided.

"Helm, are we on the other side?" he snapped. Cromwell turned to Custis. "Scan for Romulan ships! Commander Devlin, order battle stations."

"Negative on Birdie vessels captain!" Custis announced. "But this can't be right…" the chief trailed off.

"Navcomp is returning zero," Stansfield declared in a quiet voice.

"What do you mean lieutenant?" Devlin asked.

"We aren't where the Birdies emerged sir," Custis reported. "I've linked to the navcomp but I'm still coming up with nothing. The computer should have been able to sync up our position."

"Unless we were displaced over five light years," Stansfield supplied.

"We are at the edge of a planetary system," the Tellarite Houk announced. "Don't you brilliant explorers think that you ought to scan that?"

"Quite right," Cromwell said. "Do we have anything on the system ahead?"

"I've started a library computer search captain," Custis said; "nothing so far." His head was pressed against the sensor hood. "We are five AU's from the first of a group of outer gas giants."

"Sounds like a good place to get lost," Cromwell said. He opened communications with engineering. "Commander Taln, are we still in one piece?"

"I'm sending out teams, bridge," the Andorian answered. "The rupture is under control and we appear to have warp drive and impulse. Are we going back through the eddy?"

"I'm reading it sir," Custis interjected. "Whatever happened we are less than ten thousand kilometers away from the eddy." The chief turned from his observations and looked expectantly at him.

"What if we are across the galaxy sir?" Devlin asked. "If that thing deteriorates then we are stuck."

"And if we reenter where will we come out at commander?" he asked sharply. It was indeed tempting to do as Devlin suggested. Was Daedelus destined to become one of many missing ships? He smiled. "If we have gone that far then we have indeed gone where no man has gone before." He stood up and raised his voice for all to hear.

"I don't know what will happen if we enter that eddy," he said. "Let's be cool and calm about this. Let's find out where we are. In the meantime, we'll assume that we are in enemy space and act accordingly. Keep the crews at battle stations and angle for a close orbit of that giant." Cromwell nodded at Devlin. "We'll update things in an hour unless we get better information. You have the bridge."

The hour had come and gone. Cromwell had his ship situated in low orbit of the unknown solar system's outer gas giant. They had picked up nothing else on scanners and the library computer was still searching for a match. Michael sat opposite Commander Gertrude Schultheiss. They had moved from the conference room to the galley. Cromwell sawed at a resequenced steak that, while it tasted like a Delmonico, looked like a piece of cardboard.

"Are we going on reduced rations again sir?" she asked him. Cromwell looked around. He wondered how many in the room crew was listening in. Apparently his relationship with his surgeon was somewhat of an ongoing saga with the crew.

"I'll not order that…yet," he answered around a bite of cube shaped potato tasting things. "The new resequencers allow for a great deal of reclamation if it comes to that. We should be able to eat well with no resupply for another year at least."

"I wouldn't call it well," she answered holding out a cylindrical brown object. "This is supposed to be a traditional American taco. It tastes like one I suppose, but it is not pleasant to look at."

"Maybe this will be nice to look at doc," Commander Devlin announced as he walked up to their table. He laid a paper folder besides Cromwell's plate. "Translated from Vulcan the name is Galorndon Core. Stansfield and La Forge have recalibrated the computer." Cromwell could see Devlin's excitement.

A look through the contents of the folder explained his first officer's exuberance. They were within striking distance of Cheron. He read further to discover that this system was uninhabited. Its one Minshara class world was marginal at best: dominated by raging magnetic fields and dust storms. The subspace sensors had detected an object there; what was probably an artificial satellite.

"We're too far away for a metallurgical analysis," Devlin told him. He sat down at the table. "Are you going to finish your tacos doc?" She shoved her plate over to him. Cromwell watched him eat the resequenced food like he had not had a meal in some time.

"I want a closer look at this object," Cromwell said. "We are still a good distance from their space but this might be a type of picket. He looked at Devlin. "Has Taln figured out how we got here?"

"He has a working theory sir," Devlin's answer was garbled by his meal. Cromwell slid a glass of milk over to him. "Thanks captain," he said after washing his taco down. "We can go back the way we came. Taln theorizes that we passed through a sort of subspace tunnel. He says there is a Star Fleet engineer who wrote a paper on that; theoretical propulsion and such."

"We're near to Romulan space," Cromwell said. He took a bite of fake steak. He chewed carefully before continuing: "These phenomena are known to cease as suddenly as they are known to appear. I'm not going to pass up this chance to reconnoiter their space. We'll see what we can see and return to allied space by normal means."

"We could put a fleet right here in less than three months captain!" Devlin exclaimed.

"Or we could return to the position of the eddy and find nothing and have no intelligence," Cromwell said. "I want to give this system a thorough looking over. If…if the eddy is still there when we get back then we might have a position from which to strike at the heart of their empire. In the meantime we find strategic positions that we know will be there in six months or a year."

"Okay sir," Devlin relented. "Taln wants to shoot a Cachalot through the eddy and study what it does."

"That is prudent," Cromwell agreed. "Have Taln rig the missile with a small self destruct device, if he has not already done so. No reason for the Birds to be any wiser."

Devlin nodded as he finished the rest of the doctor's meal. He left a few minutes later. Cromwell buried himself in the report while aware that Trudy was looking at him. He looked up finally and grinned. The pleasant expression did not save him.

"You are being hard on him Herr Kapitan," she told him.

"I miss Lisa," he replied and then groaned inwardly when he saw her expression. "No, no, not like that!" he protested. He sighed. "Devlin seems like so many that the academies turned out before the war: all full of regulations but no heart and soul. I'm sure that he wanted us to take the first option; returning the way we came. But there is a bigger picture here Trudy." He pushed his plate away.

She rested her chin on her hands. "I'm all ears Olly," she said quietly.

He looked around. The galley was emptying out as the Daedelus mid shift went to their duties. One of the good things about their shipboard romance was that they could talk about the Romulans' secret with the crew thinking that they were making lovers' small talk.

"If we achieve the president's goal some sort of containment zone will have to be set up," Cromwell explained. "We'll need to have systems and such identified so that we can put outposts on them. Admiral Forrest is as interested in that as he is in their current strategic position."

"He is looking forward to victory?" she asked.

"He isn't jumping ahead," Cromwell cautioned. "The admiral's main concern is that if we force a compromise on the Romulans then we must have bases from which to operate. If they see that they are more likely to see that we are serious. If we spend years surveying planets and asteroids for bases we might never set any of those up. The mood will have changed, for them—and us. People forget too easily."

"That is the nature of war," she said. "There are remembrances, holidays and celebrations. I remember an elderly neighbor when I was a child. He was a war veteran from the Third World War, an old Bundeswehr officer."

"And he was still alive?" he asked in reply. Cromwell guessed that that was possible, yet he found it amazing. The life expectancy of those born back then was usually just a third of what it was today. Exposure to radiation, food shortages and local upheavals had dealt those unfortunates a hard hand.

She sipped at her coffee. "Yah, almost one hundred and twenty," she explained. "Our parents would make us go with Herr Lindermann to the graveyards every Armistice Day. He would dress in his old uniform and go by gravestones and tell us about the people in there. Me and Kristine just thought that it was another day on the calendar."

He looked around. "Precisely," he said. A small group was gathered in a corner. "In a few years that is how people will view this war. If we aren't ready to build monitoring bases then imagine asking for the funding for that, even just a year after the war, whenever that day comes."

She nodded. "It will eventually be just another day. People won't want to believe that it could happen again. They will mock those who they think are preparing for the next war."

"In this case we would be preventing the next war," he said. "I read a lot about ancient Vulcans. Those were people who didn't give up. My feeling on this is that one should never turn their backs on these Romulans." He sighed. "Perhaps I'm wrong and Devlin is right."

"You are the captain sir," she smiled and said.

London, England, the old European Hegemony, Oct 2157

Fred Watson tried to appear like a casual onlooker. He could not let the local authorities know that he was here. Watson had no work related reason for a London visit and one of his fellow policemen would soon ferret out that he had no personal reason either. Or perhaps he did. He walked up to the crime scene, pulling Catères along.

"Anything I can do to help?" he asked the constable who seemed to be in charge. Fred flashed his ID.

The short older detective looked at Watson's identification and shrugged. "You're out of your territory friend." The man chewed gum as he spoke. "Unless you are investigating local murders," he added.

"It might have a bearing on what we are working on," Watson said.

"And what might that be?" the detective asked.

"Well, I'm working with my partner here," he said. His eyes slid over Catères in a slightly lewd fashion. "She is with the Spanish Constabulary but we…meet here."

"That is correct," she agreed. Watson saw that she was staring intently at the British policeman.

The officer smiled at them. "Well it's nice when one can combine work and play, hey." He motioned for them to follow him.

"We found her right here," he explained. Here was back at the Tower Hamlets section of London.

Watson had discarded the idea of imprisoning Reed for what he had done. He had found nothing to link him to Karl's death and had turned instead to discovering his habits. That had yielded much.

Reed seemed to bounce between Virginia in the United States and here. Watson recalled trailing the major through Washington. He had thought that he had met a woman there. There was also a record of a trip to Montreal that seemed to mean nothing except that it had turned out to have been investigated by local authorities from Georgia. A package containing a bomb had shipped through the cargo terminal there; many threads but no common connection.

"Our crime lab isn't the best anymore," the Britisher commented. He stuck out a hand. "Inspector Rod Illsley," he proclaimed himself. "Scotland Yard hasn't had to investigate things like this in decades." Illsley led them to what he meant.

A woman's body was partially uncovered under a heap of dirt and trash near an abandoned house. Constables poured over the scene with micro snoopers and handhelds. Watson saw an older woman leaning over the corpse taking some samples. She turned and looked at them. For a second he was reminded of Doctor Myers. Thankfully the woman had remembered nothing of her possession.

"It's what you see Rod," she said. "Death was from multiple causes, loss of blood and tissue." She pointed at the corpse's midsection. "The victim was slashed open. It appears that some organs are missing, but I need to get her to a lab for further analysis. I did get an identity though."

"That's bloody surprising," Illsley commented. "Who is she?"

"Claire Roland," the woman answered. "Her DNA is in the geneticists' database…and in our database. She has two prior arrests for performing illegal augmentation." The woman stood up with a groan. If Watson had to guess he would say that she was a little younger than Myers.

"She was terrified," Catères said. A look at the corpse's decaying face showed that.

"That she was," the doctor said. "But…oddly enough she didn't struggle. There are no wounds or ligatures on the hands or wrists. She wasn't tied that I can see; possibly drugged."

"Did the drug snooper come up with anything Tilley?" Illsley asked.

"No," the examiner answered and added a shake of her head. "Of course if we had access to a larger database we could run our samples against alien stuff."

"What do you think Watson?" Illsley asked. "The UI has a large bank of knowledge."

Watson would have a tough time explaining this request to his supervisor but he still had some bankable people capital with Director O'Malley. He agreed to take copies of their findings and run them through the UI's computer. Something that Illsley had said came back to him.

"What did you mean you were surprised at finding out who she was?" he asked.

Illsley took a deep breath and led them away a short distance. He scratched at his head. "We found another corpse about a week ago. Bloody hell this is looking like that mess on Eridani. I had hoped that the first one was some crazed psychotic act, but now this. We finally identified this first one, well I should say last one; this one here was killed almost a year ago."

"Who was she?" Catères asked.

"The latest one was a prostitute constable." He shook his head. "Not a great way to make a living but apparently she made a good one." Illsley looked around him. "To have this happen here, in this place," he said. "Anyway we were awhile before we could identify here. The oldest profession is still there. It has just moved further into the background."

"The geneticist was concealed with the idea of no one finding her for some time," Catères said. "What of the prostitute?"

"I see that you are on to the same thing," Illsley replied. "It was almost like she was meant to be found."

"Information about this wasn't put out on the net," Watson said. He could guess why.

"Oh it was," Illsley retorted. "We just mentioned it as finding a corpse. There are accidents and suicides and the lady, a Miss Clarke kept the details of her professional life away from her family. We didn't see the need to alarm the public…yet."

"It looks like your victim here might have been killed somewhere else," Watson commented. Marks in the ground and the lack of a blood trail told him that. The position of the body suggested the same thing.

"We are sending Bobbies over to her address," Illsley said.

The woman named Tilley handed Watson her handheld. He quickly interfaced the devices and transferred her findings to his unit and then into the UI database. He made small talk with the investigators while waiting for an answer. Watson doubted that they would match any alien drugs or poisons because he didn't believe that there were any to be found. These _drak'ha _could hold people spellbound according to Dom. He had experienced that himself and was only alive due to what Catères had identified as enhanced psychic abilities in him.

Watson had accepted that Catères had some powers and so did their last _drak'ha_. He did not believe he had any special abilities save for a hard head as Roslyn constantly reminded him. Anyway, he did not plan to wrap his head Svengali style, pick a stage name and quit the UI. His handheld beeped at him. He handed over to Tilley.

"No match," she read. "I'm not surprised. The field tox screen would have picked up a foreign substance. Might not have been able to identify it, but it could read that it was there." She thanked him and handed back his unit.

He looked around the crowd that was beyond the police line. The British officers had a makeshift piece of cord strung up to keep the crowd away. Watson supposed that civilization could be measured in many ways. The fact that Inspector Illsley and his people didn't have specially marked tape for a crime scene was one such measurement. That was supposed to be common before man's last great war. Watson saw someone in the crowd. He looked away quickly and nudged Catères.

Watson had seen the woman. He realized that being past fifty meant that he had seen lots of people. Faces ran together. This was not one of those times. He looked back at the crime scene while he searched his memory. The woman had seemed familiar. He had last seen her in the US National Air and Space Museum. Watson wondered if it was just a coincidence. He had been struck by the woman's face back then but had nothing to attach her to the major. Still, he was bothered. He looked back casually toward the woman and the crowd. Dom covertly followed his glance.

"Here is my netcode Doctor…err," he started.

"Tilley McPherson, Assistant Medical Examiner," she replied. He told her the numbers. She punched them into her own personal computer.

"If your lab work produces results and you need access to the UI base then you can use that," he explained. "Let us know if we can do anything." This he said to both Illsley and McPherson.

"We'll do that," Illsley answered. "I hope that this whole thing is just a random series of bad events. I've been talking to some experts since we uncovered poor Miss Roland there. We'll have to dig in the archives to figure out how to track this person; if one person is responsible."

Watson nodded at the man. He picked out the woman in the crowd and purposely walked the other way. She had glanced at him. Watson thought that he saw recognition in that look. He had lost Reed at the museum. Perhaps he had met this woman there. Catères was gone. Fred circled around the onlookers. The woman was stepping back preparing to leave. Watson was less than two meters from her when she saw him. Recognition dawned on her face. She turned quickly only to run into Dominique.

Watson beheld an attractive blonde haired woman probably a decade younger than him. It was hard to tell these days when middle age was a person's fifties. He felt that he should know the woman. She wore a warm water repellant jacket but it hugged a fit figure. Was she a public figure?

"Admiral Erica Soames of Star Fleet," Catères announced. The woman shot her a startled glance. Fred started to snap his fingers and then stopped.

"We've got some questions for you," he said flatly.

"Who are you two?" the admiral asked. Watson recalled seeing her in the background of a few news vidcasts. He flashed his badge and ID at her. She merely smiled.

"I'm always glad to help the police," she said. She produced her navy identification. Watson guessed that she was trying to use it to get out of this situation.

Watson led her to a less populated corner of the street. A few groundcars sped by. It was afternoon and somewhat cold for this time of year. Pedestrians passed the group by showing casual disinterest. Watson had nothing to go on, just a hunch. He looked at Dominique who shook her head when Soames was not looking. Her Reman mental abilities would not help here. He nodded, took a breath and winked at Catères.

"You are in serious trouble!" Catères blurted. "We know about your connection with Malcolm Reed. The game is up admiral."

For just a second the Star Fleet admiral's mouth dropped open. She recovered quickly though and asked them politely what they wanted. Watson wasn't surprised. He had served in the Marines and knew that few fools rose to the rank of admiral. He latched onto Dominique's game.

"We know everything admiral," he said. He put a note of kindness in his voice as if he were talking to one of his grandchildren. "We know that you aren't the villain here." Watson thought that she would be a tough nut to crack. "Reed on the other hand…he is dangerous."

"We have what we need to convict her!" Catères spat. "Don't waste your time Fred; if she wants to swing by herself that is her choice!" Watson had to admit that she was good at acting.

"What about it admiral?" he asked. She was going to call their bluff. Fred could feel it. "You know, what you've done while it isn't right it is commendable." Ebenstark had been right all along. This group had been behind the scenes manipulating things. The Georgia authorities had been investigating the death of one of her subordinate's father. What was his name; McCoy? "It would be a damn shame to see McCoy swing along with you."

"We'll get him too Fred," Catères declared in a voice full of confidence. "We have the evidence on both of them." Watson saw a flash of trepidation cross the admiral's face. So she did have a chink in that armor, he thought.

"I've read about the things you've done Admiral Soames," Fred commented. "It'll be a shame to see you dragged through the mud." He turned to Dominique. "Look we all hate the Birdies. SOT was ready to hand us over to them. I hate to think about looking the other way partner but…"

"These people have made a mockery of the law," Catères replied hotly. "And they killed your friend Ebenstark." Watson caught a look of surprise on Soames' face. This time it took her a few seconds to erase it. "If we let her go we will be as bad as they--"

"Who is this Reed?" Soames interrupted. Watson couldn't claim victory here. She had gone from cool to calculating. He could feel it. Crooks were like fish to him. He could feel them nibble on the line. Some of them took the bait and got hooked while others could strip his hook clean and swim away, but only for awhile.

"We've tracked Reed's travels. We know that you meet him in the states," Watson said at last. He shook his head feigning sadness. "It would be a damn shame to see a hero prosecuted and all. We need to know everything though!" He looked hard at Dom. "Would that satisfy you partner?"

"Reed is our primary suspect," Catères answered. He could hear the skepticism in her voice. "But we have you admiral, and McCoy."

"Let's hear some truth for a change then," Watson said. "Like I said: I read about you admiral. You were doing what you thought was right. Things just got out of hand with Reed."

"What are you two doing here?" she asked. "You were investigating the crime over there."

It had come apart. Watson sighed and rolled his eyes. The three stood silently on the corner. They had played their best hand with her and lost. Still, she had left a nibble. Watson decided to pursue it.

"It was a murder Admiral Soames. A woman was gutted; a geneticist. Okay admiral we just want Reed," Watson said flatly. "Everything else is off the table."

"You want this Reed?' she asked; "for what?" Soames looked back at the crime scene. The coroner's aircar was settling near to the site. "You think he did that." She looked at the scene.

"We know that he is a killer," Catères said.

"Okay what if I told you that I had been doing some work with Reed?" Soames said. "Hypothetically, of course," she added.

"It's going to lead back to you," Catères told her. "Do you think that you can weave a tale that we won't see through?"

"I want Reed because I'm sure that he killed Karl Ebenstark, or had him killed," Watson declared. "Ebenstark was the president's--"

"I've met with President Thorpe I knew who Ebenstark was," Soames interrupted.

"He was my friend, admiral," Watson declared. "I bet that you didn't know that." He decided that candor was needed here. "You know, I don't know if you and Major Reed are running some kind of secret goon squad. Karl suspected that a group like that existed. But if you think about it; Karl was one of the good guys for Christsakes."

"All bets off admiral," he continued. "We," he nodded toward Catères. "We are cops. At least I am a UI agent. I think that Reed had Karl killed. I want him. I had wanted to catch him and prosecute him but things took a far left turn. I realized that I was dealing with someone that was dabbling in our politics for fun. He has been doing other things for his fun; things here and on Alpha Eridani. We are sure that he is behind the slasher murders there."

She looked slyly at them. The confident Star Fleet admiral was there. "So you want--"

"I want to kill Reed," Watson declared flatly. He wished that there was another way. He could hear his superiors punching the buttons to compel him to take early retirement if he told them the full truth. What would happen if he revealed the fact that he was working with an enemy agent was problematic.

He was lying. Watson didn't want to kill Reed. He wanted to drive the thing out of him and deal with it. Dom had told him that the real Malcolm Reed persona was in all likelihood gone. Part of Fred hoped that wasn't so.

"Not exactly sporting for a modern policeman agent," Soames said. "You sound more like the thugs in uniform who dominated your profession during the last century."

"I just want Reed," Watson answered. "Tell you what admiral; we really don't know if you are guilty of anything. You could walk away from us right now. But I'm thinking that Reed is as much a problem for you as he is for us. I'll tell you something else: we don't have anything on you but I could start tying up ends. This McCoy seems to mean something to you; maybe I'll start there. I've been doing this all my adult life admiral. Sooner or later I'll get you or one of your associates. So you should ask yourself if you want to help us with Reed or not."

She seemed to be thinking. The admiral looked at Catères. "You are no agent. I remember you now: you were in Mark Hawkins' entourage."

"We are not with SOT admiral," Watson interjected.

"Did you remove Perrin admiral?" Catères asked. Soames licked her lips. "He was part of the Romulan cell here on earth."

"Who are you people?" Soames asked.

"We think that you are having a problem," Catères said. "Sooner or later that problem will turn on you."

"You know who we are admiral," Watson said. "This isn't some setup believe me. You've been scanning the secure networks. You probably know if any investigations are taking place. Karl Ebenstark wanted me to check into things as a friend. I did that. Now Karl is dead. If you are in with Reed is that what you want? Picking who lives and dies?"

"It never started that way," Soames declared. She looked down at the sidewalk as she spoke. "It was so frustrating watching these antiwar fools, throw away our civilization! I decided to do something. McCoy was just following orders. I'm responsible."

"As much as I'd like to see Karl's theory proved we aren't here for you or this McCoy." Watson sighed. "I've compromised everything to get here." He looked at Catères and reminded himself of the reason she had been sent to earth. "But this stops now. I'm not compromising on Reed." He looked hard at her. "Whatever you've been doing has got to stop after this! So help me, after I get Reed if one unfortunate thing happens to some jackass just because he believes the earth is flat I'll come after you admiral!" Soames actually took a step back from him.

"You should watch how much coffee you drink Fred," Dominique whispered.

"I've wanted it to stop," Soames confessed. "At first I thought that I was acting from a higher purpose. Then I discovered an ugly truth: we aren't so mighty that we can act from on high. Not that and be the person that I was. I'll give you Reed. But he is devious. I've already been planning on…dealing with the major."

"You mean killing him?" Catères asked without emotion. Soames nodded. "It will take more than what you think admiral."

"I tried once," Soames told them. She related the story of her failed assassination attempt.

"I read about that," Catères said. "It was loosely connected to the Sons'. But it was not bad luck Admiral Soames. Reed knew that you were coming. He might not be able to push you but he has been around you enough to be in tune with your mind."

"What are you talking about?" she asked in reply.

Fred sighed. "Walk with us admiral. We have something to tell you."


	42. Chapter 42

Kalenara, Romulus, the earth fall of 2158

Kalenara, Romulus, the earth fall of 2158

The dour looking security troops did not look at him. Tarang Gupta stopped and inserted his hand in the sampler. He felt a sting as the device extracted a small amount of blood and tissue for analysis. It was his identification while in the walled streets of Romulus' capital. Real fear had gripped him when he had first been compelled to use the device. Were all of his human elements gone? The guard waved him through to the scanner checkpoint. He walked through only to be stopped after a harsh tone sounded.

"Let's see what you have!" a helmeted soldier demanded.

Gupta was one of a few waiting in line to enter the senatorial forum. He was carrying a case full of the troupe's electronic equipment. They were to put on their second show tonight. He was also carrying the device that Altena had given to him. Elcan had confirmed that it was a galamide control unit. He had helped Tarang modify the device so that it could act as a detector. Gupta opened the case. It was full of lighting control boxes and sound effect generators.

"He is a criminal!" another guard roared. "Leave him be Mar'le!" This security trooper stepped over and fished through Gupta's case. "Junk electronics, so that the entertainers here can convince our illustrious leaders, that a fish is a bird," the haughty guard proclaimed. Actually Gupta had found him friendly compared to some of the capital's security troops. "Our leaders are so besotted with _kali-fal _and their _awevhoi's_ that they can't even see the difference." He handed Gupta back his case.

"Tell that little slip of an _awevhoi _ofyours to stop by later," the guard told him. "Maybe you can pocket a few extra thrones!"

Gupta got into the role. He leered at the trooper. "I'll do that!" He took up his case and stepped back out into the street.

Kalenara was laid off in walled communities. Each community had a higher degree of security the deeper one penetrated into the capital. The outlying communities could be entered with just a seal or a guild tattoo. More tangible identification was required the further one traveled. The troupe had been issued seals after having their blood and tissue analyzed and filed. That got them this far into the city. There were two more levels between them and the praetor's compound. Gupta thought that they might as well be on earth or Vulcan, so high was the security here.

The forum was a whole community dedicated to entertaining senators and administrators. Most of the entertainment was on a par with what Pakesh's troupe was doing while some of it was more illicit. _Awevhoi _and _avenhai _could be seen strolling about the clean streets. Gupta thought them little more than slaves after Pakesh had told him that age was the only escape from their profession. Gupta greeted the streetwalkers who had apparently sized him up as being broke but harmless. He made his way to the outdoor amphitheatre where the troupe was playing.

Pakesh was directing A'Zir while the burly veteran performed a feat of strength. A'Zir was easily balancing a board that was made for his shoulders and neck. Kaphir sat on one side while Altena sat on the other. Tarang had to remind himself that although Romulans had declined in physical strength compared to Vulcans some of them still had vestiges of great strength; a genetic gift from the elder days. 

Gupta waved and greeted the troupe leader. Altena saw him, smiled and laughed playfully. It was getting harder to fend off her advances. He had asked T'Pol for advice and discovered that much like human women, her answers had proven baffling. First she had suggested that he sleep with the Romulan and then had asked if he wished to do that. He had left to seek out Elcan after that. That was the night that the Reman had modified the control device.

Gupta turned and entered the theatre's control booth. Elcan was testing some lights and optical lasers for tonight's presentation. Tarang laid the case before the Reman who immediately stopped to remove some components from it.

"We have to completely rewire for Kaphir's magic act," Elcan declared. "Who could have guessed that he would have gotten those pyrotechnics that close to the equipment?"

"It was quite impressive," Gupta told the Reman. Elcan did not show any emotion which seemed to be typical for the alien. Gupta wondered if that was normal for Remans, or was it a trait particular to Elcan.

"Do you think that we can make use of the controller?" Elcan asked suddenly.

"Perhaps we can spot any troubles with it," Gupta answered.

"You have not told Pakesh?" the Reman asked.

"Not yet," Gupta answered. "Altena gave it to me in confidence. By guild rules she should have given it to our chief. It's a matter of protocol I suppose."

"I think that you want to keep the controller for your own ends," Elcan said flatly. Gupta felt a sick feeling in his stomach. He supposed that Romulans and humans shared that particular attribute. He was trying to think of excuses and stories when Elcan continued: "If you are it is no matter to me. Some of us believe that Pakesh is preparing you to lead your own gang. That he is considering taking his loot and Svaerik and buying his citizenship back."

"Pakesh would never leave you in the lurch," Gupta snapped. Of that he was sure. He even had reservations about concealing the control device. Those doubts were borne not out of his need to fulfill his mission here but rather it was loyalty for the guild chief. Pakesh had taken them in when they were in need.

"No," Elcan agreed. "He would not. But he has been in the guild for many turnings. I don't think that he wishes to see Svaerik grow up in this line, and I think that he is tired of it. He once told me that he had made a great discovery as a scholar and would like to verify his proof." Elcan paused for a moment. "I believe that I would accept you as my chief if Pakesh left."

"I'm a…I'm honored that you would--"

Elcan issued forth with a rare guttural chuckle. "It is a job for a fool. Who would want to look out for a group of malcontents just so that he could barely survive?" He reached out and touched Gupta's shoulder in an affectionate way. "I believe that you have strength and more than that I think that we trust you. Trust is a hard earned thing here on this world. I believe that Pakesh feels the same. Come, we must get on with our chores." Elcan returned to his work.

Gupta helped the Reman with the rewiring while he considered the alien's words. He had picked up on what needed to be done despite being weak in a technical background. The circuits checked as Gupta finished the connections. He had not come here to be a criminal chieftain. Yet he had come to love these strangers who had accepted him and T'Pol when he doubted that few others would. Sometimes he had forgotten about his mission and his thin hope to save T'Pol from a lingering death. But he had to complete this task from Valdore and then escape. Both of them had to get away.

"We have to hurry," Pakesh declared as he rushed into the control booth. "The show must go on!"

Gupta smiled when he thought of earth showmen uttering the same expression. He also noticed that Pakesh seemed especially excited today, more than his ordinary manner. Tarang asked him about it.

"The predecessor to T'Vim Jecora will be at our little play today!" Jecora, Gupta recalled, had sponsored Pakesh in his scholarly pursuits. "Senator Alvega Gesaam is sponsored by Jecora. I hear rumors that he owes his former opponent a lot." Pakesh examined the work that he and Elcan had completed. "This is excellent! I'd thrash Kaphir if he used pyro devices again but A'Zir would protect him. It must be love!" Pakesh laughed and put a hand on Gupta's shoulder. "Come with me Tarack. We must speak."

Gupta looked at Elcan who assured him that he could finish the minor tasks that remained. He left with Pakesh. The leader led him through the forum and back out into the street. Pakesh was silent until they were outdoors. Pakesh finally stopped. He looked back at the mighty spires of the praetor's residence.

"I was in there once," he told Gupta; "when I discovered the term 'three families'. I wasn't a scholar very long after that." He laughed and sat himself down on a low stone wall. He eyed Gupta and laughed. "Sit! I don't plan on cutting your throat; at least not this dawning. I do know about the device."

"I'm sorry Pakesh," Gupta started when the Romulan waggled a finger at him. The gesture meant the same here as it did on earth.

Pakesh continued to grin. "Altena wanted to give you an advantage. I tease you about her but one can have a mate and have an _awevhoi _at the same time. I would not do so, one mate is enough!" He grew serious for a change. "Perhaps you need an advantage Tarack." He got up and turned away to look at the praetor's towers. "I wish to resume my studies. Strange devices just mean strange problems."

"I've heard that you were thinking about this," Gupta told the troupe leader.

"I need a replacement," Pakesh said. "I am not a dilettante. I did not indulge one lifestyle and then decide to pursue another. I had thought after the scandal that I would never go back. But I dream about the script. I once spoke to the praetor. I've never told anyone that. I told him that I believed that the glyphs handed down to us referred to a third group; that we were the children of an elder race."

"You meant the Vulcans?"

"No," Pakesh answered and looked skyward. "No, a race older than ours or older than our brothers," he answered. "I think that they seeded worlds with their race because some accident befell theirs."

"Three groups though," Gupta said. "Who are they?"

"The elder race, those that were put on Vulcan and a third group," Pakesh answered. "I interpreted what might have been coordinates but the star navigators say that they are meaningless without a reference point. I resumed my studies and discovered just such a distant star."

"I spoke to the praetor's science counselor that time. Perhaps by then my renderings were just nonsense. There was a representation of a great viper like creature with one end near to this system while the other ended at a system that I believe is the home of the third family. I wondered how a race as old as that would believe in gods or such, for surely that is what the viper means."

"It need not be a god," Gupta said. He was pensive. Tarang had taken the requisite math and physics but his career had turned to intelligence. Still, he remembered reading about a phenomenon called a wormhole. "Perhaps it is some passageway through space."

Pakesh eyed him as if seeing him for the first time. "You fail miserably in the role of idiot my friend."

"Actually I'm a _human_ agent here on a mission to assassinate the praetor," Gupta said. He grinned sheepishly.

The gang chieftain roared with laughter. "Okay, you are an idiot Tarack." He turned around and faced Gupta. His smile faded. "But you are smart enough to lead in my stead. It is not uncommon for a couple to take the lead and for the chieftain to have more than one female at his call. I've been hoping that you and Altena would mate. It would solidify your place here."

"T'Pol might have other plans," Gupta protested weakly. It had crossed his mind that he had made friends with Pakesh but nothing more than that. He considered himself just another of Pakesh's gangsters.

"What have you on our great world Tarack?" Pakesh asked. He swept out an arm in a grand gesture. "You have no imperial sponsor to send you to a learning academy. You do not have the thrones to bribe an administrator to allow you a business seal. Your idiot status precludes you becoming glorious star stuff in the field of space. You could perhaps secure work in the mines or fields or factories. I wouldn't advise you work the factories. Those unfortunates, you see, don't live long."

"I…I've never thought about," Gupta sputtered.

"Don't feel too honored," Pakesh laughed and returned to himself. "Being a guild chieftain can be equally dangerous. But where else would you have such freedom?"

"How do you plan on going back to your studies if I might ask?"

"Alvega Gesaam wishes to speak with me after this show," Pakesh answered. "It is my hope that it is to allow me to return to my studies."

"I wish you well in that Pakesh," Gupta said. Despite the gang leaders homicidal tendencies Gupta would miss him.

"Consider what I've asked you," Pakesh said. "Elcan should lead but guild rules preclude slaves from holding the position. But he will make you a good centurion and the others will follow you."

Gupta remained silent. Pakesh did not press him. Taking over for Pakesh might mean more freedom to a Romulan but to a human altered into a Romulan on a mission here on this world, it meant that he would be seriously hampered. The tall spires rose up in the distance. Was that really all that needed one? Kill the praetor and then be done with this entire situation? Tarang harbored a notion that even if he and T'Pol got into that lofty inner ring that it would just be a new set of problems.

Romulan Imperial cruiser Aviga, near Tanalek's Star, the third turning of the war

"The return is faint commander," Uhlan Aletor declared.

"They should be along this line," Commander Ventrax insisted.

Ventrax had just celebrated his second adulthood. Romulans were considered to be adults when they could produce a product or service for the empire. They became adults again after their fortieth turn. The passage had meant something when Ventrax's father had seen his fortieth turning. It meant higher rates of tribute for Ventrax's generation. Ventrax turned back to the young uhlan. He could see that the youth was afraid of him and afraid of the enemy.

"It may be a Triple Alliance ship or it may be nothing Aletor," Ventrax told him. He too had been a young soldier. "You are doing an excellent job in this capacity. Continue to monitor along that sector." Aletor acknowledged him and saluted clumsily. Ventrax turned to his situation display.

Ventrax's force of ships was here to repel Triple Alliance probing attacks. They were also here to score victories for the Imperial Information Bureau. That the victories were closer to Romulus than last turning was usually left out of the public dissemination. The victories were also becoming increasingly scarce. His senior centurion walked up to him and saluted smartly. Ventrax returned the gesture and then led Betava to a more quiet part of the command center.

"Their carriers could be somewhere else," the centurion said.

"They are probing deeper into this region of space. It is too bad that we were not permitted to secure this area. Now they could be anywhere." He looked into Betava's eyes. "But if I was one of their commanders I would choose this system."

"The fourth planet," Centurion Betava supplied.

"Its atmosphere is poisonous: to them and us." He entered his commander's codes into a computer panel so that he had access. One would think from all the security protocols imposed by the Tal Shiar that Triple Alliance agents were everywhere. Why, Ventrax thought with no small sense of irony, perhaps Betava was a Tellarite. It was too bad, he thought, that the Tal Shiar was not doing as much to their enemies as they were to the average Romulan soldier. He brought up a profile of the system's one temperate world.

"It will be a world such as our Romulus," Ventrax remarked. "Several million turnings after we are dust, centurion. But it contains much water. It would be an easy place for foragers to get that." He pointed at the neighboring star systems. "This one has only one rocky world. It is entirely molten. These others are rich in gases but the upper atmospheres are turbulent."

Betava chuckled. "The Triple Alliance would not risk their pretty crews on those," he remarked.

Ventrax knew that his senior officer was reciting propaganda. The truth was that the alliance used their personnel sparingly. He wondered how many thrones his government wasted in using soldiers for dangerous and questionable tasks that should be done by machines or slaves. There was an economic aspect in causing good troops to die needlessly. The alliance had discovered this whereas the empire seemed to be lacking.

"For this situation I agree with you," Ventrax said. "But remember this Betava; don't ever underestimate what our opponents will do. They are not the decadent fools that the information bureau has led us to believe." Betava would command his own ship soon enough. If he lived, Ventrax reminded himself.

"That was always Admiral Valdore's position commander," Betava said. "Yet it seems that his wisdom was never followed."

"Movement on the detector commander!" Aletor breathlessly announced.

Ventrax looked at Betava. The mental communication of those who had served together for some time passed between the two. "Is it alliance battle cruisers, uhlan?" his senior centurion snapped. "Be specific!"

"Yes…yes centurion!" the uhlan replied. "The detector return the readings of alliance ships centurion."

"Sub Lieutenant Melak," he called to his communications' technician. "Tell the other ships of the group to prepare to bend space."

Ventrax moved to only seat in the room. Designed, he had found out, in the manner of alliance ships the chair armrests had critical communications' links hardwired into it. It also had restraints. Ventrax chose not to use them. His soldiers had no such protection. He examined the data on the alliance attack force as he settled himself into the chair.

His forces consisted of his own _N'Ela _class vessel and two others like it. Those were augmented by twice that number of the older _Krateck _and _Mephir_ class ships. His force was hidden just inside some cometary debris. The alliance force was bending space at a time factor of three he saw. His_ N'Ela_ class could bend space like that but the others were limited. Ventrax guessed that the alliance ships would exit a romii away from the fourth planet. His ships were inside that distance on the other side of their enemies anticipated exit point. Ventrax thought that that would give his force the time they needed to pounce.

"The power station is prepared for battle commander," Betava reported. He watched as his senior centurion removed his helmet. He mopped at his thick head full of lanky black hair. It was quite hot and the maintenance technician had yet to determine the cause. Betava replaced his helmet. "They are exiting as you thought."

Ventrax had seen the same thing on the command center display. A disquieting feeling came over him. "Prepare to bend space at a factor of two and half times." He held up his hand to give the signal to start after Betava reported ready. He recalled hunting _palou_ just two turnings ago.

He had gone with his older brother Mavik. Mavik had lost both of his legs but had survived. He lived on a stipend granted to the few wounded soldiers that returned home. Their family's wealth had helped Mavik and Mavik's injuries had in turn assisted his father. The finance bureau had been near to seizing and liquidating the family business. Mavik's injuries and veteran's status had prevented that. Mavik had moved through the woods showing no ill effects from his wounds. They had tracked one of the big felines to his lair.

Confident of killing the beast, Ventrax and his brother had opted to use their _lirpas _rather than slug rifles. They had been in sight of the _palou's_ cave when Ventrax got a sense that something was wrong. The usual swarm of insects that followed a sweaty _palou _was no where to be seen. Melak had turned to look at him when the brothers heard a large crash rolling through the brush. The animal was upon them. It had circled its lair to catch the two hunters. Melak and he were in the fight of their lives. Despite the animal's cunning and its sharp teeth and claws the two brothers had overcome the beast.

Ventrax thought again about that old battle. He remembered the lack of insects. He should have seen those from the start. Confidence had nearly killed the brothers where the efforts of the Triple Alliance warriors could not. He stared intently at the display. Where were the insects? Where were the alliance _Minotaurs_ at?

"Hold position centurion!" he barked.

"There is a power source in orbit around the far side of the planet, commander," Aletor informed him.

"Engage escape maneuver!" he roared. "Sub lieutenant; inform the other ships!"

Two of those ships would be informed of nothing. Ventrax watched two space bending profiles intersect the _Krateck, Praetor's Hall _and the _Mephir _class _Conqueror's Sword. _The profiles' power levels increased and then dropped to near zero. Two of his ships were gone.

"Engage electromagnetic distortion and eject anti missile pellets!" he commanded. Betava ensured that his commands were carried out as the mystery power source revealed itself as one of the alliance's, accused matter anti matter powered ships.

"Sub light evasives immediately!" he commanded.

Ventrax gripped the armrests of his chair as the _N'Ela's _gravity generator tried and failed to keep up with the ship's maneuvers. His ship turned sharply away from its attacker and then angled sharply back again. Ventrax ordered the primary weapon powered up. Alliance ships were laying down a hail of missiles in his escape corridor. He would have to stay and fight. So be it, he thought fiercely. Another _Mephir _vanished, but so did an allied _Torsk. _But what sort of vessel was attacking them?

"Enemy ship in range of primary!" his centurion proclaimed.

"Fire!" he snapped. The command center lights dimmed to near darkness. He watched as two space bending profiles headed for his ship. Anti missile pellets defeated one of them. He did not need the detectors to tell him that the other had hit near his ship.

The viewer exploded. Shards of it neatly decapitated Centurion Betava. Ventrax had a brief thought that his officer should have just kept his helmet off. It had done nothing to save him. Uhlan Aletor's control station erupted. The young soldier had made the mistake of removing a glove. That infraction killed the uhlan as a jolt of lethal electricity traveled up his arms. His detector operator screamed as his hair burst into flames. Ventrax drew his pistol from beneath his sash and shot the soldier directly in his forehead, ending his pain.

Ventrax did not need a technician to tell him that his ship was dead. He started to get up to go to the self destruction station. He fell forward sprawling on his face. Puzzled, he looked down and saw that his boots stood rooted to the floor. The stumps of two bloody legs were what were left to him. He crawled toward the station.

Taskforce 17, Conqueror class Star Fleet cruiser Furies, in the Ursae Majoris system Oct 2158

"Got him!" the gunnery officer cried.

Captain Lisa Somers looked on as the last ship of the Romulan taskforce ended in a brief terrible nuclear blast. The area was clear. Somers remained silent. Normally boisterous she had restrained herself a great deal since assuming command of Furies. She looked at the extra stripe on her sleeve and thought that she would rather be on the bridge of Daedelus. Captain Cromwell had reminded her of why humanity was out here. But here she was. This was her ship and she could fashion it the way that she wanted.

"Very good Miss Delgado," she said. "Are the Minotaur sweeps turning up anything?" This last, she directed to her first officer.

Commander Albrecht Bohr had a regal Danish name accompanied by a short but broad stature. Lisa imagined that if he were to allow his bright, coppery red hair and beard to grow that Bohr would bear a striking resemblance to his marauding Viking ancestors. Her first officer was standing over her sensor chief. Bohr, like her, had been a just another lieutenant before the war. If it weren't for the Romulans they would probably both still be lieutenants.

"They are running at maximum captain," Bohr reported. "Subspace sensors followed by subspace radar and metallurgical scans; there is nothing so far." He eyed her and smiled. "Did you expect them to use the two knights' defense?"

She nodded. "Always with the Birdies," she answered. "But I think for once instead of getting snagged in one of their games we got the upper hand."

Had her former captain unmasked the Birds? Somers wondered about that. Some Daedelus' crew had stayed with the ship, but many like her had been moved. Lisa wasn't a conspiracy theorist. The moves could easily be explained by the fact that the new ships needed crews. The new Star Fleet needed captains, engineers, gunnery officers and just about every other position. Then again there was still a great deal of secrecy surrounding their mission. Officially her old ship hadn't been commissioned until this year.

Rather than mentioning their deep surveillance mission the official binder on Daedelus reported that the ship had been on an extended shakedown cruise. Somers recalled an old skipper; the one that she had served under before Cromwell. The cagey older woman had told a young Ensign Somers that the best place to hide things were either in plain sight or among bureaucratic mistakes. Bohr approached her chair.

Somers felt like a queen elevated in the seat in the middle of Furies' bridge. Her circular command center was larger yet than Daedelus' tight bridge. She could have a confidential conversation in nearly a normal tone with her first officer. Somers guessed that it was time for one of those discreet chats.

"We had them surrounded captain," he said. "We could perhaps have used proximity fire and damaged one of them bad enough to land a boarding party."

"We've been at them for over two years now Alb," she answered using the shorthand for his name. "They blow themselves up rather than be captured. But it doesn't matter anymore. That has been our policy since this thing started. Admiral Forrest has issued different directives." His eyebrows went up. "Captains' eyes only but you would figure it out sooner or later and I'm a pretty poor liar. We have to hurt them commander."

"I thought we had been doing that?" he asked.

"We've always asked them to surrender whenever possible," she answered. "We've always left them options. That is over. There will be no offer to take prisoners, no quarter, no negotiations."

"What happens if they try captain?"

"No communications Alb, we are to assume that any surrender is an attempt to draw us in to a trap and treat the vessel sending that as an active hostile. The word that I got is that if they want to surrender; they can start at the top."

"That is new—and long overdue I think," Bohr said at last. "We have started to push them back but they haven't offered to come to the table yet."

"They may not," Somers said. "We don't know what their economic situation is. Right now from what I've red we are on the edge of our budgets; even with the addition of Vulcan help."

Bohr shook his head. "I was too busy studying time dilatation around black holes when this thing started. I never went on to the War College."

Somers nodded agreeably. "I was lucky to serve under three great commanders. All of them made sure that their crewmen read anything from books about plant photosynthesis to economics and history. I don't like plants except when they have butter on them but the economics stuck with me."

"Seems like we would beat them there commander," Bohr commented.

"On the surface anyway," she said. "We know that their system has two habital planets. We think, but don't know, that they are alone—no allies. We think that they are humanoid. Rather they share similar psychologies nobody knows." Or did they? She thought again about the mission that she had been on with Captain Cromwell. "But if they do and if they have no allies," she said hammering home the 'ifs', "and if their resources are as strained as ours then they must be bleeding their people dry to keep this up."

Bohr nodded. "People on earth are complaining about a fifteen percent sales tax. I once read that it was higher and that people usually revolted after a certain point."

"That is true for us and oddly enough true for our allies," Somers agreed. She thought of Tellarites who thought that the idea of taxes was borderline insanity. "But we just don't know about the Birdies. For all that they knew that Romulans might have a type of insect mentality."

Bohr laughed. "Somehow I doubt that. I don't think that a hive race could make it into space. But my field was astrophysics, so I could be wrong."

Kalenara, the capital of the Romulan Empire, the earth fall of 2158,

Tisza leapt into the air and tumbled over in mid-flight. She landed on her feet and bounded for the flaming hoop. Tarang Gupta had been surprised that that act had never been seen on Romulus. Tisza had practiced intensely for it. The crowds seemed to enjoy the spectacle of it. He had spoken to her about a trapeze act. The former human had carefully avoided using the terran word trapeze. Still, both she and Pakesh seemed to understand. Gupta wondered if he would be with the troupe to build a trapeze.

T'Pol and he were here, at the capital with no plan. Gupta's options seemed to have narrowed to one: assume the leadership of the troupe so that Pakesh could leave. That would not bring about any kind of resolution. To Tarang, this was his mission to save T'Pol. He had an idea beyond that of ending the war, but that seemed likely to come to nothing. There was more. He wanted to do something for this world. So did T'Pol.

Surak who had started out as Careaza had changed the face of an entire world. Gupta did not believe that he had that sort of panache to do such a thing. Could they plant the seeds? He wondered if the two of them could start something. He didn't know the answer to those questions but he did know that these people were crying out for change. Tisza's act was almost complete. Tisza's was the last performance for the night. It was time to get ready to clean things up and take things down.

Gupta stepped away, turned and headed for the control booth. It was warm for this time of year on Romulus. The night was actually humid. Gupta stopped when he saw Elcan standing outside of the booth. He saw several figures milling around inside. The Reman saw him and acknowledged his presence. He gave a slashing gesture which was the Romulan equivalent of a shushing. Elcan walked up to meet him.

"Pakesh is meeting with Senator Gesaam," Elcan explained. Gupta grunted softly in reply. He noticed Elcan's appraising look. He asked him about it. "I was thinking of what sort of chieftain you will be."

"I'm not sure about that," Gupta said after awhile. "There seems to be many others who can do that."

"You don't need to be modest. The others have talents but not the ability to lead. We shall need that when Pakesh goes." The Reman clearly seemed displeased with that prospect.

"He wishes for someone to look after the troupe after he is gone." Gupta knew that it was only Pakesh's wish to return to his studies. Wishes were not always granted. "He may not even get to leave."

"I suspect that his petition will be granted," Elcan said. The Reman looked past him. There was a noise, more than average near the audience area. Gupta turned just in time to see Haldur knocked to the ground by a Romulan soldier. The warrior was by himself and was swinging his helmet by its chin strap. Gupta turned back to Elcan.

The two rushed the soldier. Gupta could see that it was an older centurion. He seemed angry about something. He swung his helmet at Gupta in what would have been a killing blow had Tarang not ducked away. Elcan grabbed the Romulan around the shoulders. Gupta was amazed to see the soldier wriggle out of the Reman's stronger grip and knock Elcan away. Tarang leapt in his way while wondering what had so enraged the centurion. He ducked a killer blow after the soldier swung his helmet at him and missed. Tarang's feet became tangled in some cables and he fell to the ground. The soldier leapt over him and made for the control booth.

Pakesh emerged with the senator as the infuriated soldier ran headlong at them. There was a glint of metal. Gupta started to scramble to his feet. He saw that the centurion had pulled out his long, sharp, curved service knife. He shouted a warning. Pakesh rushed in as the centurion made straight for the politician. T'Pol joined the fight. Gupta wondered what she was doing as she stooped down to pick something up. He vaguely thought that she was going to throw a stone at the soldier when he saw that he had the galamide device. One of the miniature studs on the device was flashing.

Pakesh barely avoided being slashed open by the centurion. The older Romulan shoved aside Pakesh as if the gang leader was a child. Senator Gesaam's bodyguard withdrew a pistol and fired. The soldier's body jerked as slugs slammed into his shoulder. He slashed at the bodyguard. Gupta stared in horror as blood pumped out of the Romulan's neck. His head was nearly severed! The guard fell backwards, issuing a gurgling cry as he fell to the ground.

The soldier stopped, dropped the knife and brought his hands up to his head. Gupta ran up and tackled him. The centurion started screaming. Gupta started to pin him when he realized that the centurion was having a convulsion. He turned back to see T'Pol thumb one of the controller's studs. The soldier started moving with a purpose and almost threw Gupta off. Suddenly the struggling killer fell limp. Gupta held onto his prone form until he heard Pakesh's voice.

"He's dead!" the troupe leader cried. Gupta rolled off the soldier. He was panting and trying to catch his breath. He cautiously checked the centurion. The Romulan's neck was still warm. Like humans, Romulans had a major artery that ran through the base of their necks. It was not pulsing under Gupta's touch.

"I think that you are right," he declared as he lay in the grass. He could feel the cool air across his chest. The troupe was running up to see what was going on as well as was several others.

"You saved my life," Senator Gesaam said to Gupta. "This soldier was obviously trying to kill me. So there was some _gram'jk_ in those threats." This last, the senator muttered seemingly to himself.

"A…well, it seemed the right thing to do," Gupta stumbled.

Kaphir ran up to the group. "Pakesh!" he called, "Senatorial Security Monitors are closing in on us. They want to know what is happening."

"Senator Gesaam, we had nothing to do with this," Pakesh said. He had recovered but was nursing his left arm. "You know that the monitors are more interested in imposing fines than they are in finding out why…" They all looked down at the centurion.

"Jecora speaks highly of you criminal," Gesaam told Pakesh. There was a hubbub as another of the senator's protectors burst through the throng. "I am well, Jlin," Gesaam declared. The guard stopped but cast wary eyes upon those of Pakesh's gang who were present. "I wish to discuss more of your findings criminal—and I owe this felon my life." Gesaam looked at Gupta.

"Jlin!" the senator snapped. The guard listened intently. "Go and delay the monitors. My aircoach is behind the forum Pakesh. I will deflect attention from your group but I wish you to carry the body to my coach. It would be well for you and this one," the senator motioned toward Tarang, "to vanish for awhile. Several in the crowd saw your scuffle with the centurion. You shall be my guests at my estate while my staff healers examine the body of this centurion."

"My gang can take care of the body," Pakesh insisted.

"Normally that would be preferable," Gesaam answered. The senator seemed lost in thought. "Living a nomadic life there is much that you don't see. These riots and lately these attacks from our war veterans…something is wrong. T'Vim warned me about growing influences." He looked at Pakesh and seemed to return to here and now. "You two will go with me."

The senator's coach rolled into the back of the forum. The large boxy vehicle could fulfill the role of both groundcar and it could fly. Pakesh motioned toward Gupta and then the two of them picked up the corpse of the soldier. The dead Romulan was heavy. Pakesh had a hold under the corpse's shoulders. He guided Gupta to the coach's cargo area. They dumped the deceased soldier's body into the compartment and closed it up.

"Monitors are asking questions!" Altena cried as she burst into the group. Pakesh took her in hand and explained what was going on. "I wish to go to!" she exclaimed. She looked at Gupta as she spoke.

"T'Pol should go," Gupta interjected. He saw Altena's venomous look of jealousy. "She perhaps has some knowledge as to what has been going on." It was far fetched but she had retrieved the controller and used it, if that was what had stopped this Romulan from pursuing his murderous rampage.

"Your whole troupe cannot go Pakesh," Gesaam declared. "Yet I will grant these other criminals, passage."

Pakesh went to Elcan. "You must take over in my stead, old friend." The Reman was about to protest when Pakesh stopped him. "A'Zir is the oldest. Titular rule can go to him but the others respect and will follow your lead. Finish here. Answer the monitors' questions and then set sail back up river. Go as far as your fuel permits. Tarack and the others will rejoin you…somehow."

"Come," the politician commanded. "Jlin will stay and explain away my sudden departure."

He didn't have permission so he took T'Pol and put his arm around her and guided her to the coach's passenger section. Pakesh followed and Altena came unbidden. The senator took a seat and signaled to his pilot who was seated behind a partition. The coach rose on its gravimetric drive and accelerated off. Gupta got a good look at the Imperial Residence before the coach turned and headed away from the city center.

"Some of you should not be here but there is time to change that…later." The senator eyed T'Pol and Altena as he said that. "What is your _awevhoi's _knowledge criminal?" he asked Gupta. Gupta looked at T'Pol. There was a slight telepathic brush. _Time for some of that rash human action, _he pushed that thought as Syrran had taught him.

Gupta looked at Altena. "We found a device that we discovered is used to control galamides."

"It seems that this device stopped the centurion," T'Pol added.

"I found it!" Altena declared angrily.

"Where at?" the senator asked. Altena fell silent under the politician's piercing glance.

"Monitors dressed as rioters," Pakesh answered.

"It may be that you will get your wish to stay then," the senator told Altena and T'Pol. The politician turned his attention back to Pakesh.

"Your work does not as interest me as much as T'Vim Jecora's statements about its effect on the praetor. Our leader turned his attention on your findings. He became obsessed with finding this elder race. After your departure he commissioned others to study the ancient writings."

"I would have returned to my work senator," Pakesh interjected.

"Indeed, just before Jecora's retirement your name became an item of note," Gesaam explained. "It was known that you had taken up in the Criminal Guild." Gesaam stared with open contempt at Pakesh's tattoo. "Still, there was an effort to find you—for a brief time."

"The war?" Pakesh asked.

"At first the praetor led the fight. He also started a project to find these elders. There were rumors of progress, but then things changed. Praetor Karzan became increasingly isolated. I thought that it was the war but it seems that Administrator Letak has more than our leader's ear. Which is why I'm interested in the cause of these riots. Letak has told the senate internal security commission nothing."

"Do you think that that the Tal Shiar is behind this?" Gupta asked. Pakesh shot him a look of consternation.

"And who is this?" Gesaam asked.

"This is Tarack and his caretaker T'Pol," Pakesh answered.

Gupta could see that he had spoken when he should not have. "I'm sorry sir…I'm," he stumbled.

"He is an idiot," T'Pol, Pakesh, and Altena exclaimed in unison.

"I have the seal to prove it," he interjected.

"That much I believe," Gesaam agreed. "Yet even an idiot can have one lucid idea. The question becomes why our security branch has become so interested in your research, criminal."

"Does anyone see the praetor to ask?" Gupta could not help it. This could all be some elaborate Romulan scheme. Yet he intuitively grasped that this was a time for truth.

"You aren't an idiot. You are a rash fool," Gesaam told Gupta. "But to answer your question: no not anymore. I've only just discovered that our great leader sent a team off world to investigate. This team was sent almost a turning before the war. It did not consist of any political advisors." That being shorthand for the Tal Shiar, Gupta knew.

What does this have to do with the riots senator?" Pakesh asked.

Gesaam pressed himself into the well padded chair that he occupied. "A few in the senate believe that the riots are an attempt by the Tal Shiar to seize power. Even more ominous there are those who've come to believe that they goaded the praetor into this. It is unthinkable for a Romulan to say this but, I believe that the war was started with the sole intention of losing."

Gesaam looked at Pakesh as he spoke. "To answer your question; a servant that was in a certain group's employ came away from the Imperial Quarters with this bit of information: The praetor's expedition did indeed find something; something that would change everything. I believe that the Tal Shiar in the form of Melak is racing not only to gain control of our government but also to keep whatever was discovered buried."

What could that be Gupta wondered? He looked out of the portal as the coach started its decent for senator's estate. They were on the outskirts of the city and seemingly further than ever from their goal. Yet this night's incident brought him and T'Pol as close to the Romulan power structure as they had been thus far. Was it possible that it could bring the two to their goal?

Taskforce 25, Star Fleet Cruiser Hastings, near Aldebaran, Oct 2158

Admiral Pierre "Grizzly" Oulette surveyed the disposition of his forces. The carriers Hood and Triumph were deployed at least two lights years from his taskforce's present position. They were escorted by the Powhatons Vincennes and Portsmouth. The last surviving Pioneer, bearing its registry's namesake, was still in the fight. Captain Marquez had refused to have the scorch mark of a nuclear proximity blast removed from the port quarter. Grizz knew that he considered it a badge of honor for the upgraded warship.

The Amarillos Wolverton and Charleston had also seen refits. Oulette guessed that the destroyers that made it through the war would be rewarded with a trip to the bone yard. The new Daedelus class was cheap and efficient. Hastings' sister ship Badr was also a part of twenty-five. The Tännhauser had seen her share of battles and had come out of all of them. The terran contribution of Oulette's much enhanced taskforce was rounded out by the new additions of the Conqueror class Heracles and Crusader.

Oulette wondered what would become of the new class after the war. The Conquerors had not been built for exploration. The new ships boasted the most powerful matter antimatter reactor yet built. The hull plating was built with triple redundancies. The laser turrets, armory and missile rooms were covered by a shell of the new material called duranium. The vessel was a wonder, bearing nearly every modern heavy weapon system in existence. All of Vincennes and Heracles' systems were not as telling as what was missing.

Lab space was at a minimum for ships of the Conqueror class. The new subspace sensors were the best, but the software behind them was designed with detecting and identifying other ships in mind rather than detailed analyses. Medical facilities were better than on most ships. Oulette had toured Vincennes while it was still in the dock at Utopia Planitia. The ship's surgeon had told him that there was plenty of room for radiation sickness, decompression and burn victims; anything to keep the warship in space and not docked at a port.

Grizzly wondered again what would become of the new ships. He had read a suggestion that Thorpe's front man for the federation, a councilor named Kirk, had put forth an idea for a single design bureau. If Daedelus was one of those designs how would the aliens in the alliance accept that? Would the Andorians sit by as their ships of the line were decommissioned and replaced with vessels designed mostly by humans? He had wondered that since touring Kumari. That ship made up the Andorian contribution to his taskforce. Oulette supposed that if the Andorians could accept a human captain then perhaps they could accept ships built by men.

Pierre envied Captain Gordon Albright on one level. On another level he thought that it was good that he had not been selected for that position. Besides not being versed in Andorian, Oulette wondered if he could command a mostly alien crew. Albright had done so with great success. He had chided the younger man that he owed in his accomplishment in no small part to his Canadian heritage. Only a Canook could deal with the Andorian ship's climate. Both men had laughed. Nationalism was almost a dead religion among humans. Still, it was good to remember and talk with pride about one's roots from time to time.

"Long range sensor readings show the way ahead is clear admiral," Lieutenant Sylvia Moran reported. Oulette acknowledged the sensor officer.

"What do you make of that planetary cluster Chief Tatlin?" he asked his tactics officer.

"Two of those moons contain large concentrations of heavy metals sir," the chief answered. "The inner planet has a highly energetic magnetic field around it."

Oulette nodded. "Almost the same type of configuration of the system where Commodore Gellar's and his people were killed." The beginning of the war for Oulette, he still had nightmares about it. He remembered his friend Tariq Anwar, the commander's caution concerning the distress call from the Kobayashi Maru. Anwar had been right to be suspicious. That had not prevented him from being ambushed and killed by the Romulans.

"Intelligence thinks that this is one of the border worlds for the Romulan Empire, admiral," Commander Kelvin Merrick said. His first officer stood beside his alcove. Grizzly wondered why he never came over to the command area like most first officers.

"Admiral Soames is not out here," he said quietly. "But in this I believe in this, that she is correct. It will make an excellent system for us to launch strikes from."

That was his mission here. Admiral Forrest had wasted no time after the Romulan defeat on Topaz. Taskforce 25 had been sent toward the border to find systems and build bases of operation. They were here. Aldebaran seemed like an ideal system from which to launch attacks into imperial space. It also seemed to Grizzly like it was a place to be ambushed.

"We have some advantage if the Birds are here and using that field to cloak themselves," Oulette mused.

"Admiral, I'm scanning elevated energy readings," Moran announced. She was punching commands into her control panel blind as her face was pressed against the sensor hood. "They are on the other side of the inner planets between those and the star itself." She paused yet Oulette could hear her sharp intake of breath. "Nuclear detonations confirmed," Moran added. "There is someone out there shooting."

"That's not us," Oulette heard Tatlin mutter.

"It's too far away for Klingon activity admiral," Merrick blandly chimed in.

"I wouldn't say that commander," he countered. "The reports show them to be very aggressive." He smiled at the unsettled look that was pasted on his first officer's face. "But I tend to agree here. Signal the taskforce to slow to sublight. Scramble a message to Triumphs' fighter squadron to make a feint for that area. Let us split off with Crusader and the Kumari and swing around to the other end of that area."

Merrick seemed reluctant but he quickly and efficiently plotted a course, relayed the information and set things in motion. Oulette sat back and looked at a clipboard of reports presented to him by his yeoman. Oulette's yeoman was a comely looking young lady. When he looked at the woman his thoughts returned home; to Christa and their adopted daughter Katy. He absently reviewed the paperwork while keeping a mental countdown until they got closer to this mystery. But his thoughts strayed home to Montreal.

Merrick announced ten minutes until intercept. Oulette ordered battle stations, signed the last of the reports, dismissed his secretary and turned to the situation. Moran had tuned the sensors well enough to discern that Birds were involved. There were also power signatures of an unknown type. Oulette pushed the pleasant thoughts of his wife and daughter out of his head.

"I'm running it through the database admiral," Moran informed him.

"All stations report ready sir," Merrick announced. He was strapping himself into his chair as Hastings neared the target area. Oulette did likewise.

"Missile room ready and standing by, sir," Chief Tatlin said. "Offensive and defensive systems are at one hundred percent."

"Sir there is nothing in our files about the other ships," Moran started. Oulette could see a formation of two opposing groups presented to him on the viewscreen. The unknowns shown as splashes of red light numbered eighteen. Identified Romulan ships numbered at just over twice that number. Moran continued: "There is something in the files that the Point—Vulcans gave us. The unknowns conform to readings' of ships collected from a race known as Tholian."

"What do we know about these Tholians?" Oulette asked.

Merrick's fingers flew over his computer terminal. He started to recite: "First contact between a Vulcan and Tholian vessel occurred thirty-three years ago. Tholians seem to be territorial and highly aggressive with those who intrude into their space. The Vulcans were asked to leave. No Vulcan has ever seen a Tholian. They only learned the name of the race through an Orion contact."

"This is free space according to ours and the Vulcans' data Kelvin," Oulette said. "Show me where the Vulcans think that home is for these people."

The image on the viewer changed but not before a Romulan ship disappeared amid a graphic typical for a nuke hit. Pierre found himself looking at a chart of where the Vulcans speculated that Tholian space began. It was some light years from here. Oulette began to wonder what these aliens were doing this far from home.

"Possible allies sir?" Tatlin asked, giving voice to Oulette's own musings.

"We shall see," he said. He scanned through the data concerning the Tholians.

Their ships should not have been able to go toe-to-toe with a Romulan ship. Certainly not with twice as many Birds he thought. Oulette ordered his ships to warp one. Something was wrong here. Yet he did not sense that it was a Birdie trap. He asked Moran to switch to a full forward scan. His other ships could act as look outs for anything coming from behind. He also ordered Hood's fighters to join them.

The minutes were becoming precious. Oulette knew that he was within Romulan scanning range. Rather that was true for Tholians he did not know. He turned to Lieutenant Peter Wilson and ordered him to start beaming linguacode toward the Tholians. His communications' officer complied.

"Those Romulan ships are packed to the gills admiral!" Moran exclaimed. "Their reactors are typical Birdie design but most are seriously underpowered. I detect six fully powered Cabbages and two Clavicles. I don't know about Romulans sir, but if they were a gaggle of Bison class ships out there I'd say that they were freighters."

"Freighters being escorted by a few defenders," Oulette muttered. The graphic had changed to show that the Romulans that Moran had discovered were also taking the brunt of the beating.

"What does that indicate?" Oulette asked as he read an odd power fluctuation for two of the Tholians.

"I'm feeding it into the computer admiral," Moran replied. Oulette wondered why she just could not say that she did not know.

"It looks like a Vulcan shield reading sir," Merrick piped in.

"I was thinking the same thing sir," Tatlin added, "except that the dynamic is completely different."

"Power signatures show that they are running on standard fusion admiral," Moran said. "I'm not reading any matter antimatter plants on sensors. Look like they nailed another Birdie ship admiral." Oulette noted the disappearance of a Sabinus.

"Any reply from these Tholians comm?" he asked. Wilson turned and shook his head. Oulette decided to drop out of warp well outside Romulan weapon range. He wasn't sure if the same distance would count for the Tholians but from Moran's report he felt that it was safe. He gave the order.

"Sir, I have enough sensor resolution to project an image of the Tholian ships." Moran was blindly punching commands into her console as she spoke. Oulette had read of the new software upgrade provided by the Pointies. Their sensors would be able to acquire ships, analyze their mass and dimensions and provide an image of the ship. He instructed her to do so.

Seconds later a crude image formed on Hastings' bridge viewscreen. Oulette wondered if the enhanced software was really worth the computer's time. He saw a cartoonish black and white image of a flattened pyramid shaped ship. The stubby ends of three pods were shown projecting out of the pyramid's base. Those had to be the warp pods Pierre figured. Perhaps the new modification was worthwhile. He still knew nothing of Tholians but he knew what one of their ships looked like. He was particularly interested in the area that he had mentally assigned as the bow of their ship. It tapered not to rather stubby point and featured a rectangular framework around the blunt end. Pierre would have guessed that it was an emitter. What it emitted he did not know.

"Can we see movement on this?" he asked Moran.

"No admiral," Moran answered. "The computer sensor interface can't handle that. But I think that they are using pairs of ships to attack the Birdies. I narrowed down the search after Commander Merrick mentioned a shield. It is not a shield. It is a type of beam. It translates from Vulcan as a tractor beam."

"The Point—Vulcans use those to move objects around," Merrick commented. "It's a type of force field technology."

"These Tholians seem to using something like that to seize a Birdie ship and between two of them they tear it apart," Moran explained. "It looks like they engage the Birds just inside plasma cannon range. It seems like that beam deflects the brunt of the plasma."

"We are getting an answer in linguacode admiral," Peter Wilson interjected. He pulled a sheaf of paper out of his console and handed it to a security ensign. He started reading it before Grizzly got the copy from the ensign. "The ships identify themselves as part of the Tholian Holdfast. We are warned not to approach."

"I'm painting other ships admiral," Moran announced. Oulette was surprised and felt a brief flare of anger and then tenseness as he thought that they had been neatly trapped. The Birds had gotten him once. He had sworn never again.

"Why did you not detect them earlier?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry sir," Moran stumbled. "They are powered down. The hulls blended in with the planetary body."

Oulette was sorry that he had snapped. He calmed down. "I see lieutenant," he said. "I was merely surprised that you didn't catch them earlier. You usually see the Birds before they know what they are doing I think."

Pierre could see that she recovered. Indeed, as he observed the tactical display he himself could barely discern the other ships. He asked Moran to display an image of those vessels. Once again he saw a black and white image of a larger pyramid shaped craft. Oulette could see that it belonged in the same class of ships as did those warships out there. There were great open areas that Pierre suspected were cargo holds.

"Freighters," he heard Tatlin say softly.

He spun in his chair and nodded. "My guess as well chief," he said and turned back as Moran split the screen into the image of the freighter and the tactical display.

"This has the smell of a crooked deal admiral," Tatlin said.

"Three Romulans have escaped sir," Moran reported. "The rest are destroyed." He could see her back tense up from across the bridge. "Tholian ships turning to! On an intercept course with us arrayed in groups of two."

He turned to Wilson. "Tell the Tholians that we have no hostile intentions toward them but that we will defend ourselves!"

"Encoded and sending admiral," his comm officer answered. Oulette sometimes thought that Wilson was descended from Nostradamus, so quick did he have responses ready.

"They are still approaching sir," Moran said. "I'm reading power fluctuations similar to the ones they used to attack the Birdie ships. They have paired off against each of our ships admiral."

"Chief Tatlin, our new Cachalots can reach out further than a plasma cannon volley," Oulette declared in a relaxed tone. "Please register my displeasure with the Tholian's actions." He turned to Merrick: "Notify Crusader and Kumari to act accordingly. Exit subspace and come to stop."

"Relaying sir!" Merrick snapped. McGivers acknowledged the command to halt and neatly brought Hastings out of subspace.

"Aye sir," Chief Tatlin answered. "Firing and away!" the chief exclaimed seconds later.

Grizzly felt nothing as the Cachalots spat out of their missile tubes, accelerated briefly in Einsteinian Space and then went to warp. A few quick seconds later Pierre watched the graphic of two detonations in front of and behind a pair of Tholian ships. The Tholians going against Crusader and Kumari were treated likewise. He smiled grimly when he saw the Tholians' forward speed rapidly dropping off.

"Tholians slowing to a stop," Moran advised. "That beam emitter is powering down sir."

He turned to Wilson. "Peter, as best as possible in linguacode, please tell our new friends that I am displeased but will not shoot at them anymore unless provoked. Tell them that an explanation is warranted. Tell them that I am very interested in their explanation and that I will be very satisfied upon hearing it."

Wilson looked thoughtful but started typing away. Oulette observed the arrival of Triumph's Minotaur squadron. These Tholian ships appeared to be the match of the Birds. Pierre hoped that the new aliens realized that they were no match for his ships. At least he hoped that that was so. Halting their advance seemed to show that they were assessing his taskforce. He advised Tatlin to target their ships for direct bursts. He did not plan on being caught by some bit of unknown Tholian technology. Minutes passed by after Wilson had sent the message. Grizzly wondered if discretion was the better part of valor here and he should just turn away.

"Incoming transmission admiral," Wilson announced at last. He waited while Wilson printed a copy for him to see. He followed along as the communications' officer read the reply:

"It looks like either an apology or an admission of a mistake. The Tholians…I think it approximates assumed; they assumed that we were showing up to help the…the computer chewed out three choices here: malcontents, thieves or…rapists. They say that they delivered their cargo and the three choices did not deliver….it is ether satisfaction or payment. They say they offloaded their…" Wilson shook his head. "The computer did a hyucka on that. I'm guessing that it is a material sir."

"I agree Peter," Oulette said softly. "It looks like the Birds were dealing with these people and they cheated them. Tell them I am very pleased with the answer. Tell them that we are the thieves' enemy and would like to know more about the thieves—and them."

He waited while Wilson typed out and sent the message. Moran once again displayed a split screen image of one of the Tholian ships. She ran a pointer over a particular data stream. Pierre whistled sharply when he realized what he was seeing.

"I wouldn't want to go over there sir," Moran said. "I've been refining the sensor readings. It's just a guess not knowing their internal layout but the inside of those ships must be at least two hundred degrees C."

"Interesting to know these Tholians," he commented. "Perhaps we can negotiate something here, even if it is not an alliance against the Birds. We could trade with them."

"Message coming over the coder," Wilson announced. Oulette told him to read it. He got up to retrieve the paper copy. Wilson read off of his screen. "They say that they dealt with the thieves through…a third party. They regularly conducted trading operations along these systems. They were trading…once again the computer can't get that one. But it did read that the Tholians were receiving dilithium in exchange for whatever they were providing. They repeat that the thieves tried to leave with the Tholian's commodity without an exchange of dilithium. They say that they will cease operations with the thieves because of this loss. They have no interest in us and plan on returning to their system."

"Motion detected," Sylvia Moran announced. "Tholian ships turning and accelerating away; warp field energizing. They have gone to warp admiral, heading for the system that the Vulcan database identifies as their homeworld."

"There are some particles floating around where they engaged the Birds admiral," Tatlin interjected.

"I'm on that chief," Moran said. "Typical Romulan hull material but there is also a large amount of synthetic carbon."

"Lining for the reaction chamber of a fusion plant," Tatlin said softly.

"Shall I send anymore messages to the Tholians admiral?" Wilson asked.

"_Non_," Oulette replied. He didn't want to press anything further with the new aliens. If he wasn't fighting a war he would have made another attempt. There was also the fact that they had made an important discovery.

The allied worlds were stretched as far as production capacity and raw materials. He didn't know if these Romulans had any assistance and assumed that they did not. If that was true it meant that the Birds were fighting alone against three, now four worlds. They had just cheated a trading customer and Oulette guessed ended whatever agreement they had had with these Tholians.

Grizzly would mention these things in his report to Star Fleet Intelligence. He had not the gift for analysis that the pretty but sad admiral running intelligence did, but he could put a puzzle together. He wished that he had not fallen asleep during his economics courses. What little he did remember told him that the Bird economy was stretched. That was a piece of good news if it turned out to be true.

"Tholian freighters are pulling away sir," Moran said.

"Very good," he answered. "Chief McGivers, put us in orbit about the second planet. Commander Merrick, send out scouts to make sure that this system, is indeed, Bird free."

Marietta, Georgia, the old United States, Nov 2158

Frank McCoy bounced his son on his knee. He had to admit that assuming the parental role had changed him. He thought that the universe was big until he had stumbled onto this larger world. He thought that Davy looked a lot like his father, just with Eileen's eyes. Looking into those eyes had been hard for him for the first few days; too many bittersweet memories. Things had gotten messed up from the start of the war. Davy fussed causing Kanya to take him out of McCoy's hands.

It was his son's feeding time. He watched briefly as Kanya undid the front of her blouse to let David Leonard McCoy have his dinner. Frank walked to the window of the house and looked out. Contractors had done an excellent job of building a house where his old family home had stood. They had made it look exactly as the one hundred and eleven year old McCoy residence had looked before it had been bombed. He looked back at Kanya.

She had moved in with him although she still dropped by New Jersey to visit her professor friend. Frank had made it clear that he didn't want a relationship although she seemed to want that. He wasn't sure if it was an attempt, not malevolent, on her part to experience humanity. Regardless of what either one of them wanted the little bundle that she held to her bosom had tied them together. Frank, upon seeing his son, could not repudiate him, nor could he dismiss the woman who had carried Davy. So they lived together.

Frank was once again attached to Admiral Soames' staff. If fact, Soames currently sat comfortably, in a large wing backed chair that Professor Carlson had contributed to his house. She sat opposite the strange pair of visitors. Frank looked again at them. He had worked hard, broken the law to battle Romulans on his home planet. Now one of them—no he corrected himself, one of their allies sat on his sofa drinking coffee. He still didn't believe it.

"Now let me get this straight," Frank started. "This Reed is possessed by an evil spirit and the exorcist and his female sidekick here want us to flush the demon out. Do I have it right?"

"_Drak'ha_ are beings of energy," the beautiful dark haired member of the duo proclaimed.

"Right, beings of energy," he said. His voice was heavy with skepticism.

The UI agent, Watson cleared his throat and spoke: "I didn't believe it myself McCoy." Watson nodded at his companion. "In fact me and Dominique had to go all the way to Alpha Eridani before I was convinced."

"Oh yeah," Frank said and then chuckled. "You and your Romulan agent friend there went to Heliopolis Settlement, found a ship full of…kids, got attacked by a wolf thing that then jumped into some old lady."

"Frank I'm sure that he attacked me in England," Kanya said. She clutched the child closer.

"Did you see him?" he asked the augment.

"He can blind his victims until he is ready to kill," the alien calling herself Catères interjected.

"Oh, right I forgot about that," McCoy said. "That's why he blinded me and…" he paused to clear a lump in his throat, "me and my dad and Eileen."

"_Drak'ha _are masters at infiltrating a society and creating havoc," Catères said.

Frank looked out into the yard where he and his brother and sister had grown up. The last time that he had heard from Linda and Mark, it was to excoriate him for how he had left after dad's death. That had pierced his heart. There was nothing he could have done about it considering that the Romulans were in the process of launching a poison gas attack on San Francisco. Frank looked at the old glider that had survived the explosion. Always near to falling apart the elder McCoy's had sat there many a night and played with his nieces and nephews. He thought that he would give anything in the world for his parents to see his son. He turned back to the group.

"How can they be a type of secretive serial killer and yet cause all of these problems?" he asked. He shook his head. "I'm sorry admiral. These people aren't trying to arrest us. They are nuts. You've latched onto two fruitcakes."

"Look McCoy," Agent Watson started. "I had my doubts too. I saw one of these things face-to-face on Eridani. They do feed on fear and they can transfer out of bodies."

"So you are dropping your investigation of me and the admiral here so that you can get this guy, huh Watson?" Franked walked over to a cabinet and got out a bottle of Jim Beam. Nayyar shot him a warning glance while she nursed his son. He started to put the Beam away and then stopped. "Oh hell, we aren't married. I'm sorry but since we are suspending reason here it seems like a good time for a drink." He poured himself a glass and offered some to the others. He turned to Watson. "You look like a drinking man there Agent Fruitcake." He handed the scowling detective a glass of the whiskey. He took a drink of the bourbon.

"I would like nothing than to run the both of you in," Watson declared after a sip. "But I'm in too deep with this thing now. I can't say my hands are exactly clean." Watson nodded at Catères. "But get this McCoy: Karl Ebenstark thought that there was some monkey business going on. It looks like Reed had him killed for his curiosity. Karl was a close family friend. I'm going to get the bastard that killed him." He watched as the agent turned on Soames. "Then you two need to stop this. I'll look the other way on things that happened in the past. I once told Karl over lunch that the things that happened to the Sons' were things that they deserved. Don't get me wrong. You guys broke the law. Once you put yourself above the law then we're done. But no more! You stop your…activities after this. So help me if I catch either of you mucking around again I'll throw away everything to get you!"

Frank could see and hear the man's conviction. He regretted somewhat mocking him and his partner, but the entire Reed thing seemed outlandish. McCoy was friends with a several millennia old man and had personally had his atoms energized and projected in a beam. Still, the idea of an alien being, composed of energy that inhabited people's bodies and fed off of the fear they made murder victims feel, was a stretch for him. Soames must have seen his disbelief reflected in his expression for she related the tale of the Daedelus' expedition and their encounter with the _Ro'ha._

"Why is this Reed causing all of these problems then?" Frank asked. He tuned back to Watson. "Don't these killers want to remain secret?"

"Not really," Watson answered. "There was a class of serial killer of old that intentionally left clues. Early criminologists speculated that it might be a cry for help; like catch me before I kill again. Others said that the killers were toying with the police; playing a game."

"That confirms what my people experienced with the _drak'ha," _Catères interjected. "They take over an innocuous host but they assume many of that host's traits. The host is thought to be gradually consumed but the parasite learns off of the host."

"My investigation of pre-_drak _Reed shows that he might be the type of person that would join into what you guys were doing," Watson said. "It's pure speculation but this one, or another may have visited earth in the past. Reed rented a flat in London where we recovered a dagger with one of Jack the Ripper's victim's blood on it. The Ripper left clues, so did Ted Bundy. From what Dom has told me these creatures start out to keep under wraps but after awhile they feel a need to toy with the people that surround them. That fits in with the game theory developed by ancient criminologists."

"That is what happened on my world," Catères confirmed.

"Ted who?" Frank asked.

"A serial killer from the past," Watson explained. "Forget it McCoy. I may not know alien mind monsters but I've been a cop for almost thirty years. Reed is a killer and he's partnered up with your little gaggle here."

"He may also have access to super weapons," Nayyar said softly. David was fed and sleeping peacefully. Kanya got up and took the child upstairs to her room. She had wanted to share Frank's bed but he had rejected that. She returned while Frank poured another drink for himself and the detective.

"Kanya has me convinced that the Doomsday Vault is a real thing," Soames said. She nursed a beer that she had accepted from McCoy. "Reed gave me a computer worm that cracked through Star Fleet security programs like they were made of tissue. I discreetly inquired of a few software engineers if such a thing was possible. Most of them said no. Only one of them said maybe and he mentioned that it was done by twenty-first century programmers. He seemed to think that was a funny urban legend."

"Just when you have me won over you bring up something else crazy," Frank said. Nayyar moved to stand beside him. He started to take a drink. She took his glass away. Her extra human speed and agility had returned since the birth. He was outraged. She took his empty hand gently in hers.

"Frank, he killed your father," she told him in a soft tone.

"The geneticist found in London," Watson chimed in, "we found traces of a molecular sheathing device in her apartment. Your wife--"

"She's not my wife!" he snapped and instantly regretted how that sounded. Nayyar looked away from him but held onto his hand.

"Kanya dug up your father's autopsy report," Watson continued on. "That molecular compound was in your father's bloodstream. I had a lot of bullshitting to do but I got a lab friend of mine to analyze what the Georgia authorities had left. Your father's heart attack came from a tailor made virus."

"He admitted it to me Frank," Soames said. Tears of anger and grief filled his eyes. "I couldn't bring myself to tell you."

McCoy shook off Kanya's hand and stalked off to an ancient gun safe. He was cursing and mumbling under his breath as he spun the dial, missed the combination and tried again. The group came after him. Kanya threw her thin but muscular arms around him. He cursed her and tried to struggle out of her hold.

"You can't do anything like that Frank!" she implored him. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"She's right bud," Watson added. "You point a gun at his head and blow it off he'll just leap to another person."

"Maybe even you yourself McCoy," Catères said. "We know that the admiral isn't susceptible, nor are myself or Fred. Your mate was nearly overcome because her pregnancy altered her motivations. You, I am not sure about."

He broke away from Kanya and finally got the combination right. He felt strange. "You said to get him alone." Frank retrieved an ancient semiautomatic pistol such as Micah Brack favored. "I'll go. You can rig me with some kinda bomb and monitor things from a distance. I want this sombitch!" His knew that his southern accent was asserting itself and he did not care.

He felt a harsh slap across his face. McCoy's cheek burned and then went numb. "Listen you stupid bastard!" Admiral Soames blurted. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I ever involved you in this! I'm sorry for everything! But you listen, Frank! You have a son up there. Don't throw your life away."

"We think that we have a plan, McCoy," Watson said.

"You're going to get Reed in a shuttle and crash it?" he asked. Frank's breath came in great heaving draughts. Nayyar's arms were firmly locked around him. He started to calm down.

"Too dicey," Watson replied.

"We'll make him take us to this Doomsday Vault Frank," Soames said.

"And then blow it up with him in it," Watson interjected. He saw the look of consternation the agent gave his boss.

"Yes, absolutely," Soames said. She was adamant. "I promise you Watson: I want to wash my hands of this. I'll admit having those weapons is an enticing thought, but you're right. I knew it when I started this. I just thought that…I don't know what I was thinking."

"Look admiral," Watson said. "I understand what a responsibility you have. Things looked pretty bleak two years ago. I'm no angel either. If I saw one of SOT's people about to trip and fall down a flight of stairs I'd probably look the other way. But I'm not going to purposefully shoot the bastard. Most crimes happen out of a sense of desperation. But you know, the act usually just makes things worse than they are."

"Okay, I'm okay," McCoy assured Nayyar. He hugged her to him. She did not feel like a genetically enhanced super woman. She felt like a small but strong woman. He looked at Soames. "So we lure this guy into the vault. By the way, does anyone know where it is?"

"Haley's Comet," Soames and Kanya announced almost in unison. He absently stroked Kanya's long black hair and then released her.

He tried to remember what local astronomy he knew. Frank was surprised at how little he knew about his home star system. Finally it occurred to him that if the comet was near to earth information about it would probably have been on the network. There had been none.

"It's too far for beaming, I reckon," he said.

"What?" Watson asked.

He looked at Soames. She nodded "No secrets Frank, not anymore, let's get on with ending this."

"Let's just say agent that I haven't always needed a shuttle to travel to places," Frank said. He explained his use of Erickson's transporter to Watson. McCoy was leery of Catères but he did as Soames bade.

Watson let out a low whistle. "And you called me crazy bud," the agent said. "I'd read about them using that to move bulk material but people…" Frank chuckled. He could see that Watson was plainly flabbergasted.

"Could we get Reed into this device?" Catères asked. They looked at her. "You said it energizes your atomic structure. What if the person is not reassembled?"

"Emery is a pretty ethical guy," Frank said after awhile. "I don't know how to operate the contraption and I doubt that he would; not for that. I was just a guinea pig. I don't know if he would agree to that."

"It may not dissolve the parasite anyway," Catères said. "This technology is unlike anything that I know of. I believe the original plan is the best. We know that without a viable host the _drak'ha _dissipates and dies, at least as far as we understand death."

"Besides, we're starting anew here," Soames declared. "Whatever wonder weapons are up there let's make sure that they are destroyed. If we need to create airborne HIV for something then that is on the conscience of the generation that does it. We wash our hands here and now."

"Agreed," Frank added. It was a relief to hear Soames speak as she did. Frank had wondered where all of this would end. He extended a hand to Watson. "I'm sorry about the fruitcake comment."

Watson grinned sheepishly and took Frank's hand. "I've been called a lot worse; forget it."

The group discussed possible options far into the night. Davy woke up twice and spent some time with them. Frank wondered if his son would remember any of this. The problem was to get Reed to the vault. They developed and discarded plan after plan until finally Watson declared that they needed some more time to think. Soames was due in San Francisco in a few hours and needed to catch the shuttle. She reminded him that he was on liberal leave and then departed. Frank had another shot of bourbon while he sent his the rest of his guests out into the night. He closed the door on the detective and his alien companion and drained his glass. David was asleep, for now.

He walked upstairs and paused by the door of his bedroom. Kanya stood next to the door of her room. "I think he'll finally sleep for awhile."

"I think so," she answered softly. She continued to stand there.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm a horse's ass sometimes. It's a McCoy family trait. You've done so much for me…for us, after…after what happened. I still think about her."

"You couldn't have prevented what happened, Frank," Kanya told him. "Professor Carlson once told me that we are in a stream of time. We can change directions in the now but we can't undo the past. You seem to be good at the now."

"I try," he said. He chuckled softly. "Funny where life takes you," Frank mused.

She smiled. It was a natural, good natured human smile. "I was thinking the same thing."

They stood thus for a few minutes. Frank appreciated the late night silence of the house. "Well, I guess we better get some sleep."

She nodded. Frank thought that she looked nervous. "I can hear David if he cries, even from your room."

He looked at her. Frank remembered the smell of her hair as they had embraced. "I can't guarantee anything. You said I'm good in the now. That didn't work out with the women in my life."

"Your first wife," she answered. "I don't understand human relations but it seemed that you and she were not compatible. What happened to Eileen was not like that. And I am not your first wife or Eileen."

"No you're not," he answered. "I had things to sort out. I don't know if I would be good for you."

She walked over to him. "We'll never know until we try." Kanya brushed past him on her way into his room. Frank took a deep breath and followed.


	43. Chapter 43

Outside of Kalenara, the estate of Senator Alvega Gesaam, the earth fall of 2158

Outside of Kalenara, the estate of Senator Alvega Gesaam, the earth fall of 2158

Tarang Gupta sat around the brazier with T'Pol, Altena and her new companion V'Tel. V'Tel was the last living son of Senator Alvega Gesaam. Just a few centimeters taller than Gupta, V'Tel was far broader with a pate of youthful jet black hair. His _Mephir _class cruiser had survived a run in with the alliance navy. V'Tel had nearly lost his right arm but mechanical reconstruction had saved most of it. Tarang was sympathetic toward the young soldier when he thought that he should be cheering any injury done to a Romulan. The uhlan had taken up Altena's attention which was an enormous relief to Gupta. He also personally liked V'Tel. The senator's son had shunned the offer of higher rank because of the position of his father in Romulan society.

It was early evening as the small group relaxed on a great stone balcony overlooking the senator's land. The workers were going in for the evening. Wisps of ground fog were curling up into the evening sky. For a brief, poignant time Gupta recalled a section party held at a rented farmhouse in the US state of Maryland. It had been late summer there and it looked much like what he was seeing now. He remembered Chief McCoy getting drunk and telling off color jokes. He felt T'Pol's reassuring mental brush. He reached over and squeezed her hand affectionately.

The fire was warm. Gupta got up and threw another piece of fragrant _tilnx_ wood onto the blaze. He sat back down and took a sip of a mix of hot kali-fal and spices. Perhaps he was homesick on this dawning, Gupta mused. The spices reminded him of some that his mother had used in cooking. T'Pol seemed to detect his distress. He felt her mind assert itself. It was comforting. He also felt her longing for her home planet. He realized that V'Tel was speaking.

"It isn't what you've been told," he said to Altena.

"I listen to our praetor's pronouncements," Altena said. "It is said that the need is so great that even females may be called upon. I would be honored to--"

V'Tel reached over and gently stoked her cheek. The gesture was all the more heartfelt because it obviously pained him to use his injured arm so. "Innocent Altena, how I wish that you knew and yet am glad that you do not." It helped that V'Tel seemed to have a mutual interest in Altena.

"It is an honor for every Romulan to serve. It is our destiny to rule over all that we see." Altena whatever her vices Gupta thought, a lack of patriotism was not among them.

"Perhaps we should be satisfied to rule over a small part of that," V'Tel replied. "The Triple Alliance is not composed of cowards and degenerates as we've been told." The soldier got a faraway look in his eyes. "They fight like demons from _vorta-tx. _ Their ships come at us. They never stop. At first they fell before our plasma guns, but now their cursed ships have an energy charge built into their hulls. They have a new behemoth prowling space. Its missiles can bend space and come out of no where to kill. Their warriors are skilled and cunning and will fight to the death."

He removed his hand from her cheek. "No my pretty Altena, the war is just a terribly quick way to die. Yet you may get your chance to fight when our enemy shows up in our skies."

Gupta saw the flash of anger cross Altena's face. "Surely it is not as bad as you say V'Tel," Gupta spoke up in attempt to blunt the Romulan woman's anger.

The Romulan gave him a wilting glance. "You are fortunate to have status as a mental defective. Perhaps in the end they will toss your body before the alliance navy ships. They are less than three tenths from our system now. When the war started they were almost a turn away and we were beating them." The faraway look vanished. "Now it is a victory if we escape with our lives."

Altena, her anger turned to concern reached over and took V'Tel's hand. "The war has scarred you. I know that all seems like darkness yet the ancient texts tell of the dark and dangerous journey here. Our race survived that. I think that in the end we will beat the alliance."

V'Tel's dark mood dropped away. Gupta had the sense that that was so in order not to frighten Altena. "With you cheering us on, we would fight a hundred times harder!" he exclaimed.

"You would fight harder for me than for our praetor?" she asked. Gupta could see that she thought that he was toying with her.

Gupta had come to discover that the Romulans shared many gestures with man and their allies. Why that was so he did not know. Still, he was surprised to see V'Tel get up and stand before Altena.

"For your love I would indeed do that," he declared. "I see how fragile life is now. We are here only briefly and must make good use of the time allotted to us. I have been assigned to the Imperial War College. Doubtless my father was instrumental in that. I will not argue with him anymore. I would spend this time with Altena as my mate!"

Gupta almost burst out laughing. Altena was clearly taken aback. He believed that V'Tel was having fun at her expense but he realized that it was not so. Altena must have felt similarly as she did laugh. The laughter died shortly on her lips.

"You are a fool," she snapped. "Though I know that you are my better it is because of that that your father would never allow it. I am nothing more than an _awevliu _to you. The son of a politician would not have me, even as an _awevhoi_ and certainly not as a consort."

"Is it because you wish to be the _awevhoi _of this one?" he asked pointing to Tarang. Gupta started running through Romulan rituals and challenges. He did not want to fight V'Tel, mostly because he genuinely liked the Romulan and also because he thought that the soldier would kill him. "Do you love me as I do you Altena?"

"I do," she said at last.

He rose and offered his hand. "Come with me then criminal," he said in a mock challenge. "We shall see what our future holds."

"Go with him Altena," Pakesh declared. Gupta started. He had not seen the former troupe leader walk onto the balcony. "He can decide his own fate. He is a warrior and of age."

The Romulan girl was stunned. She rose unsteadily and accepted V'Tel's hand. "It is alright Pakesh?" she asked. Her voice was trembling.

"Yes it is," Pakesh answered. He watched as V'Tel led Altena away. "Go and enjoy the time we have left," Gupta heard the Romulan mumble softly.

He turned to T'Pol and Gupta. "How are my favorite idiot and his caretaker?"

"We are well," T'Pol answered. She waited until the couple went inside. "Do you think that wise?"

"The senator's son can decide. Alvega will not like it but he would rather see his son happy." Pakesh looked around. "My studies may be of little use. The senator confided a report to me that we broke a trade treaty with the _Thoul'onv. _Things do indeed look bleak for the empire. We did not even have the crystal to pay the _Thoul'onv._ Altena may not live long enough to become fat with child. None of us may."

"The news seems gloomy upon this dawning," Gupta said.

"War is always gloomy Tarack," Pakesh said. He took up a glass and dipped it into the steaming pot of beverage that hung on the corner of the brazier. "There seems little hope now." He took a great draught of the spicy drink.

"So you have abandoned your studies?" T'Pol asked. Pakesh had been secluded away from them for many dawnings since they had arrived here almost a tenth ago.

"Most of the material is at the Imperial Residence," Pakesh answered. "No one goes in or out of there save for Vrinak. Alvega thinks that the praetor ordered an expedition to the tail of the viper. I mentioned your theory concerning a tunnel through space to the senator." Pakesh noticed Gupta's distress. "Don't fear. Alvega knew that you weren't a real idiot right after he spoke to you. He decided to check into strange expenditures. It seems that the praetor created a personal account marked for cataloging plant and animal species."

Gupta, who had come from a world where the word politician was synonymous with the word crook, asked if the account had indeed been used for its expressed purpose. Pakesh laughed.

"It seems that spacecraft and fuel were needed to make this catalog," Pakesh answered. "The senator looked further and discovered that a cadre of troops loyal to the praetor disappeared. It seems that several noted scientists disappeared at the same time."

"What do you think they are looking for?" T'Pol asked Pakesh.

"Alvega thinks at first that it was for this third branch of our people." Pakesh took another sip of his drink. "Then he discovered that Vrinak has discreetly procured some ships. The thought masters who understand these things say that if a tunnel exists in space then because of the energy needed to sustain it the passage may only be temporary. He thinks that Vrinak is planning on using it to escape unless he can negotiate an agreement with the alliance."

"But the empire will fight on to the end," T'Pol countered.

News had been circulating that the extremely young and extremely old were being rounded up to form citizen legions. Gupta had seen young Romulan males of no more than ten turnings being led from Gesaam's fields alongside males who were past their two hundredth turn. He didn't know what they could do with the ancient projectile weapons they were issued. If the Star Fleet did show up in the skies over Romulus they would quite likely start with a bombing campaign he guessed. It had occurred to Gupta that this could all become moot.

The Romulans might well be beaten into submission before Gupta and T'Pol had a chance to do anything. V'Tel was not the only returning veteran that Gupta had heard expressing dark sentiments. Applying his intelligence background Tarang had surmised that his people were pushing the Romulans hard. V'Tel was not the only soldier who seemed disillusioned. Gupta knew where his loyalties lay. He was also keenly aware of Admiral's Valdore's timetable for T'Pol's infection. Yet he felt sympathy for these aliens. They were no longer faceless killers.

"Then again a serpent may just be a serpent and the praetor and Vrinak might just be planning on an escape to another star system through conventional means," Gupta said. "But what of the senator's speculation that the war was started with the intention of losing?" he asked.

"I doubted Alvega on that but he has made an interesting argument," Pakesh said. "Surrender is unthinkable to our race. Yet if such a thing was done it would almost surely guarantee that Vrinak could assert his power; the veil of imperial prestige will have been pierced. Many think that Vrinak is keeping our praetor alive so as to have someone to place the blame upon." Pakesh sat down in the chair that V'Tel had vacated. "It is all irrelevant! Any evidence of what is happening…and my research is in the praetor's residence."

"We should go there and get it," T'Pol said. Her Vulcan inscrutability had returned. Gupta sent a mental warning to her. Pakesh was a loyal Romulan. Tarang knew that he was a criminal. He had also seen him outraged over the riots against the young recruits. Gupta worried as the Romulan held T'Pol fixed in his gaze. "We are, after all, criminals. I believe that the expression is 'breaking into'. The praetor's residence is just that, another residence. You, A'Zir and Haldur broke into an administrator's home in Tankaara. Entering the Imperial Residence would just be a problem in logic."

"It would be a greater problem than that, Promise," Pakesh said. Gupta was shocked to see that Pakesh seemed to be actually considering it. He felt a brush from T'Pol, as much as to say: I told you so. "The senator broached such a thing to me two dawnings ago. Alvega is skeptical about tunnels through the sky but he was fully aware of my criminal history when he sought me out."

"Now…now wait," Gupta started.

"You are babbling Tarack," T'Pol said. _Remember why we are here. _

"He is good at that Promise," Pakesh said. "You should be wary when you mate with him. Your children may turn out to be real idiots instead of paper ones. What would you say if I told you that Alvega asked me directly if I had the expertise to do as you suggested?"

"Do you?" T'Pol asked without ceremony.

"I've been to the residence," Pakesh answered. He stopped after that. Gupta said nothing nor did T'Pol. "By myself I don't have the expertise. I can break into an administrator's home or a vehicle. I can cheat a fool out of his thrones, but this will take more than that."

"Aren't you risking everything?" Gupta asked at last. He was curious about the normally low key Pakesh's motivation to do something so dangerous.

"The senator represents a small group of citizens who, if necessary will negotiate a settlement with the Triple Alliance. Alvega thinks that Vrinak will offer a surrender that somehow leaves him and the Tal Shiar in power. Senator Gesaam's group wishes a more moderate approach; something short of surrender, if the alliance agrees to that. An agreement that will be acceptable to our people and that will preserve things as they are. It is dangerous." Pakesh licked his lips. "But I wish my Romulus to be as it was. I wish to provide a home for Svarem and to take care of my gang. Romulus is at an impasse and our race is on the sacrificial slab. I have the senator's guarantee that he will discreetly provide for Svarem in the event that we are less than successful. I shall take the risk for Romulus."

"Say we get there," Gupta said. He wanted to make sure that this was not a trap. "What are we looking for? I realize that you want your research but what else. Do we simply walk up to Praetor Karzan and asked him for an accounting of what is going on? What if he is merely infected with the mind disease of the old?"

"Then we shall find that out," Pakesh said. He gulped down his drink. "I am not doing this to seek power."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Gupta added the human expression that translated neatly into Romulan.

"Well said Tarack," Pakesh said. "Will you two aid me?"

"What is your plan?" T'Pol asked the gang chieftain.

"We shall go back down the river and find the _Night Wind,_" Pakesh explained. "A'Zir was an engineer. He should be able to work through the technical aspects of our adventure. Elcan is skilled in that regard too. Kaphir will want to be with A'Zir and he is clever with his hands."

"That leaves Haldur and Tisza with _Night Wind_," Gupta said.

"I kept a hidden cache of thrones," Pakesh said. "I shall tell them where to find it. It is enough that they can purchase their citizenship or whatever path they choose. I wish to provide for those who served me so well but I can not be there for them forever."

"We will return here and plan how we are to proceed," Pakesh finished.

A servant ran out onto the balcony. "You all must come inside to the lower levels!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

"What is going on?" Gupta asked as he stood up.

The female was one of the senator's older domestics. Gupta had come to think of her as the head of the household staff. She had treated them all with kindness. He had discovered that Gesaam, unlike many in the government, had a sense of loyalty to the people who served him. That in turn inspired a fierce loyalty from the domestic staff for Gesaam. Gupta could see that she was clearly distressed. She seemed to be on the verge of tears.

"Senator…the senator notified us…," she paused. It was not to catch her breath. Gupta thought that it was to force what she wanted to say to come out. "Romulus…our world is under attack."

Star Fleet carrier Valley Forge, Taskforce 9, near the Romulus system, Oct 2158

"You've done it admiral!" the normally sedate Captain Srinivasa Ramanujan exclaimed.

Commander William Walters had to agree. The taskforce had used the data gathered from the survivors of the first strike against the Romulan system. Bill understood that Captain Wiley Dunleavy had fought to stay in the navy even after being offered a full retirement. He questioned rather he would do the same after being a prisoner of the vicious Klingons. Walters didn't know the answer to that but he was thankful for Dunleavy's contribution.

Admiral Forrest realized that the Romulans would have changed their defenses since that attack of almost two years ago. It was Forrest's guess that they would not change the nature of their strategy. Dunleavy's group had negotiated a series of radar pickets laid down in overlapping corridors. Smuggled Vulcan data had allowed them to do that. Forrest had gambled that the Birdies would do the same thing with subspace sensors. Once again Vulcan aid: this time in the form of enhanced sensors had allowed the taskforce to approach to as close as three AU's outside of outer edges of the Romulus system.

The taskforce would get no closer without taking a severe beating. Forrest had gotten as far as he could with this single taskforce. Rather they would escape with their lives was another matter. Yamato and Ticonderoga's fighters were deployed to attack several Romulan sensor posts. The attacks were planned to convince the Romulans of a likely escape course for the Star Fleet taskforce. Admiral Forrest, Bill had been briefed, had other plans.

Nine would pick their way along a z-minus course and then flatten out in a direction that would allow them to avoid most of the Romulan pickets. It was a one shot deal and Bill had questioned rather the admiral should use it for this purpose. It surprised him when he thought of his journey from a green Marine private to a Star Fleet commander who had questioned an admiral. This mission was a demonstration.

"I think that Admiral Buchanan is not happy about being assigned to Yamato," Ramanujan confided quietly to him.

"I can't think of anyone better to protect our backsides captain," he told the Indian. Buchanan was commanding the decoy forces. Walters watched as his fighter squadron deployed away from the carrier. He wished that he were out there with them.

"Inbound cruisers and Eightballs admiral," Lieutenant Warner Schoener advised Forrest. "We are overmatched at least five to one." The bridge tactical display showed that mismatch graphically. Walters was glad that weren't staying around.

"These will be their shock troops," Forrest said. "I'm betting that they have five times that waiting in reserve. Well, we'll be out of here before any of those can reach us."

"Fighters arrayed in standard attack formation admiral." Walters added his bit. Three of the fighters were typical Minotaurs. Two of them were not.

"Deploy ships in a defensive sphere captain," Forrest told Ramanujan. "Tell all ships to fire at their discretion after they've obtained solutions. Lieutenant Marutei the same goes for us," he told the gunnery officer.

Walters watched nervously as the captain did as ordered. Ramanujan seemed to be fumbling. Bill realized that he was working feverishly with communications in an effort to punch through Bird jamming. A roar of static exploded over Walter's earpiece. Still, he could make out the commands of his squadron leader. Lieutenant L'Tan had transferred to fighter operations. The Andorian was the first nonhuman squadron leader in Star Fleet.

"Message relayed admiral," Ramanujan reported. "The first wave of missiles are away," he said a few seconds after that.

The taskforce was using the last of the shorter range Narwhals. Bill watched the missiles streak away well below the speed of light. He also noted that their adversaries were returning fire. A single Romulan battle station fired ten Moolahs at them. They were still out of range of the Romulan weapons. The same was true for their missiles. Bill watched a conflagration on the tactical viewer as the first flight of missiles from both sides detonated at their outer ranges.

"Second volley away!" Ramanujan exclaimed.

"Thirty-three Romulan ships deploying in an attack line admiral," Schoener said. The German was remarkably calm. Walters remembered him when he had acted as Bill's temporary first officer at the Battle of Hell's Gate. He had been an excitable young officer who always seemed to worry about protocol. "Plasma cannons on a buildup to fire."

"Evasive action beta," Forrest ordered.

Bill thought that the new maneuvers were something akin to watching an elephant trying to dance. He grabbed his console as Forge's gravity web lagged behind the ship's lurch to starboard. A groan sounded through the bridge. Walters turned to see the ship's situation display show red light. Some compartments were venting to space. The outer sections had been evacuated in anticipation of that but it was disquieting to see. The lights flickered and the deck appeared to pitch as the web absorbed a hit.

"Hit amidships!" Ramanujan announced. "Hull plating absorbed most of it. That section has been evacuated."

"It looks like a good time to start fighter recovery," Forrest announced. He spun in his seat and faced Bill. "Go to phase two commander."

Walters flipped open his battle network comm. "Pan, pan, pan twelve knight's three," he said and repeated it over the coded channel. Three of his fighters responded crisply, turned about and headed for the carrier. The remaining two jumped to warp.

"Standing by for emergency jettison admiral!" he snapped. Walters looked over and nodded at Ramanujan. "Fighters accelerating in for a high speed recovery," Walters announced. The captain's hand turned a key unlocking the emergency docking system.

"Birds powering up for another volley!" Schoener cried.

"Vandalia and Catskill have fired a covering volley admiral," Ramanujan added.

"Fighters twelve seconds from docking," Walters chimed in. "They are firing a covering barrage."

"Evasive epsilon!" the admiral roared. "Jettison now! Helm, prepare for warp entry!"

Space lit up around the dueling forces. For the second time in less than a year Valley Forge's hull sections were blasted away. The carrier veered to port and then accelerated upwards away from the plane of the ecliptic. Three blunt cigar shaped Minotaurs stopped relative to the carrier's motion. Their docking thrusters sent them slamming hard against the exposed launch carousel. One Minotaur hit hard against a section of Forge's ribbing. It spun out into space where a plasma volley incinerated it.

Elsewhere missiles belched forth from Vandalia. The Powhaton turned as only ships in space can. Maneuvering hard the escort plunged downward away from the group and then moved at a right angle to its previous course. A lethal hail of plasma cannon fire, and missiles filled the space at the position that the Powhaton had just vacated. The resulting blast expanded outward catching the luckless escort. Blue static discharges emanated from the escorts hull for a few seconds before the hull plating was overcome by the combined energy of the explosion. Vandalia made a second massive explosion just as the first blast was radiating away.

Valley Forge, the Kretchet class Rattler and the Torsk Han jumped into subspace. The escorts Montaukx and Virginia followed. A barrage of missiles launched from an attacking Sabinus detonated in succession a distance from where the Star Fleet ships had entered warp. The molten hulk of Rattler reemerged into normal space. Hardly recognizable as a ship anymore two successive hits from plasma cannons sealed the Kretchet's fate.

Bill Walters lamented the loss of yet another fighter crew. He looked at Admiral Forrest and thought of the weight on him from the thousands who had died on Vandalia and Rattler. The difference, he thought was that he had known those who had been killed after the failed docking attempt. Forrest couldn't have known all of those people but Bill suspected that he felt their loss. They had died but the mission had succeeded.

The Minotaurs dropped away from scanning range as the taskforce raced away. The unmanned fighters were sophisticated missiles. At last glance the Forge's sensors had clocked them at warp six. Walters imagined that the little ships were coming apart. Man could build more powerful engines but no ship built by man could sustain those speeds. The fighters' modified mams were running well past the red line. The ships had not been designed with survival in mind. The Minotaurs just had to survive until they got close to the inner planets. Bill wondered if they would explode or disintegrate before they made it, or would the Romulans shoot them out of space.

"The fighters are inbound sir," Ramanujan reported. "We are receiving position reports but that is fading from Romulan jamming."

"Did we get telemetry?" Forrest asked.

"Very specific and pinpoint sir," Schoener reported. "Subspace jamming prevented any wide field examinations of their system. The lead Minotaur took very impressive readings of a base near an inner gas giant."

"I can guess that it'll make Topaz look like a Sunday afternoon stroll," Forrest said.

Walters had to agree. He was examining the data from the Minotaurs. Layered missile and orbiting plasma cannon platforms appeared to be augmented by several dozen cruisers. It looked like the Birds were ready to defend their home world. He supposed that he had begun thinking in the long view. He realized that a significant number of their ships were tied up here. Those were ships that weren't out engaging the Star Fleet.

"Minotaur two has crumpled admiral," Lieutenant Mariko Marutei reported. The slim Asian woman studied readouts from the remaining fighter. "Minotaur one is accelerating through their inner ring of defenses."

"We will be out of range in twenty seconds admiral," Ramanujan reported. "Sensors scan for pursuing vessels."

"Negative on pursuit captain," Lieutenant Schoener snapped.

"It looks like they've taken The Bastard's bait," Forrest declared, falling back on Buchanan's favored nickname.

"I've lost the Minotaur sir," Schoener reported. Marutei confirmed that from the weapons' station.

Walters realized that it could simply be a range problem. More likely, he thought with no small degree of pessimism, the fighter had succumbed to the engineering stresses imposed by the high warp speed and its overloaded drive. They might never know until the invasion of Romulus. It seemed to Walters that that might happen within the next year or two. Another year of war, he wondered where he would be next year if he lived.

He had ended his relationship with Sharon Patelli much to the dismay of Chief O'Brien. Bill had decided that he would stay in this new Star Fleet. Sharon, as O'Brien had speculated wanted to go back to civilian life after the war. Walters didn't know what he would do in the Star Fleet. He imagined that many like him would revert to a greatly lower rank. He was prepared for that. He had always thought that he would return to Kansas and fly shuttles like his pop. That had seemed satisfying for awhile but had lost its appeal after he had gone off world. The end of the relationship had been unpleasant.

Unpleasant enough but not as bad as what was coming up shortly. He mentally reviewed the bios of the dead pilots. He would have to sit down and write the letters to their families. Rav had been part of a Tellarite marital unit. Walters understood that to be a sort of group arrangement. He would consult one the database for customs involving those aliens. Korolyov had been an older recruit from the EH. He had come to the squadron full of fight and had been a good pilot. Bill didn't think that the Russian had had a wife. He sighed and mentally started writing.

There was no information and Romulus had no sort of civil defense system. Gupta supposed that made sense as the Romulans had not fought the internal wars that they had waged on Vulcan. Servants and administrators slowly filtered down to the lower levels of the residence. It occurred to Gupta that this attack might be the Triple Alliance response to the bombing of earth's colonies and the US. He took T'Pol's hand when he thought that they might well be incinerated. They were on the first floor near to the exit to a large veranda.

A tussle was in progress as a well fed administrator bullied his way past the children of some servants in an effort to get below. Some things never change, Tarang thought. He pulled T'Pol close to him, felt the warm blanket of her mental touch. A great flash filled the large room. Gupta looked up despite the danger of flash blindness. The great form of Remus, usually visible as was earth's moon on some days, was silhouetted by a greater light than that cast by the Romulan sun. Tarang recognized the receding blast of a bomb. Several servants and administrators looked skyward and cursed.

"_V'roul_!" Pakesh shook his fist and joined the others in cursing the alliance.

Spots danced before Tarang's eyes. He laughed as it occurred to him that his genetic conversion had also cured his farsightedness. He would take it all back though to have his old ears back. His vision cleared. Some of the household members had stopped, thinking that the attack was over. Gupta saw what he had at first taken to be spots of lights. He realized that he was seeing molten pieces of debris.

"They've hit the shipyard!" he cried.

"It sits atop the gravity well," T'Pol said.

"That means that some of those pieces may come crashing down here." Gupta finished her thought.

The throng had stopped to look at the glowing orbital debris. Pakesh took a resident guard by the shoulders and shook him. The soldier, a young Romulan of no more than twelve or thirteen turns looked dumbfounded at the gang leader. Pakesh reached into the soldier's belt, took his pistol, raised it into the air and fired three quick and loud shots. The onlookers snapped out of their revelry.

"Continue down!" Pakesh bellowed. "I don't know if any of that will hit here but only a fool stays to seek answers like that!"

Gupta squeezed T'Pol's hand as the crowd moved down to the basement storage rooms. He turned to Pakesh. "Perhaps we can take advantage of this," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Out of the mouths' of idiots!" the chieftain roared and laughed. "I think that we may."

Panama City, Florida, the site of the old Tyndall Air Force Base, the old United States, Oct 2158

"Doing garbage detail, are we?" Malcolm Reed asked the attractive black woman. He pushed a little only to feel a harsh rebuff from Jocelyn Stiles' mind. He laughed; can't blame a bloke for trying. Stiles gave him an equally harsh look to match her mental outlook.

"Major Reed," she started. "I suppose that you aren't here to get your hands dirty?" She looked from him to a clipboard handed to her by a nervous ensign.

"The beta shift fuel authorizations are on there ma'am—sir," the ensign announced nervously.

"My momma is ma'am, ensign," she replied, "but we aren't aboard ship so I won't have you executed." Malcolm watched her examine the schedule while wondering what it was that frightened her the most. He could feel a rage and bitterness in her that caused him to recoil. "Radiation is subsided but I'd like to spray the eastern quadrant again before this weather front moves through. Tell the pilots that they are on double shifts."

"Aye ma—sir!" the ensign snapped. He started to turn away, remembered the report and turned back for the clipboard and left.

"Someone has to ramrod the cleanup effort," Stiles told him. "Why not the 'Hero of Hell's Gate?'" she asked. Malcolm could hear the bitterness in her voice.

"Don't worry love," he said. Reed looked toward the horizon. The skeletons of the few remaining buildings left standing gaped back at him. Everywhere he looked it was brown muddy earth. There was no vegetation. "The war is going well. They'll want you for the final drive, don't you think?"

"Admiral Forrest has it out for me," she answered. "You may not have anything to hold over my head Reed."

The two were alone in the muddy field. Off in the distance shuttles filled with anti radiation compound lifted skyward. Reed despised this wholesale slaughter. The creature was Malcolm Reed. It took the identity of its host as names meant nothing to it. It had been to earth to feed before this. Those were better times when these poor humans lived furtive, pointless lives. They were easy prey and plentiful. Yet he hated this sort of violence that had been wrought here. A hunter had a personal relationship with his prey. There could be none of that with these weapons that killed indiscriminately. They did not even allow for a sniff of the fear.

"Are you listening Reed?" Stiles asked insistently.

"Sorry love," he answered. "I was musing upon the human condition." She invited him to follow her to a permacrete blockhouse that was her command center.

"What is it that you want here Reed?" she asked.

"I need a shuttle," he answered. "I can pull many strings in the NIS but I'm having problems in that regard. I believe that dear Admiral Soames is after some of my property."

"I thought that she was trying to kill you?"

"She is my dear," he answered with a grin pasted on his lips. "In fact we may well be walking into a trap."

Stiles stopped. "We?" she asked.

"You got some useful information," he answered. "Now I need your help."

"I'm sure that the admiral is investigating me Reed," she answered. "So you have nothing over me. Therefore, you can go to hell."

"Tell the president what you know about the Romulans dear Jocelyn," he said. "Put two and two together. You know that he knows. So what if you bent the rules to kill some Birds? You want to be out there. Use the information I gave you!"

"That's," she stopped.

"Blackmail, yes it is," he supplied. "I know that you like dear old Thorpy, but it is time to set those feelings aside." He looked around the barren, beaten landscape. "What's next in your future; sanitation? All the while they are pushing to Romulus." He could see that he was getting through to her. "They need you Jocelyn. You know that the president is keeping this under wraps for one reason: his federation."

"Revealing the secret about the Romulans would make that difficult," she said. She was looking inward, thinking.

"All the distrust that the Sons' worked so hard to build, it's all there," he said. "News like that would be like pouring a can of good old fashioned gasoline onto a fire! You are just asking for a chance to set things right."

"Naw," she said. "It's blackmail, pure-de-simple as my dad used to say."

"Well, there is no need to be blunt with your proposal to the president," he said. "Sometimes all one needs is a delicate suggestion to get somewhere. You don't need to present it like a threat. Just some information that you are concerned with and feel that the public needs to know. Isn't that what your dear mother stands for?"

He watched her fold her arms over her chest. A cool wind blew up from the gulf. Reed could smell the sea air. He could tell that she was not interested in smells. Her mind, he was sure, was thinking about killing Romulans. She looked back at him and scowled. He smiled.

Reed would miss this host. He was fast and strong and had the attributes to draw victims to him. But it was time for a change. He had been many different people and things in his time. It was his nature to be what many on this world called a troublemaker. Humans engaged in many behaviors that were bad for them. Malcolm supposed that his particular addiction was a desire to cause chaos. He could have fed much longer in Rome and later in London yet his nature had ended his hunts. The prospect of the chase had enticed him after he had become glutted on sweet terror.

"What is it that you want?" she asked.

"The use of a short range space craft," he answered. "Nothing extravagant, no Conqueror class battleship or anything like that, just a ship to make a short range hop in the system. You're a pilot. You can fly me to our destination."

"Which is?"

"I'll let you know, but don't forget to pack your rubbers," he said.

"Huh?"

"Your space suit dear," he answered. "We must be ready to leave before Saturday. That gives you almost three days. I've been observing Soames and her little band of Musketeers. She is tied down with briefings and can't simply charter a ship without being noticed. We have some time but not a lot of it love."

Erica's protégé McCoy was in the game. Reed wondered what would happen if he killed the man's little companion. He was fully recovered from the beating that she had given him, but he still remembered it. Soames had also been approached by that nosy parker detective and his alien partner. They had joined forces. The odds were turning against him. He had survived all the other times, but it was getting harder. Reed looked up into the sky. It was his turn to look past the pale blue sky and out into space. He would finish this, cover his tracks and push off world. It was time to look for better hunting grounds.

"Okay," she said at last. Reed could see that she was chewing over what he had said. She continued toward the blockhouse. "I'll get you a ship. I'll talk to President Thorpe. After that we are even."

He smiled at her. "Rest assured love, after this you won't ever see me again." He put out his hand in the human style. She looked at it like he was handing her something disgusting. He withdrew it and told her to meet him two days from now. She thought about it, obviously planning on how she proceed, and finally nodded at him.

He bade her have a good day and departed. Reed would miss this world. He had enjoyed many good feedings here. In some ways he wished that the Romulans had done better. In the infrequent contacts his race had with others of their kind he had heard of the Romulans. Rumor had it that they had great courage and could restrain their fear. It was said though that when that fear was released it was exquisite; a sort of beluga of emotion. Few of his kind had experienced it but those that did said that there was no fear and terror to match it. Perhaps he would make his way to their empire, provided of course that they weren't annihilated.

Betara, Krocton Segment, Romulus, the earth fall of 2158

They sat in the small wheel house of _Night Wind_. It reminded Gupta out of some fiction book about ancient human western culture; a small band of vagabonds sitting about planning to rob the castle. Even the small lantern swinging from a rafter covered with peeling paint was fueled by a petrochemical. The lantern hung over a small table where a diagram drawn by A'Zir lay exposed for them to see.

"It is excellent work my friend," Pakesh told the former engineer. He reached across the table and clapped A'Zir on one of his massive shoulders. "Remember all; this is my recollection of the Imperial Residence. My memory is not perfect and of course things will have changed." Pakesh looked at each of them in turn. A'Zir grunted and spat out a garbled stream of sound.

"How do we get through to the Inner Sanctum?" Kaphir translated.

"Idiot?" Pakesh looked at Gupta.

"One of the guards at the senatorial forum told me that they are recruiting for construction gangs to work the Center Circle." The conspirators looked sharply at him save for T'Pol. The Center Circle contained the praetor's residence. Mere mention of it evoked stories, probably fanciful of past Romulan conquests. "A large piece of the shipyard hit outside of there and the debris is radioactive."

"The security is lax," Pakesh explained. "The Information Bureau is quite adamant about seeing that a pleasant façade is put on the attack. So the laborers won't have to go through the usual background investigation and blood screenings, nor will they have to be part of the Workers' Guild."

A'Zir grunted some more. Kaphir looked at him while Gupta guessed what the big Romulan was saying. "You are talking about the outer edge of The Circle. Dignitaries are given guided tours there. Regular citizens don't go there." Kaphir was speaking. He wondered how much of the dialogue belonged to A'Zir. "We might move radioactive waste—something I'm not too thrilled about." Kaphir looked at A'Zir. "I can't have children but I still don't wish to be irradiated. But my point is: we might as well be on Remus for all the good it will do."

Here it comes, Gupta thought. "What you don't know, except for the idiot here and Promise, is that I became great friends with the old chamberlain: Gatelax. He was quite old but he still enjoyed the ale. Too much at times he was quite talkative when he was drunk. He once said that the praetors of old had constructed a tunnel from the Inner Sanctum to the outside. Remember the tales of praetors walking among the citizens? He showed me where it was located."

"It cannot be that easy!" Kaphir was speaking for himself.

"Gatelax took me through it." Pakesh stood back from the table and folded his arms over his chest. "It is ancient. I never believed the old tales, thinking instead that they were only to amuse the citizenry. Yet there it is—or was." A'Zir grunted. "The exit was covered by the fortifying wall built there during the reign of Kalern." A'Zir pointed at his diagram.

"That is where I believe the exit to be," Pakesh concluded. They all looked at a curving line that went from nearly the center of the sanctum to the outer wall. He pointed at a section not far from there. "This is where the debris hit."

Romulus had been lucky. The remains of the massive metal shipyard had been raining down for two dawnings since the attack. Most of the pieces were small now. The larger ones had hit during the last dawning. A huge section had fallen upon a small city where they had played during their journey to Kalenara. Tarang knew that humans had been killed by Romulans yet it was hard for him to banish from his mind the memory of the pyre of dead broken males, females and children who had been killed. He remembered the funeral pyres of ancient Vulcan. All of it was brutal and pointless. Surak who was Careaza had used extreme measures to stop the violence on his world. Surely, Gupta had thought, there was a better way than that.

"That is less than three _elils _from where the work crews will be," T'Pol said.

"Three _elils _might as well be three turns of light," Kaphir said. "You know that the monitors will be everywhere Pakesh."

"We've managed some difficult jobs," Pakesh retorted.

"My friend from the senatorial monitors was miffed that he wasn't going to get to extort thrones from theses workers. Apparently the Information Bureau is pursuing a sort of hands-off approach so that they can get things done." Gupta believed what the guard had told him. He had done several favors for him and the monitor had in turn done likewise for him.

"He wants to use your mate Tarack," Kaphir snapped. Kaphir looked hard at Pakesh. "Say that we agree to help you; and don't think that it is disloyalty. I know that you've always looked after all of us. I've followed you to many places, but this place seems to have a deadly ending."

"If you are asking what is in it for you, then I cannot promise anything." Pakesh said. "If all goes well, the senator and his backers will hold sway. We'll be rewarded for our efforts. If we fail then in all likelihood we will be too dead to worry about being impoverished."

A'Zir grunted and issued forth a garbled stream. Kaphir cocked his head to listen. Gupta got a sinking feeling that this undertaking would be between him and T'Pol and Pakesh. The conversation, if it could be called that, going on between Kaphir and A'Zir seemed negative. A'Zir seemed to be driving home a particular point and for once even Gupta thought that he heard the same sounds being repeated. He had always thought that the two of them relied upon body language rather than speech.

"We agree," Kaphir said, much to Tarang's surprise. The slim Romulan stood back and gave them all a look full of defiance. It seemed to Gupta that he had lost the argument between him and his companion. "I'd like to make some thrones but I'm a Romulan first. A'Zir has reminded me that we all have a great destiny. We might not live to see it but others will."

"We have a flyer given to us by the senator," Pakesh said. "We have a plan." He looked at A'Zir. "I must ask you to be ready to burn this fine chart in case something happens. We'll leave for the senator's estate on this very night."

A'Zir grunted and made some choking noises. "He says that we'll need some of the devices we use for the show. He says that he'll have what he needs packed within a quarter." Kaphir carefully translated the big veteran's garbled speech.

"We won't be able to carry a lot," Pakesh said. "I suppose that you have a trunk load of tricks to bring Kaphir?"

Kaphir reached behind T'Pol's head and seemingly removed a shiny throne from there. The Romulan laughed. "I have everything in my hands!"

"Here we are again," Gupta told T'Pol. Several quarters had passed.

They had returned to the senator's estate. From there Gupta had taken a hop into Kalenara. He had approached the monitor Gareta and was soon given a sign up form. He was well ahead of others. Fulfilling Kaphir's guess the monitor had asked for T'Pol's services for a night. Gupta had been trapped. He had consented offering the monitor as loose a guarantee of delivery that he could. He had left then to return to the senator's residence with a guarantee that the crew would show up early the next dawning for work.

"You have arranged for me to have sex with a monitor," T'Pol said flatly. He thought that her tone had an edge of anger to it rather than the typical Vulcan control.

"No I…I well," he stuttered on in Romulan as he had in Hindi and English when he would become flustered. "We'll do everything to avoid that."

The edges of her lips curled up in what would be a slight grin from a human. She folded her arms over her breasts. "I understand Tarack. I suppose that I was having some…fun at your expense. I believe that I'm beginning to understand the Romulan and human outlook toward humor during bad situations."

"They want to put us to work right away," he said. He sat beside her on their bed. The senator had given them a room overlooking the river. The window was open admitting the damp smell of the great waterway and the sounds of the nocturnal beasts of this world. The room was dark. The only light came from the great crescent of Remus. "I left Gareta with the impression that it would be after work. We may be in the sanctum by then."

"I am less worried about my virtue than what we will do if we achieve our goal." She looked at him as she spoke. He could see her eyes glittering in the alien moonlight. He felt the warmth of her skin yet he suddenly felt chill. Gupta had been ruminating over the same thing.

"We'll do as we were told," he answered. The explanation was lacking and he knew it, so did she.

"You've done things that surprised me," she told him. "Yet I cannot believe that you will do that." Her hand touched his.

"I've come to respect these Romulans," Gupta said. "It is not that. It is the act itself. Does the death of one amount to so much?"

"The admiral seems to think so," T'Pol said. "Yet as I learn more about these brothers of my race, I have doubts." He looked at her. "Games within games; perhaps the admiral is a player in another's game and does not realize it. Do you think that you can do what has been required of us?"

"I'll have to," he answered. Syrran would have been proud: his response had been devoid of emotion. How else was one to approach murder? How had his ancestors done so? He realized that she had left herself out of the equation. "What about you?"

"The variables are too many to calculate," she answered. "The simplest solution seems to be to do what we were required to do. I shall do so."

He was surprised. Yet he did not believe her. T'Pol was not a cold blooded murderer. He buried his belief deep. Vulcan mates could hide few secrets. Gupta would not be able to hide his doubt for long but she had been openly skeptical of his reply. What would they do, if chance permitting, they got there? What would happen afterwards; if he slew Karzan, then what of Pakesh and his mates? Gupta doubted he could kill the praetor. He began to understand that he could never kill the Romulans who had befriended and helped them so much. He sighed.

"Only time will--"

His hushed whisper was interrupted as she leaned in and kissed him. "We have now, and that is sufficient," she said. They fell back onto the bed locked in a passionate embrace.

San Francisco, California, the old United States, earth, Oct 2158

Christophur Thorpe sat opposite his guest in a comfortable, leather wing backed chair. Ambassador Soval looked rigidly uncomfortable in the exact same type of chair. A fire crackled merrily away in the large fireplace before them. It threw out a comfortable, homey heat that no type of modern furnace could. He remembered Soval's protestations over his burning of biomatter when they had met in Missouri almost two years earlier. The Vulcan now warmed his fingers and it struck Christophur that he almost seemed grateful for the warmth.

"I am being recalled Mister President," Soval said. "Prefect T'Pau is ready to return to her studies of Surak. There will be an election but in essence I shall become the new prefect."

"I can't think of anyone better ambassador," Thorpe said. Soval had been a friend to man even if it was to discover what was taking place on his own world.

"My replacement will be here in December," Soval said.

"I'll see that you get your Christmas present early sir," Thorpe said.

Soval's expression remained characteristically unchanged. Thorpe was almost sorry that he had made the joke until the Vulcan replied:

"I understand the holiday Mister President," Soval said. "My people had no such time. We commemorate Surak and revere his memory but we do not celebrate the day of his birth. I understand that the meaning of Christmas was diluted in your western culture. In some sense perhaps we Vulcans diluted the message of Surak."

"Things are lost in time I suppose," Thorpe lamented. He rubbed his hands together and then gripped his knees and leaned forward. "I understand that you know Commodore Stiles." Thorpe was surprised to see the Vulcan answer with a very human nod. "She knows about the relationship between your people and the Romulans."

"When she came to me I believe that it was just speculation," Soval said. "Since then she has confirmed her suspicions. It will not bode well for Vulcan if that information becomes public knowledge."

"Perhaps not," Thorpe said. "I've ordered Admiral Forrest to proceed as you suggested. The last subspace communiqué reported that the admiral's taskforce detonated a high yield device close to Romulus. We may even have struck their shipyard."

"You should have bombed them on their world," Soval said. Thorpe was aghast at the Vulcan's statement. The ambassador looked sharply at him. "I say that knowing the emotions that I restrain every day. They have no such controls." Soval got up suddenly, seemed about to pace and then stood before the fire looking down at Christophur.

"I understand that you believe that a demonstration was in order," the Vulcan started. "The Romulans are the descendents of my ancestors, sir. They will not become frightened. They will become vengeful."

"I didn't even know if we could hit Romulus," Thorpe answered. "A Star Fleet officer named Jason Crusher built the engines that drove the fighters. He couldn't guarantee the ships' structural integrity. It was my feeling that the experts were telling me that we could get close but probably not hit anything. I decided that a detonation close to their world would be better than nothing." He held up a hand to silence Soval's reply.

"I was also faced with a choice similar to one faced by the leader of the country we are in now. I decided that Romulans were not Japanese and that any speculation about what might've happened was just that: speculation. I decided a demonstration that told them that we could touch them would be sufficient. If I'm wrong then history will be my judge sir."

"You are correct sir," Soval said. "One can speculate about a future that has many different possibilities. May your vision shape the future." The ambassador sat down again. "What of Stiles? Yet another person knows the secret."

"I'm reluctantly returning her to duty," Thorpe answered. He had been disappointed by Jo-jo's veiled blackmail. He had to remember that it was himself that had created her. He had allowed her to climb through the ranks knowing full well that she wanted retribution for her fiancé and father. "Captain Cromwell will be back by the end of December. If all is well we'll need people like Jo-jo for the final push to…to whatever can force the Romulans to the table. I also have the promise of her silence."

"She does not believe that we can win this without revealing who the enemy is," Soval stated flatly.

"She does not," Thorpe said.

"Do you?"

Thorpe sighed. "Augustus Kirk said that we needed someone there; someone on Romulus to act as a go between. If we had such a person then perhaps…"

"The young man that you sent to Vulcan would have been an ideal candidate," Soval said. "He seemed to have had the capacity to bridge the gap between our two peoples."

"I regretted his death," Thorpe answered. "He went beyond his means to achieve what he did." He had cried in private at the young officer's family home. He believed that not even Maggie had suspected his breakdown. He hadn't known Gupta but the man's death had affected him. Christophur's personal request had sent him on the mission.

"Were you aware that he might well have mated with T'Pol?" Soval said. Thorpe was somewhat taken aback. The thought of the two races joining thus seemed impossible to him. "Before all of this I would have disapproved of such a union. Perhaps though, the future belongs to those humans and Vulcans like Gupta and T'Pol, and not us Mister President."

"Perhaps so Mister Ambassador," Thorpe answered.

"I shall be prefect next year Mister President," Soval said. "I shall recommend an even more cooperative stance than that proposed by T'Pau. If you—if we are successful and the Romulans are beaten back without revealing who they are then I will tell you sir: they will be back. Perhaps not in our lifetimes, but they will be back. This Star Fleet should be prepared."

"You make them sound like the worse scourge that has ever beset anyone," Thorpe shot back. "Surely they've changed somewhat from the record you have on their ancestors."

"They maneuvered the circumstances to start this war," Soval countered. "From what T'Pol reported to me before her death they used the cloak of this reunification as a means of putting an invasion force on our world. Far from presenting themselves as distant lost relatives they had spent perhaps human decades co-opting V'Las and preparing for their arrival. They attacked your colonies and your world specifically to establish a strategic position here and nothing else. No, they've not changed from what history taught my people."

"Consider this President Thorpe: they've harbored the notion of Reunification for hundreds of generations since their expulsion." Soval sat rigid as he spoke. "We once regarded your people as technological savages. Yet humanity largely abandoned ancestral blame and moved forward."

"Not really," Thorpe replied. "It's been used by politicians to pit one group against the other from time to time. It was marginally effective until modern people realized that whatever someone's ancestors had done it was not what the present generation was doing. But I see your point; they've turned Reunification into an almost…religious event."

Thorpe took a drink of coffee. "I appreciate your candor and your promise of technical assistance Soval. I'm sorry for things I said to your in Missouri. Those were trying times and for awhile I thought that men were near to defeat. It's my intention to build a unified star fleet, but not for the express purpose of countering the Romulan threat, or this threat or that threat. I want the people we send out there to be our best representatives. Our four races will form the nexus of an exploratory and diplomatic fleet. I hope that the fusion of cultures and ideas will propel all of us all to a new level of civilization, that we'll be a beacon to others."

"Maybe one day even the Romulans will join the federation." Thorpe realized how he must sound, even to the coldly logical Vulcan. "You don't know what starry eyed is?"

"I spent several decades here sir," Soval answered. "I am indeed familiar with the term. There is nothing wrong with that. I speculate that in the distant path Surak must have decided that it was time to change a world. One might say that he was being starry eyed."

Thorpe gave the Vulcan a tight lipped grin, knowing that the gesture was lost on the impassive Soval. He swirled his coffee in his cup. It had taken a surprisingly bitter turn. The whirling subsided. For just a second Christophur looked at part of his face reflected in the black liquid. How could he have aged this quickly?

Tortola Island, the Caribbean Sea, earth, Oct 2158

"You know that you didn't have to do this to get a ship," Arnie Griffin told Erica Soames. She heard the sea lapping up against the shore as she stretched out in his bed. Her naked form lay pressed up against him.

"It wasn't for that," she told him. Soames had been involved in a casual affair with Max Forrest. Lately she had realized that it would end. Forrest had said as much in a hastily sent subspace letter. Erica hadn't planned on sleeping with Griffin but things had happened. Everything in her life had been casual, until now. "You once told me that I was welcome here."

He reached out and playfully cupped a breast. "I meant that. I meant it to be more permanent. I can go out and have flings with anyone. Something about you though…"

"Thank you," she responded. "I was thinking the same about you."

He sighed and pressed up against her. "Well you and the admiral are an item; just another fling. In a way I wish we hadn't did this. Now I'll know what I'm missing."

She giggled and explained that things were effectively over between her and Max Forrest. Erica didn't think that she had giggled like that for a decade or more. Something about Griffin brought out things that she hadn't allowed herself to feel in some time. He was at least ten years older than her but he had a youthful exuberance that surpassed that of some of her ensigns. She rolled over and faced him. Erica kissed him deeply.

"Mind you that I still have obligations," she said after pulling her head back slightly. "It'll be that way until the end of this war. But…I think that I'd like to take you up on your invitation; if you wouldn't mind an old retired war horse hanging about." She reached down and gave him a playful squeeze while thinking that that part of him was quite youthful in action, matching his spirit.

"I'd like that," Griffin said. He kissed her. "I suppose some of those obligations involve things like me getting you a ship?"

It was her turn to sigh. "One day I hope to tell you everything Arnie. Right now it is dangerous. Suffice to say that me and my associates have been caught." She reached up and touched a finger to his lips when he was about to speak. "It is alright—I think. We are on a type of probation. I have one more task and then I go back to being a boring old Star Fleet admiral."

"When do we leave?" he asked her.

She shook her head slightly. "No, this is just me and…my associates." She stroked his bare chest. "I don't want you coming to my rescue. You can rescue me from being an old single lady with cats, but not this!" The last she added in her best command voice. Soames had never believed in romantic love and yet here she was. She loved this odd and yet good man and did not want to endanger him in her affairs.

"Yes ma'am!" he snapped. Arnie laughed heartily. "I'll worry but you are a tough girl Erica. I have a boat in mind for you. I'll need a few hours, but how about delivery tomorrow night? Oh and don't blow this one up!"

She chuckled. It had been Griffin's idea to decoy President Hawkins' with his flyer. Kendra Stiles and her campaign manager had meanwhile sneaked back into the United States so that Stiles could be sworn in, thus ending Hawkins' hold on the presidency. She agreed to his demand. Hopefully Watson and his alien partner were correct. They would go there and kill the thing in Reed. Catères raised the hackles on her back when she was around her, but it seemed that she was going to help them.

Soames had read up on the subject of Malcolm Reed. He had been identified as an idealistic investigator. His supervisor, in performance reports had frequently mentioned his integrity. Soames thought back to what Watson and Catères had said about him: she would indeed have taken him into her organization if he had come to her as he was. Reed had come to her, but it was the _drak'ha_ and not the major. His supervisors had also indicated that Malcolm Reed had been a shy, gentlemanly operative. That was almost one hundred and eighty degrees from what the absorbed Reed was like. She wished that there was some way to save him.

"Something on your mind babe?" Arnie asked her. She felt his chin stubble nuzzling her ear.

"Just thinking about the future," she answered. Just considering the murder of another innocent, she thought. He seemed about to ask more. "You said you needed a few hours?" He nodded. "Can you tack an extra hour or two onto that?" she asked as she pushed herself closer to him.

He reached down and touched her. "An hour or two shouldn't hurt. It's your schedule Erica."


	44. Chapter 44

Venador, the fourth turn of the war,

Venador, the fourth turn of the war,

"A splendid fleet!" Sinphius exclaimed. The Imperial Hand sat back in a large overstuffed chair. Two dour looking Tal Shiar guards stood behind and to either side of him. Valdore knew that three times that number lurked in the hidden areas of the chamber.

Valdore looked out of the transparent composite as a formation of N'Ela class cruisers passed by the station. It was an impressive display of imperial power. It was also wasted, as those ships should be out repelling the Triple Alliance. Instead he had woken to the news that their shipyard was no more. Radioactive debris from it had been raining down onto green Romulus for two dawnings. He mentioned his need for the ships to the hand.

"We've built up the defenses here," Sinphius told him. "The strategy that we have set forth shall be followed." Valdore was disgusted; Sinphius hadn't even bothered mentioning the praetor. He must have assumed in his arrogance that the Tal Shiar was now in full control. Perhaps it was. "You overestimate our opponents, admiral."

"Forrest destroyed our main shipyard," Valdore countered. "Did you read about that in a Tal Shiar message or have you too busy with young courtesans?"

"Mind you place Valdore!" the hand snapped. "I know what has happened. It changes nothing. You measure the alliance in simplistic military terms. When they crash upon Venador and their blood runs in rivers they will relent and negotiate."

"That mindless rhetoric doesn't even convince the most naïve anymore," Valdore said. "I have studied our enemy. It was I who counseled that we should have waited; at least a tenturn. Now our cousins would openly reject us. They fought to the death at Gozai when they discovered who we were. The aliens, far from being weak and decadent are pushing us back. They have momentum."

"That is your opinion," Sinphius said. "We have an opinion too. Our view is the correct one."

"I'll marshal the last of our offensive fleet," Valdore said. He could see that further argument was useless. "But at least you should deploy the ships here in an offensive _palou_ formation rather than these tight show maneuvers."

"It pleases us to see our fleet arrayed in this manner," Sinphius said. "The military should be entertaining when they have no battles. They need constant activity lest their commanders get ideas that they shouldn't."

"They wish to fight the alliance and you have them here putting on performances," Valdore argued. "But you will do as you want. You hold the power." As long as the praetor lived and as soon as it became suitable for him to die, Valdore thought. "Some of the ships actually fighting our enemies are in need of repair. I understand that they must wait for the lining material for their power systems. I do not understand this. The work can be done in orbit. Where is the material?"

For once Sinphius' veil of confidence dropped. He seemed to be stumbling for an answer. "We've had difficulties admiral. The _Thoul'ons_ did not make good on their last shipment."

"They should be wary. We could seize their ships. That force beam weapon they prefer is extremely range limited. Did we recover the crystal that we traded with them?" He watched a formation of the older _Kratecks _and _Mephirs _pass by. The older ships far outnumbered the new _N'Ela _class. And yet, he thought, even its construction had been nearly overruled.

"Crystal production has been temporarily halted," Sinphius said. "There has been a series of accidents in the mines."

"Sabotage?" he mouthed the one word question. "The Remans are being pushed to the point that I would have assumed that they had little time to conduct sabotage."

"We had tried to make it easier for them," the hand answered. "Vrinak ordered the minimum working age set from twelve to eight turns. Instead of the increased quotas we sought, production is nearly shut down."

"What did you think would happen when you put their children in the mines?" Valdore asked. A sudden thought occurred to him. "There was no crystal to send was there Sinphius?"

"Our brokers had hoped to receive credit from the _Thoul'ons_," the hand answered. "They refused our generous terms and attacked our trade fleet."

"So now our great empire is reduced to debtor status?" Valdore looked out at the grand passage of yet another group of ships. It was sweeping and magnificent and it was also hollow.

"There is little point in you being here admiral," Sinphius said. Valdore could hear his dismissal. "We shall maintain the defensive fleets here and around Romulus and wait to destroy the alliance. You will continue to bleed them as they come here."

"Despite my best efforts that may be soon," Valdore declared sadly. He thumped his right arm to his chest in salute. Sinphius apparently took the gesture as a sign of acquiescence on Valdore's part.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. Valdore would have risked death to the hand right then and there. Such an act, he knew would be pointless. Another Tal Shiar lackey would take Sinphius' place. It was time for Valdore to go to Romulus. He would take a more direct hand in things. He turned and left Sinphius in the chamber. The guards' contempt for him was openly displayed on their faces. One of them bore a long scar running down his cheek; the mark of someone who had been discharged from the service for despicable behavior.

The human and his Vulcan mate had failed. Valdore wished that he had implemented a plan to track them, but that would have attached them to him. It had been foolish in retrospect to put his faith in their abilities. They had defeated him on Vulcan because of their knowledge of the planet. They had no such background on Romulan culture. It would be up to him and Vrax to find a solution.

He contemplated what to do. The humans had a word: coup. There was no equivalent in his tongue because a Romulan revolt against authority was unthinkable. Valdore didn't want to do this to appoint himself as praetor. He wanted to save the empire. Valdore would sacrifice his own life to accomplish that goal. But he had to have some assurance that the empire would be saved.

Kalenara, Romulus, the earth fall of 2158

"Don't you know how to mix mortar?" an older worker admonished Gupta. The old Romulan seemed to think that it was his duty to give Tarang as much grief as possible.

"No, I was a _juggler_ before I took this job," he told Talen.

Talen didn't seem to know what to make of the word. Gupta guessed that he had not caught any of the troupe's performances. "Well just because you like other males is no reason why you can't work."

Gupta merely looked at him and smiled. "One bag to three?" he asked meaning the ratio. Talen confirmed the mixture. Gupta lifted the heavy bag and started pouring. The area was still radioactive but not lethally so. Musty smelling powder assaulted his sinuses. He swiped at his nose and his fingers came back with a tinge of green blood. His blood thanks to Admiral Valdore. He poured in another bag while Talen added water and started the mixer. The old Romulan handed him an insulated container.

"It's _t'ghet_," he said. "Go ahead and have a drink. My mate brewed the batch."

Talen had a kind streak to him despite how he spoke to Gupta. Gupta drank out of the container. The drink tasted salty at first and then burst forth in a refreshing fruit flavor. The dust cleared from Tarang's throat. He thanked the older Romulan and handed him back his bottle. He had a little time before he would have to start ladling the mix. It was an informal break. Pakesh and T'Pol were walking over to him.

They met at a damaged section of wall. It was a bright, sunny day yet a chill wind blew through the impact site. Tarang leaned against the ancient stone and slid down to sit on a large chunk of block. Pakesh crouched opposite him and T'Pol sat down beside him. Gupta could feel her warmth through her clothing. All of them were dusty and dirty.

"T'Pol tells me that you've offered her services to one of the monitors," Pakesh said. "He is becoming quite the criminal!"

"Well I, well I…I had to," he stammered. Pakesh waved a finger at him, the Romulan gesture that meant for him to be quiet.

"It not only got us this far," Pakesh said. "It might be what gets us to our goal. We'll move as we planned."

"I won't kill the monitor," T'Pol declared softly. Gupta wondered what she would do if they succeeded in getting close to Karzan.

"I saw that little trick you did with your fingers Promise," Pakesh said. "I had always heard of a small sect among us who could do that. I also considered that story to be just that: another story. I've been in the guild long enough to know not to ask questions. But you can do that again." He smiled and laughed. "You'll be close enough to the monitor."

"Gareta told me that he has a break soon," Gupta said. "It'll be close to the change of shift. I asked him to log us out in case the…encounter lasts longer than we think. He actually suggested a place that I could wait. It is not being watched."

"It is almost time," Pakesh said. "Kaphir and A'Zir are in place." Pakesh looked at T'Pol. "Clean the dirt from your face and try to look…try to act like Altena does, or used too."

"Very well," T'Pol said as she stood up. "I shall try to…act." Pakesh walked past her and handed her a small bundle. Only someone directly observing them might have witnessed the exchange.

Gupta stood up, was about to kiss her and then realized that it would seem strange to a casual observer. One thing that Tarang had discovered was that there were no casual observers on Romulus. Gupta walked up to Talen. The mix was ready. He absently poured the pasty mixture into a wheelbarrow while his eyes followed T'Pol. She met the monitor Gareta. Gupta could see his leer as he beckoned T'Pol to follow him. He nearly dumped his messy cargo causing him to return his attention to the work at hand.

"Be careful with that Tarack!" Talen admonished him. He mumbled an apology to the old Romulan. "You know, I remember being a young craftsman and being permitted to work on the praetor's Garden of Meditation. What a privilege for a young uhlan, just returning and discharged from our victorious war with the mind aliens."

Gupta remembered his indoctrination concerning that campaign. The aliens who had confronted the Romulan invasion forces had laid waste to much of their planet's surface. Many of them had survived to be returned to Romulus for what Tarang guessed was a grizzly fate. The war had lasted almost a tenturn according to the information that Gupta had been given. He understood that the Romulans maintained a garrison in their star system. He speculated that that conflict had kept the Romulans from developing better ships and weapons. His military knowledge of the empire was sketchy. But he remembered a metallurgical analysis conducted by the Stellar Navy that had suggested that some of the Romulan hulls were over seventy earth years in age.

"That was a great war!" he exclaimed.

Talen laughed. "You weren't even born then. But thank you for remembering and thinking of us veterans. We are a discarded lot at times." Gupta brought the wheelbarrow to a stop. Gupta started shoveling mortar out under Talen's direction. He really was a likeable chap Tarang thought.

Talen related some of his war time adventures to Gupta as the two worked. He also wove in instructions about stone craft. Apparently he thought that Gupta would need a job after this. They were replacing the ruined section of the majestically carved wall with plain gray permacrete block. It looked ugly to Gupta. The wall had been a running stone mural of Romulan history. On earth he was sure it would have ranked up there with the Taj Mahal; close to it anyway. Talen had weaned out of Gupta the fact that he traveled with the guild and that juggling was an act. The old Romulan suggested that Gupta return home with him to meet his son's daughter.

A loud screeching whistle broke up their conversation. It was an alerting device such as monitors used when they were in trouble. Smoke roiled up from part of the wall almost an _elil _away. The workers stopped, including Talen. He shaded his eyes with his long hand. Monitors started toward the sound when a similar sound burst out toward some of the outer buildings. One of the dour, gray tunic wearing policemen strode by him. He heard Kaphir's voice emerging out of the radio's speaker asking for help and telling them that he was just outside the senatorial building.

Another monitor walked past him. This monitor bore a striking resemblance to Pakesh. He pointed to Gupta and commanded him to come with him. Talen actually started to defend Gupta. That was no small feat as a citizen who spoke out of turn to a monitor usually received a beating. Gupta assured him that he would be okay. Pakesh rudely told Talen not to worry. Gupta went with Pakesh.

"The uniform looks good on you," Gupta remarked as they scrambled over the rubble. Pakesh's dark features sneered back at him from beneath the gray reinforced plastic helmet sported by the policemen.

"I would cut your throat for that remark," Pakesh hissed. "But we have a burglary to do!" They passed by other monitors who were confused. Pakesh added to the mess by giving them instructions that conflicted with those he gave to others. The two were soon descending into an abandoned subterranean armory.

"The monitors think that the Senate Library is ablaze." Pakesh removed his helmet as he spoke. "They will find out the truth too shortly, I'm afraid." The two found T'Pol standing over the unconscious form of Gareta. "Do you have his two-way?" She held aloft the monitor's communication device.

"Kaphir and A'Zir should be almost near to the old exit." T'Pol handed him the radio. Pakesh worked off the unit's back plate. Gupta started to pull pieces of metal from his tunic and pants. He assembled them in the order that A'Zir had carefully drilled him on. He handed a completed device, not much bigger than the end of his thumb to Pakesh. The gang chieftain inserted the device into the circuitry of Gareta's radio. He thumbed a stud on the side of it and knelt by the monitor. "How long until he wakes up?" he asked T'Pol as he knelt beside the monitor.

"The effect is different for--"

She stopped in mid sentence. There was a quick gleam of a blade and then blood spurted from Gareta's throat. Gupta could feel her mental anguish over the brutal execution of the Romulan policeman. Gupta felt a sharp pang of regret as he considered that Gareta had not been really bad, especially given his occupation. He looked away as the unconscious Romulan's body started to spasm. Gareta made a horrible gurgling noise for a short time and then his body went limp.

"Sorry Promise," Pakesh said. "He was a loose thread that needed to be cut." Pakesh rose to his feet. "If A'Zir's work is good this," he held out the late Gareta's radio, "should be sending a recall over Kalernara's secure communications web. It should also blind their surveillance equipment for a short time."

Pakesh led them to the exit of the old armory. Some monitor's were busy hustling the temporary laborers away. The first shadows of evening were lying across the old stone street. Pakesh stepped out and started toward where he remembered the old tunnel's exit to be. To an observer it looked like a monitor leading away two of the workers. Only one team of monitors seemed to be suspicious. They stopped and questioned Pakesh who managed to turn away most of their questions. The group let them go but not without a few doubtful glances among their ranks. They finally arrived near the discharge of a culvert.

They looked around and when satisfied that they weren't being watched they jumped down into the waterway and crouched down. They were engulfed in darkness in less than a few steps. Tarang tried to stay on the high side of the round stone discharge pipe but still managed to get his boots wet. At least the water seemed clean he thought. He started when he saw a light directed toward them. He heard A'Zir's familiar, garbled greeting. Tarang uttered a small sigh of relief.

"Who else would be down here Tarack?" Pakesh asked and then laughed. "No one but we fools," he added, answering his question. Gupta could barely make out the figures of A'Zir and Kaphir. "What do you think?" he asked them as the two crouched facing a portion of the culvert's wall. Both wore small lights on their heads.

"That we are fools," Kaphir said agreeing with Pakesh's earlier statement. "At least I'll get a long time to say my Right of Statement before my execution. The executioners will probably want a good laugh." A'Zir made some gurgling and grunting noises. Gupta saw that he was running a wand over the wall of the culvert and examining the readings from a wrist bracelet. "He says that there is nothing behind this part."

"Can you burn through with the _rlem'tac_ that we brought?" he asked the former engineer.

A'Zir grunted and brought out a small tube. Pakesh stepped back into the cold water to allow the engineer time to work. Gupta watched as A'Zir applied lines of a white paste to several areas of the wall. Kaphir moved back toward the exit, now a brilliant ball of light, and proceeded to tape a light canvas over the opening. Soon all light faded save for the small lamps worn by the two Romulans and a small hand torch in T'Pol's possession. A'Zir worked quickly. The big Romulan inserted small pronged devices into each line of paste. Satisfied that all seemed right he grunted and motioned for them all to move around the bend in the passage. He followed them.

"Close you eyes," Kaphir cautioned.

Gupta squeezed his eyes shut. There was a loud hissing and popping that seemed monstrous as it echoed through the culvert. The flash penetrated even his closed lids causing him to be dazzled for a brief time. He blinked hard to clear the spots that danced before his eyes after Kaphir told him that it was safe to look. Pakesh and T'Pol followed A'Zir around the corner to see what his handiwork had wrought. The big Romulan uttered a low bellow and slammed himself against the smoking wall. There was a loud crash of tumbling block.

Gupta went tripping and sloshing through the ankle deep water. He knew from helping the gang break into places that Kaphir's curtain could contain sound as well as light. Yet he thought for sure that their activities must be echoing all the way to the praetor's private chambers. Gupta's eyes cleared enough that he could see a wall of inky darkness beyond the hole made by the tumbled blocks. The smell of musty age rolled out of the dark chamber beyond.

A'Zir made some noises. "He says that it is a slight drop and to be careful." Kaphir came up beside the engineer and patted his back affectionately. He turned back to look at them. All Gupta saw was his light on his head. "This leads to the praetor's Inner Sanctum?" He could hear the awe in Kaphir's voice.

"We must do this Kaphir," Pakesh told him.

"And do what?" Kaphir's voice went from awe to panic. "Kill our leader? Steal documents so that the senators can take over?"

A loud slap echoed through the culvert. Pakesh stood before Kaphir. "Our empire is on the brink of defeat! The Tal Shiar," Pakesh started. Kaphir flinched from the organization's name as if Pakesh had again struck him. "The Tal Shiar will sacrifice who and what we are to gain power. Do you want our life as it was? Or do you want to be Vrinak's slave?"

"We've always been slaves Pakesh!" Kaphir snapped in response. "We aren't the citizens that our forbears were. We are clients of the state and little else."

A'Zir turned and seized Kaphir by the shoulders. He growled and grunted at him. Gupta knew that the two communicated yet it seemed hard to believe that it was anything more than noise.

Kaphir embraced the bigger Romulan. "I know, I know I'm sorry," he said. He turned to the others. "Our parents tell us tales when we are little. We read the stories as we grow up. I'm sorry Pakesh. It just overwhelmed me."

Pakesh laughed. "I almost peed my pants, the first time I went into the Inner Circle." He reached out and squeezed Kaphir's shoulder. "Don't worry my friend. All Romulans must support the empire. At times we have to give our lives. I never thought in my life that I'd be involved with something like this, but here I am. Let us go." Pakesh climbed down into the blackness.

When it was Gupta's turn he scrambled down and then stopped to help T'Pol. She shined her torch carefully around the tunnel. Footprints led off in the distance. Behind them the tunnel stopped. Gupta had studied enough of archeology to realize that the stonework at this end was more recent than that of the tunnel's main sections. This was the same construction as that of the resplendent Imperial Residence that he had glimpsed as he worked. He ran his hand along the wall of the passage. Laser carved images of Romulan history adorned blocks in the wall.

"I believe that these prints may belong to me and Gatelax!" Pakesh exclaimed. There were indeed two sets of footprints, almost concealed in dust that had settled since then. He pointed to some dust covered debris and dug at it with the toe of his boot. It turned out to be the remains of a shattered wine bottle. "I made a misstep and knocked the bottle from Gatelax's hand."

"No one has been down here for some time," T'Pol remarked. She looked back at the sealed up end. No amount of blasting would get through that. "Let us hope that the other end of this passage has not been permanently sealed."

Star Fleet light cruiser Daedelus, near Zeta Reticuli, Oct 2158

Mariel Picard seemed like just another crewman to Captain Michael Cromwell. She had blended in well with the crew since her decision to stay with Daedelus. Picard had even taken to wearing a nondescript version of the blue female duty uniform. Scuttlebutt said that Lieutenant Commander Marcel Dieulafoy had given up on her as a romantic interest but the two had become fast friends. He was still primarily acting in his scientific role but he had trained as a relief navigator. The two of them sat opposite Cromwell along with Commander Gertrude Schultheiss and Doctor Omar Bashir.

Bashir was wearing his characteristic black suit and tie. His curly head of short cropped black hair seemed to have picked up a little gray Michael thought. Cromwell was waiting intently for Bashir's opinion. The doctor was one of the few aboard Daedelus who knew anything about psychic powers. Bashir had conducted a study of human psi powers along with some Vulcan participants. He looked around the table as he exhaled a thin blue stream of ghastly smelling smoke.

"The Vulcans have limited powers," Bashir explained. "There are rumors about greater powers but really anything like telekinesis belongs in the realm of Dane Habersmidt. These aliens that we met last year might represent the pinnacle of mental telepathy."

"Dane who?" his surgeon asked.

"An author in the same genre as Stephen King," Bashir answered. "You know the twentieth century writer?"

"Classic literature wasn't one of my classes," Schultheiss answered. "But surely we know that the Vulcans have superior mental abilities."

"Telepathy through physical contact, that is all that we are aware of," Bashir took another puff off of his cigar. "But as to Captain Cromwell's question: I don't know how the Romulans conquered them. Perhaps they have their ancestor's mental prowess."

"Stand off bombardment," Cromwell said. "A missile does not have a mind to fool."

"So you mean to go there and do what captain?" Schultheiss asked. The couple seldom talked business when they were alone. Cromwell also had kept this to himself while he thought out the ramifications.

"Our friends guided us to the derelict Birdie cruiser," Cromwell stated. "They said that they had been conquered. Conquering someone requires leaving troops and ships behind. Perhaps we can stir the pot there and draw off more Romulan resources."

"You would use them as proxy fighters for us sir?" Picard asked. She seemed horrified at the notion.

"If—if we can't definitely free them from the Romulan yoke then yes," he answered. "Otherwise no; I'll not conduct myself like some twentieth century imperial power and lead innocents to the slaughter."

"We are the only ones that know the Vulcanoid nature of the Romulans," Bashir commented. "Are you suggesting some sort of landing on their world?"

"I am," he replied and nodded. Cromwell looked at each of them in turn. Except for himself, Dieulafoy, and Trudy none of them had military training.

But he could not assess the situation on the ground unless he brought them. He could not bring additional crew as these select few were the only ones who knew about the Romulans. Speaking of telepathy, Trudy seemed to read his concern. She voiced the very thing that he had been thinking.

"Doctor Bashir and Miss Picard are not Stellar—Star Fleet personnel." The doctor took her turn to look at the civilian members of the briefing.

"I would go!" Picard exclaimed. "That is what man is out here for. It is why I studied mathematics and language."

"I'm not exactly Robinson Crusoe," Bashir said, "but there is a certain justice in humans going there."

"What do you mean?" Cromwell asked.

"These Zeta Reticuli aliens supposedly visited earth," Bashir answered. "There was a famous UFO abduction case centered around a US couple. It was dismissed as much of the UFO lore of that day was. But here we are and we've met these creatures that were described by Betty and Barney Hill."

"They landed in Santa Monica as well did they not?" Trudy asked.

"New Mexico," Bashir corrected her. "The same difference I suppose. So what is your plan captain?"

"We'll do a covert scan of the system," Cromwell explained. He hit a stud on the control pad next to him. The tri-screen viewer dominating the center of the table came to life. "We can make an approach using the outer planets to screen us. We are fortunate there."

The picture on the viewer showed an image of Daedelus cutting through the Reticuli system. The miniature and over scaled starship image stopped at an inner gas giant. Cromwell changed the image to show several small moons orbiting the giant. There were data streams beneath showing electromagnetic energy readings.

"That looks like our subspace sensors would be nearly blinded there sir," Dieulafoy commented.

He nodded. "I'm counting on that to work both ways. It's a long trip by shuttle from there and we'll have to mask our approach but we may be able to land on their world."

Bashir chuckled. "Captain, I'm no warrior and neither is Mariel, though I daresay that she could probably trounce me. But even if we were the greatest crewmen in the fleet and skilled in seven deadly forms of fighting I don't see what the five of us can do against an army."

"We don't know that it is an army," Cromwell said. "And anyway, at the risk of sounding arrogant: it won't matter what sort of ships we come out here in. If Daedelus was so mighty that we could simply eradicate the Romulans it wouldn't matter. We must settle issues, we the people operating these spacecraft. We should define who we are and not let our ships do that for us." Cromwell stood up and chuckled.

"There, that is your inspirational speech," he told them. "Did I ever tell you that I was descended from the English hero Boudica?"

"Too many times Herr Kapitan," Schultheiss remarked with her lips rolled up in a smirk. She grew serious. "So you will single handedly remove a Romulan occupation force?"

"I was hoping to have your hands involved in it as well," he answered. "But it is as I said: we'll go there and assess the situation. If we can help the Reticulans…and deal a bad hand to the Birds then we'll try to make that happen."

"I suppose that I should pack," Bashir said. He sighed. "More aliens who will not appreciate a fine cigar. I'll persevere."

"Actually doctor we won't arrive in orbit of the giant for two more days," Dieulafoy said. He had been watching Cromwell's simulation on the screen.

"Dress is combat fatigues and boots," Cromwell advised them. The Star Fleet personnel needed no such reminder but he could not deal with the image of Bashir wearing a tuxedo down to the planet.

"Aye aye, captain!" Bashir snapped.

He asked for questions and when there were none he dismissed everyone. Cromwell was anticipating his conversation with Devlin who would be dead set against him going on a shore party. The civilians and crew filtered out of the room; all save for one. Michael was not surprised.

"Something on your mind doctor?" he asked her. She got up and scooted her long frame up onto the table beside where he sat.

"Two of our guests aren't military," she said. "Are you prepared for things that could happen to them down there?"

"I've troubled over that enough Trudy," he answered.

"That is why you were restless last night?" she asked.

Michael supposed that captains would one day work out how to have shipboard romances. He was used to making decisions on his own. It had never occurred to him that his worries would be telegraphed while he slept; or that someone would be there to pick up on them. He looked at her and put a hand onto her knee.

"I've agonized over it but I can't let anyone else discover the Vulcan Romulan connection. I believe just over half of the galaxy knows now. Both of them are physically fit and both of them are experts in their fields. If they were navy files I'd include them without a second thought."

"There is still an ice miner on Mars who hasn't heard." Trudy smiled and chuckled. "I don't wish to burden you Olly but they have not taken the oath. I know you've thought about that."

"The poor devils on Topaz and in Florida didn't take an oath either," he said. "This is man's war. Even with alien help it is our war because I believe that it has ended our childhood. We all became crewmen the day the Romulans decided to attack us."

Kalenara, Romulus, the earth fall of 2158

Tarang Gupta covered his mouth and attempted to stifle his cough. The dust of ages tickled at his throat. He had felt something on his leg earlier and had discovered to his horror that it was a palm sized creature that looked like a cross between an earth crab and a roach. He had seen the Romulan equivalent of a sewer rat before. That had been from a comfortable distance. Gupta had played with insects and lizards as a child. There was just something about _kvik _that gave repelled him.

"They don't eat much Tarack!" Kaphir hissed at him.

"We should be under the residence," T'Pol said.

"Good sense of distance Promise," Pakesh said. "We are near to the entrance."

Pakesh had explained that the old tunnel's entrance had been in the back of the residence's main pantry. He had gone on to explain that when he had been there the praetor had lived in a large spacious apartment in the residence. The rest of the facility had been dedicated for soldiers, administrators and servants. Rumor had said that most, if not all of the security force was now the black tunic wearing Tal Shiar soldiers. Servants were hired but seldom heard from again. Administrators came and went but saw only Vrinak.

"The door mechanism is a complicated device," Pakesh whispered. "But remember that it was made during the age of Kalern. It should be no problem for us to get in. The door itself was nearly silent when I opened it last."

A'Zir made some garbled sounds. "How many turns ago was that, Pakesh?" Kaphir asked.

"While you were sitting in your mother's lap being told stories of Careaza," Pakesh answered.

"Then changes might have been made," Kaphir said. "We might come out in a Tal Shiar guard dormitory."

"Perhaps," Pakesh said. He stopped and turned to them. "Now is not the time to stop. Where will you go Kaphir? The distraction is over. You'll be spitted by the monitors as soon as they catch you out of the construction zone."

Gupta looked around the chamber. A series of levers lay in a recess in the wall. Etchings of Careaza and Tarl were on either side of what must surely be the door into the residence. Gupta realized that the ancient artisan had gotten Tarl's eye patch on the wrong eye. He supposed that history had become murky after the early Romulans landed here. Pakesh stepped aside to allow Kaphir and A'Zir to work the opening mechanism.

"You remember the layout idiot?" he asked Gupta.

"The pantry is in the lower level." A mental image of A'Zir's drawing based on Pakesh's memory came to Gupta. "We go from there to the food prep area. There is a lift and a set of stairs to the residence above. We'll emerge into the main salon. The praetor's apartment is off to the north. There is a hallway and then a common area and then his bedchamber on the other side of that."

"There is an office area on the opposite side," T'Pol said taking up the plan. "I and Tarack will ascertain the praetor's state while you and Kaphir go through the administrative area and look for your data."

More like, while they murdered the leader of the Romulan Empire. Gupta listened half heartedly to the rest. A'Zir would stand guard in the central junction of the residence. All of the planning was based on no one being there except the praetor and perhaps a guard or two. Gupta knew that part of the plan was pure speculation. There could be one hundred armed guards waiting on them up there.

"The mechanism is open but this isn't opening," Kaphir said.

"Come," Pakesh commanded him.

A'Zir was grunting against the door. Gupta took a place beneath the big Romulan and started pushing. There was a low grinding that sounded like it could be heard on the Pantelex Continent. Gupta fell forward into something soft. A strong smell invaded his sinuses. He slid to the floor while realizing that he had become entangled in a large sack of grain. His impromptu entry had caused the bag to rip open. Gupta rolled away and felt his skin crawl. He stood up.

He looked down to see that the grain was thoroughly infested with insects. His skin was indeed crawling where the small bugs had gotten onto him. He patted and whisked away at his clothing and bare arms. T'Pol looked around scanning the store room carefully.

"This has not been used in some time," she commented.

He swiped away the last of the insects and looked at the large pantry and cooking area beyond. T'Pol shined her torch over a dusty, cobweb filled scene. _Kvik _scurried into, out of and around several large cooking pots. They crawled over the burners of a huge stove and down inside the appliance. She shined her light upwards to where a damaged light fixture hung motionless from a single wire. Dust covered the floors. Pakesh looked around, obviously confused. The stench of decay lay heavy in the air.

"This place teamed with servants," he said. "It was a stroke of fortune that Gatelax found a time when he could sneak me down here without running into ten cooks and laborers. What could have happened?" Gupta could see that his friend and leader, was clearly shaken.

"Let's go," he gently told Pakesh.

Gupta found the old lift. Its doors were stuck open and a pool of black oil and dirt covered the floor of the lift. He followed T'Pol's light where it found the foot of the stairs. Gupta started up the stairs. The rest followed him silently. He remembered the death of his great grandfather. His mother and father had dragged a thoroughly frightened young Tarang up a flight of stairs to see the corpse. That feeling that he had had as a child came on him now.

No one had climbed or descended these steps in many turns Gupta thought. A smooth, uniform coating of dust lay over them. Tarang counted twenty steps before they arrived on an upper landing. A large hinged set of double doors blocked their further progress. Gupta reached down and pushed cautiously on them, just enough to see if they would yield but not push them open. He had picked up some schooling in the criminal arts from the gang. A'Zir stepped forward and ran his wand over the door. Kaphir took it from him after he was done and studied the readout in the wand's base.

He reached into the pocket of his work tunic and pulled out a small stylus. He inserted the business end of the writing instrument into the door's lock and repeated the treatment near the bolt. A pungent smell wafted up from Kaphir's work. He retrieved another stylus and applied it to the door's hinges. He pushed and Gupta could see the slight give. Gupta moved to open the door and then stopped. He beckoned to Pakesh.

"The crime of the age," he told Pakesh, stepping back to allow the gang leader to go first.

Pakesh pushed the door open just a bit at a time. He would shove moving the door a barely perceptible bit and then watch and listen. A full quarter octant passed before the door was open a sliver. Pakesh motioned for them to follow. It was early night in Kalenara. The residence seemed to be as deserted as was the pantry and kitchen below. The spacious hallway was at least clean and looked to be recently traveled to Tarang. He took a deep breath and then he and T'Pol went about their part of the play.

Fear made Gupta shiver. Romulan and human physiology shared that trait. His legs felt like they had ice water in them. T'Pol touched him lightly. He felt that she was afraid despite her Vulcan control. Yet somehow the feel of her presence calmed him. He took stock of the hallway's carved pillars and beams of stone inlaid with gold. They crept silently down the stone tiled passage. Gupta made out the muffled sound of voices. He steeled himself for what he had to do here. The duo crept to the door and pushed gently. He touched T'Pol's arm one last time and squeezed it gently and smiled at her.

This time a smell of age, biologic decay attacked Gupta's nose. He saw a dark figure standing over and struggling with someone who lay in a great bed. The room was huge. The standing figure had its back to Tarang and T'Pol and was preoccupied with the struggle. They crept in. Gupta had no idea what to do. He reached down and drew the knife that had once belonged to Mephir. The standing Romulan whirled around and drew a pistol.

"Who are you?" the Romulan demanded. "What are you doing here?"

He was wearing a black Tal Shiar uniform with a dun colored sash. The Romulan was tall and thin and his jet black hair was thinning and streaked with gray. His rank emblem was unlike any that Tarang had ever seen. Could this be the feared Vrinak? Gupta dropped the blade. It fell soundlessly onto the richly carpeted floor. Gupta held out his hands.

"Did anyone call for room service?" Gupta asked.

The Romulan reached beneath his sash. "You have earned a slow death whoever you are."

There was nothing left to lose. "I am Lieutenant Commander Tarang Gupta of Star Fleet Intelligence."

T'Pol stepped forward slowly. "I am T'Pol of the Vulcan Diplomatic Service."

"What you both are is dead," the old Romulan proclaimed. He pulled out what must have been a small transmitter.

There was a stirring behind the Vulcan. A frightening white robed skeletal apparition rose up out of the bed and plunged a syringe into the gun wielding Romulan's neck. He shoved back against the ghostly figure dropping the hand that held the gun. Gupta sprang forward and tackled the old Romulan before he could level the gun at him again. He knocked the Romulan onto the bed and landed on top of him. He noted the syringe still sticking in his adversary's neck. Tarang seized the gun hand of the older Romulan. The two struggled. At first Gupta marveled at the Romulan's strength and dexterity, especially for one so old. Whatever was in the syringe didn't seem to be affecting him. They rolled into the skeletal figure who then issued a cry of pain. Tarang's opponent tensed and then stopped moving. The gun fell clattering onto the tiled floor.

T'Pol stood over them. She released her grip on his former adversary's shoulder. "I believe that this is the praetor."

Gupta stared past the incapacitated Romulan to wear a frail, bony Romulan lay. This was who had stabbed his opponent in the neck. He looked at the Romulan whose image he had seen every dawning. He could just see the resemblance to the image on the large projector screens that showed Karzan. This Romulan was not the strong, proud leader on the projector screens.

Karzan's hair was completely white. Gupta would have been surprised if the praetor, though taller weighed even half of what he did. Karzan seemed to see them. His hands shook and Gupta watched as he struggled to raise his head off the bed. It must have taken everything he had had to stab the other Romulan. Gupta realized that he had been trying to fight him off. Karzan's mouth moved in an attempt to speak. Nothing came out save for a dearly bought breath of air. Gupta got up and looked at him.

"So it is," he said. He grabbed the pistol from his unconscious opponent.

"I deplore violence yet it seems that if the praetor's murder could be blamed on this Tal Shiar officer…"

"His murder yes," Gupta repeated. He knew enough now about Romulan weaponry to see that the pistol's safety was off. He stood mute as T'Pol drug the younger Romulan onto the floor.

"Whatever we are going to do the time for it runs short," she told him. He pointed the pistol at the trembling old Romulan leader. He realized that Karzan was shivering with cold. He was wearing a long nightshirt type of affair. He was trying to pull his thin bare legs up into a fetal position. "He started this war Tarack," she said. "His forces would have invaded my world."

"What war?" It was the first thing that the praetor had said that they could hear. He seemed delirious.

"Reunification," T'Pol said. No emotion carried in her voice but he could feel a subtle hint of outrage radiating from her.

Tarang pointed the pistol at Karzan's head. The gun was warm and it felt oily in his palm. He sighted down the barrel to make sure. He started to squeeze the trigger and then wavered. All that he had to do was to shoot, and then it would be over. There would be a new set of problems but the assassination would seriously destabilize the government. He had been surprised at T'Pol's bloodthirsty assessment. But he did not feel that when he touched her mind. Her outrage was giving way to mercy.

"You started a war with my people," Gupta declared. He leveled the pistol again. A dreadful sense of purpose filled him. He tried to squeeze the trigger. He let his gun hand fall to his side. "_Before advancing against men weaker than yourself, ponder when you stood before those more powerful." _He recited in Hindi, heedless of who heard him. He looked at T'Pol. "I cannot do this."

"What?" Karzan asked. The praetor seemed to see them for the first time. His eyes gleamed and no longer looked vacant. Yet Gupta could see that they were looking inward and did not see the peril before them. "Reunification…I told Vrinak that we must wait. V'Las…V'Las needs to work harder to prepare…to prepare for our arrival. We can find the third family. We need our brothers…our brothers must help us after the serpent closes…closes his mouth. What war? The empire is at peace."

Gupta looked at T'Pol. She looked back at him and then at Karzan. He wondered if Karzan knew what dawning this was or even what turn. Gupta doubted that the dotard who lay shivering on the bed before him could conduct a war.

"The war that you started to force Reunification praetor," T'Pol said. Gupta doubted that they would be alone much longer.

"Force; who are you? To what do you refer? Reunification will not happen for another tenturn. I shall send an Imperial Hand to act as…as a diplomat—when it is time. In a tenturn our brothers will see the logic of Reunification."

"But you started a war with the humans and their allies!" Gupta exclaimed.

Karzan looked at him and blinked. Tarang was no expert on Romulan physiology but he guessed that the praetor was heavily drugged. But the narcotics might be wearing off Tarang thought. The Romulan had not been able to administer the syringe. Karzan still seemed drugged yet he seemed more tired.

"_Hewmaans_?" he asked in turn. Karzan seemed to be drifting off. Gupta gently seized his shoulders and shook him gently. "_Hewmaans, _I know of them. They are a new race. My archivists were about to put them in the Imperial Encyclopedia. I should speak to my archivist. Have you seen Cruzaln? He was here just this dawning."

"Praetor Karzan," T'Pol asked. She spoke with authority. The old Romulan looked uncertainly at her. "What turn is it?"

He answered. Clarity seemed to return and he actually seemed to see them. Pakesh burst into the room with Kaphir. He started to speak but stood rooted when he beheld the leader of the Romulan Empire. Karzan had given a date at least two turns before the war. Gupta turned to him.

"Security on the way!" the gang leader exclaimed. The sound of gunfire broke the sanctity of this place. There was a loud explosion. He looked at the unconscious form that T'Pol had dragged to the floor. "Behold the great Vrinak."

"The praetor must've been drugged for years," Gupta said. The old male before him sat at the head of the empire that had killed so many humans, so many of his friends. Yet he felt pity for Karzan. He had none for Vrinak.

A'Zir ran into the room. He had two rifles in his great hands. Gupta guessed that the guns' former owners would not need them anymore. He spat out a stream of sounds. Kaphir looked positively horrified as understanding came over him.

"We are trapped!" Kaphir announced. "The Tal Shiar has captured the door to the old kitchen."

"Is there a lift to the roof?" Gupta shouted. A'Zir had leaned out and started shooting.

T'Pol surveyed the chamber. "Perhaps there is an emergency escape for the praetor?"

Gupta heard a groan. He looked down to see Karzan rising to a sitting position. The praetor's legs looked like they had not been used in turns. He gingerly put them on the floor. He steadied him when he tried to rise. Karzan pointed to a place across the chamber. Pakesh ran to where the praetor was pointing. Gupta knelt beside Vrinak and searched through his tunic. He found the head of the Tal Shiar's personal seal in a pocket.

"There is a door here!" Pakesh exclaimed. "We won't last long on the roof unless you can fly Tarack!"

"We saw an armed coach land earlier," Gupta said. With no clear idea of what he was doing he lifted Karzan to his feet, stooped over beneath him and hoisted him onto his left shoulder. "Now is a good time to try flying!"

Gupta was surprised at how little Karzan weighed. He hustled him toward the door that Pakesh had discovered. He found an indentation near the frame and inserted the seal into it as he had seen Admiral Valdore do. The door slid open to reveal a small chamber. It had to be a lift. There was more gunfire. He retrieved the seal. There was a great bellow and then Kaphir cried out. A'Zir was leaning painfully against the huge regally carved door. Green blood squirted out of a stump where his left leg had been.

"It's too late for him!" Pakesh roared at Kaphir. "Come you fool!" Tears flowed freely down Pakesh's cheek.

A'Zir continued to blaze away despite his fatal wound. Pakesh pulled Gupta and his burden into the lift. Tarang stumbled causing T'Pol to reach out and catch him. Gupta felt T'Pol take up the burden of the Romulan leader. He turned and saw Kaphir bending to retrieve a rifle. A blinding, red laser bean neatly intersected the magician's head from behind. Kaphir fell back headless. A'Zir saw his mate hit the floor he screamed out and lunged out into the hallway, firing as he went. Gupta saw Vrinak rise up with what must have been a single shot laser in his hand and look at his handiwork. The drug must not have been that effective on him. The lift doors started to close. Vrinak turned to them with a sneer on his face. He pulled the hypo from his neck.

Gupta cursed in Hindi. He retrieved the pistol from his tunic and aimed it at Vrinak. The shot made an explosive noise. The lift door closed as Vrinak, the top of his head gone, fell backwards. They rocketed upwards. T'Pol helped him with Karzan.

"I hope that this goes to a private coach landing," Pakesh said. He gave them each a small cylinder. "Snap the top off and throw it. The flash should blind anyone who is not prepared for it." Pakesh choked. Gupta had seldom seen him exhibit sadness; until now. "A final gift from Kaphir," he proclaimed. "Look away after you throw it."

The door opened. There was no time for planning. T'Pol's reflexes, faster than a Romulan's snapped the top off of her flash bomb and threw it. Gupta turned away and closed his eyes. All was white before his clenched lids. He opened his eyes pointed the gun. A guard staggered before them his hands over his eyes. Gupta fired a single shot between the Romulan's hands and into his face. Pakesh sprang out and gestured for them to follow him. Another guard, his vision clearing was fumbling with his rifle. Pakesh whirled before him and slashed his throat cleanly. The guard fell in a screaming gurgling heap. The group hurried as best they could around the corner to the landing pad. An air coach sat before them.

Gupta slammed against the fuselage of the car. T'Pol was supporting the praetor who seemed conscious and yet oblivious of what was happening. Tarang placed the seal against a recess in the coach's skin. He looked around for an entry control when the hatch opened. Two pilots dressed in Tal Shiar black with gold sashes marked with the symbol of the air service, stood startled at the sight of the three Romulans and their charge, before them. Both had their sidearms leveled at the group. Gupta was at a loss. It seemed that they all were, until the praetor looked up from T'Pol's arms.

"What…what is happening here?" he asked. His voice was thin and reedy. It sounded to Gupta like each word was forced.

The two Tal Shiar pilots lowered their sidearms—not all the way. Gupta knew that they were uncertain. They clearly recognized Karzan, despite his emaciated state. How much of their surprise came from seeing the praetor or seeing the praetor as he actually was, Gupta did not know. Certainly the walking sack of bones being supported by T'Pol only barely resembled the hale, decisive image who spoke to his Romulan subjects via broadcasts. Gupta licked his lips. He had to use this to his advantage.

"We are sent by Vrinak to convey the praetor away from here," Pakesh declared, beating Gupta to it. "Show him the seal Tarack."

"You look like vagabonds," one of the pilots declared, "and you obviously used the seal to gain entry." His suspicion was evident. He glared at Pakesh from beneath his golden helmet.

"Do you not recognize the praetor you fool?" Gupta asked. "The praetor desires to go. When does the will of Director Vrinak supersede that of the praetor? What is your name? You have not even saluted the praetor!"

The pilot was visibly unnerved. Both of them snapped to rigid attention and thumped their right arms against their chests. His partner seemed willing to capitulate but he was not the senior officer. Gupta guessed that only Vrinak and whatever healers he employed were the only ones to see Karzan. These fellows simply did not know what to make of the situation before them. Still, the ranking pilot resisted.

"And where does our praetor wish to go?" the senior flight officer asked.

Gupta froze. Where were they to go? Pakesh had led them here with the intent of gathering information. He and T'Pol had come to fulfill their mission for Valdore. All of this had gone terribly wrong when they had run into Vrinak. Tarang could feel T'Pol's probing curiosity over his savage execution of the Tal Shiar director. He hadn't had time to sort those emotions out yet. He struggled for an answer while hoping that Pakesh or T'Pol had a better one—and soon.

"I wish to go to Mount Al'kathel," a strange voice announced. Gupta turned to see the frail, skeletal praetor push away from T'Pol and stand on his own. He seemed to be lucid. His eyes glinted as he fixed his gaze on the obstinate pilot. "One of my advisors has asked you whose will prevails here, sub lieutenant." Despite his flimsy long nightshirt and emaciated body, Karzan was presenting a commanding presence.

"Your will my praetor," the senior pilot replied. Respect and fear had gotten the best of him.

A piercing alert siren tore through the night. Gupta guessed that A'Zir had managed to sabotage the security system allowing them to get here. Gupta thought again of the big gentle Romulan and the violent ending to his life. The pilots became suspicious again but once again relented when the praetor demanded that they leave. They boarded the coach. Pakesh made sure that they got a seat near to the control area. Gupta looked at Pakesh and then studied the pilots while they put the coach into motion. Tarang knew that the two crewmen would be dead and that he would need to have an idea of how to fly the coach.

Star Fleet Conqueror class cruiser Leviathan, Taskforce 20, entering the Epsilon Scorpii system, Oct 2158

Commodore Edward Thomas carefully observed the tasks that each and every one of his bridge crew was attending to. He knew that they were competent but he also knew that the command structure existed for a reason. He noted that several of the crewmen tensed up as he passed by them. They needed to be on their toes he thought.

He turned back to the tactical plot. This was one of the deepest incursions into Romulan space that the Star Fleet had attempted. Thomas was proud that he would lead the way. He had no sooner been appointed to command of this taskforce then the orders for this mission had come. Thomas knew that the service would be slimmed down after the war. He intended to be one of those to stay. This idea of the explorers running the show was repugnant to him. In Thomas' opinion that had been what had happened before, only it was merchants and not explorers who had nearly brought earth to the brink.

The inspection went well. Thomas was quick to correct his communications' officer who he thought could be verifying code responses rather than monitoring routine traffic. He assured the ensign that he was doing a good job while making sure that he would inform Captain Dambudso Achebe of the officer's lax conduct. Thomas walked back to where Achebe was seated at weapons. The commodore thought that a real captain should fight his ship; especially when the taskforce commander had selected his vessel as the flagship. Achebe, a dark skinned officer from the African Confederacy was more than agreeable with Thomas. That was another thing that made this assignment so agreeable.

Achebe looked up from his missile board. Thomas had alerted the crews six hours ago. They would be at their stations for a day or two but being prepared beat being dead. The African acknowledged Thomas after finishing his task.

"Ensign Singh again?" he asked quietly. Thomas nodded. "Singh is a good man. The trouble is that he is too idealistic. He is a prime candidate for the scientists." In both Thomas' and Achebe's world the navy was divided between the fighters and the explorers. They referred to them as the scientists.

"I was hoping that we could mold him," Thomas said. He knew that the officer had potential. It was just his politics and ideas that were in question.

"These professor types get them in the academies sir," Achebe said. "That was the problem before. They were willing to sit back and be turned into a mercantile fleet because they would still get to explore. Then you had people like French who could be bought through the bureaucrats. It's going to be a tough time for us sir. I just don't wish to see earth hit again but I'm afraid that that will happen."

"History is against us captain," Thomas said. He felt a kinship with Achebe yet seldom used the man's first name even in the mess.

"It's easy to forget the military when peace abounds," Achebe said. "The trouble is that most people don't realize that the military preserves that peace. We're like some fire hose that gets an inspection every year or so and that is it." Achebe looked sidewise at his panel where he had the tactical display reproduced on his personal screen.

"Possible metallic contact near the fifth planet!" the sensor chief exclaimed. Chief Pilmark was a no nonsense NCO in Thomas' view; one of the few enlisted files that he trusted.

"Signal Feuerstein to accelerate to warp 3.5 and investigate," he snapped. Ensign Singh complied. As an afterthought he added: "Send in Akagi's squadron in a disperse and search pattern as well." Thomas looked at Achebe. "Action at last captain," he said as he spun on his heel and returned to his seat.

The Kretchet departed the loose formation of the taskforce. Sensor analysis and automated probe data about this system and its planets scrolled across the bottom right hand corner of the viewer. The planet in question was somewhat larger than earth with a frigid surface and higher gravity. It looked to Thomas like it might be a good prospect for mining. He was not against trade and exploration entirely. He merely thought of those things as necessities that were needed to support the culture at large, not as things to be done for their own virtues.

His Conqueror was left with the Torsk Nautilus and two of the fleet's surviving Amarillos: Kamina and Portland. The Andorian heavy cruiser Thofsin brought up the rear of the formation. The carriers Akagi, Rabin and Boxer were at their dispersal points each with a Powhaton escort. Phaeton, Susquehanna and Plymouth each had a carrier in their charge. Thomas was confident with the array of his forces. He remembered when a taskforce like this was the most that earth could field.

"Telemetry from Feuerstein shows several more contacts commodore," Achebe announced.

"It wouldn't surprise me to see the Birdies here," Thomas said, "this close to their homeworld." And this close to natural resources, he thought. Reports garnered from the reestablished subspace network had suggested that the Romulans were looking for war material.

It was just under an hour's travel at this time warp factor to the fifth planet. Thomas looked again at the system's layout. That world seemed the most likely to stage an attack from. The rest of the system's planets did not afford any tactical advantage. Thomas decided that it wouldn't be wise to let Feuerstein and her escorts get any closer without backup. He had orders relayed for them to slow. He then ordered the rest of his force to accelerate. The bogeys around the fifth planet suddenly manifested themselves as solid returns. Chief Pilmark's warning came less than a second later.

"I see them chief!" Thomas admonished the sensor technician. "Mister Achebe, calculate an intercept point and relay to Feuerstein and her escorts to get ready to withdraw."

The solid returns showed the readings typical of Romulan Veronus and Sabinus class ships. Where were the Clavicles at? Thomas suspected a trap. He knew that the Birds were bruised but not beaten.

"Birds are using the planet to slingshot and pick up speed commodore," Achebe advised him. "They will be able to envelope Feuerstein and her escorts."

"Ensign Garrity," he turned his attention to Leviathan's helmsmen. "How much time will we save by cutting near to the sixth planet?"

"About nine minutes, commodore," Garrity replied.

"About?" he snapped. "About eight minutes? About ten; how about an hour?" he asked. Thomas respected the Vulcan penchant for exact time. Man's first steps into space had been calculated down to the seconds.

"Eight—eight minutes forty three seconds commodore!" he replied nervously.

"The planet is a typical gas giant," Achebe reported. "The atmosphere is dominated by hydrogen and traces of ammonia and helium commodore. We've scanned it and don't read anything in there."

Thomas had just a few seconds to come to a decision. Feuerstein would be under Romulan guns in a few minutes and unless he altered course the Kretchet class destroyer would likely be surrounded and destroyed. Subspace sensors could read many things, including getting a picture of what lay behind a planetary body. Nothing was in orbit of the giant and no one would go into the atmosphere of such a world. Or would they?

"Sir?" his executive officer prompted him. "Shall I increase speed to maximum rather than bypass the giant?"

"Even at maximum, we wouldn't get there before Feuerstein came under attack captain," Garrity supplied.

Thomas ran a hand through his thinning head of brown hair. "I know that damnit!" he snapped. Thomas had run the calculations in his head. "Alter course to cut the corner by that giant!" he ordered.

"Aye aye!" Garrity responded. "Changing course and increasing to warp four."

"The taskforce is coordinated commodore!" Ensign Singh chimed in.

"Bring the hull plating online captain," he ordered. "Chief Pilmark, give me a good scan of this world as we pass by…just in case."

The tactical viewer showed the gaseous world as a great depression in space. His force was near to the edge of the hole but not in it. Thomas was sure that no one would go deep enough into that atmosphere to hide. The climb back up the well would take more thrust than a modern ship could provide; unless they had some help. He recalled a discussion with one of the professors on augmented hybrid chemical impulse thrusters being mounted on exploratory just so they could go deep into the atmosphere of a gas giant. His taskforce was near to the edge of the well.

"We should intercept Feuerstein in time to bring them under our guns commodore," Achebe informed him. Thomas looked again at the tactical viewer.

The giant world was banded in gray and white swirling cloud layers that formed mighty bands. Against the backdrop of space it could easily be forgotten that these bands were in many places as wide as the diameter of the earth. So large were the dark bands that the pinpricks of lights beneath the hydrogen clouds were barely visible. They grew in size until their normally green hulls could be made out. Eleven Romulan Tyrannous class battleships each ejected a large tube. The end of it still glowed red. They fired a volley of Moolahs and then jumped to warp.

The nuclear blasts from the Romulan weapons lit up the dreary world below. The human and Andorian taskforce stopped and prepared to face their enemy. The wave of Cachalots, fired by Leviathan was foiled by the wall of exploding Romulan missiles. Human Minotaurs dropped out of warp and changed course to intercept the threat. The Clavicles burst forth into normal space. Their bows glowed white as their plasma weapons were fully charged. They fired another volley of missiles at the Star Fleet force and followed that with plasma cannon fire.

Portland took two hits to its bubble like forward command section. Blue static discharges emanated from the Portland's hull. A Moolah exploded short of the destroyer sending it reeling. Its port nacelle was gone. Jagged glowing metal was all that remained of the pylon. Atmosphere jetted out of the command sphere causing the ship to roll uncontrollably through space. A shuttle bay door opened on Portland's starboard side. First one shuttle and then another rocketed away from the stricken craft.

Another bay door slid open ejecting another group of shuttles. Pieces of ruptured hull followed the escaping shuttles. Portland erupted just amidships where the command sphere met the engineering hull. The pieces of broken hull went spinning through space shedding debris as they went.

The Andorian Thofsin was hit by plasma cannon fire three different times. It continued to fight on despite a gaping rent in its conning tower like command hull. The Andorian maneuvered to close range to send a spate of missiles against two Clavicles. The one Romulan ejected counter measures and fired anti missile missiles in defense. The other did the same. One Romulan was no lucky as one of the Andorian missiles flew straight at its target to explode less than fifty meters from the Tyrannous. The Romulan was split down the middle. It exploded totally engulfing the remains of the ship. Its wingman survived to treat Thofsin to the same fate.

A hail of Mambos engaged the Minotaurs. Four of the fighters were vaporized instantly before the survivors formed a fighting wedge that dispatched two of the Romulan battleships. Two more of the fighters were engulfed and then destroyed in plasma cannon fire. The Romulans pressed on against Leviathan.

The Cachalots took their toll destroying one of the Clavicles before it could fire. The Romulans marshaled their forces and sent volley after volley toward the large Conqueror. The Star Fleet ship's plating protected it from two hits but not from a third and the residual effects of a Moolah blast. The bulbous bow of the proud ship was blown off. The skeletal ribs and stringers of Leviathan's hull made a twisting glowing mass where the sensor dish and forward section had once been. The great ship leapt to warp.

The Romulans consolidated and launched overlapping volleys of fast Mambo missiles. The Minotaurs making a last run against their opponents were thinned out by two. The Minotaurs broke formation to attack single cruisers. One Romulan Clavicle was crippled by the near miss of an Amazon. The rest of the Romulan ships survived using a combination of neutronium pellets and anti missile missiles. Six Minotaurs survived to escape into warp.

"Feuerstein reported definite Romulan contacts and then the link was broken," Ensign Singh reported. "I'm not scanning anyone behind us sir."

"The Birds won't come after us," Captain Achebe replied. They've gotten what they wanted he thought bitterly. "Scramble a message to the fighters to go to deep recovery mode."

The taskforce had been bloodied enough today. Achebe didn't plan on leading the Romulans to their carriers. Kamina had been the only survivor along with the Conqueror and a handful of fighters. Kamina and the carriers might yet be the only survivors Achebe thought. Leviathan was not in the best of shape.

Commodore Thomas was alive but severely burned and decompressed. The surgeon was using a new compound developed jointly by humans and Tellarites to keep the commodore alive: Triox. It would be awhile before Thomas' lungs could work without assistance. The acrid smoke leftover from numerous electrical fires was clear from auxiliary control. The smell of it was still present. Dambudso wrinkled his nose and folded the flap of his blue command jacket over his tunic. The environmental system was still offline. The air was breathable but cold.

"Control, engineering," the garbled badly distorted voice of Chief Engineer Wong blared from ceiling mounted speakers.

Achebe pushed a stud on his easel like control panel. "Go ahead," he responded.

"We are limited to no more than warp two," Wong informed him. "Sir, you have to think about dropping out of warp to access the damage to the bow. Structural integrity is holding but I'm not guaranteeing anything."

"I need another two hours," Achebe answered. "Hold it together until then engineer." He broke the connection.

Two hours to randomly maneuver to spot where Wong could see how bad things were. Achebe had ordered a blind jump to warp after the first shots from the Romulan ambushers. They had waited in the brush like the lions did. Achebe had seen the beasts while growing up near Cape Town. They had underestimated the Birds just as the last meandering gazelle in a group would underestimate the lions.

Achebe leaned back and studied the tactical display while reflecting back on the ambush. The Romulans were desperate. He decided that if he would have been in Thomas' spot he would have made the same decision to cut close to the gas giant. It was near suicidal for a ship to stay in the atmosphere of one of those. The Romulans had put an entire taskforce into that maelstrom. They had to be desperate to do such a thing; dangerous too. This war would be far from over Achebe thought.

The Sol System, Oct 2158

"Bloody pretty thing," Admiral Erica Soames declared. Fred Watson looked past her, through the thick plasteel windows, to the spectacle of Hailey's Comet.

Frank Watson looked at the woman. Her pretty face held a note of frailty beneath her thick mop of blonde curls. He had to remind himself that this woman had dealt harsh blows to the Romulans, both legally and illegally. Fred recalled his studies of ethnic criminal families. They were usually held together by either a strong patriarch or matriarch. Soames was not much different in her apparent relationship with the augmented woman and Frank McCoy.

McCoy he understood least of all. Fred had caught many crooks. Yet he did not have the cynicism about his fellow man that many in his profession acquired. He knew that for every criminal that there were at least a thousand honest men. Beyond that he knew that some people would go out of their way to be truthful and forthright. Watson judged McCoy as belonging to that group. Soames must have delivered an impressive speech to entice a man like McCoy into doing what he had done.

Dominique Catères sat next to him in one of the two auxiliary crew seats. Soames had come up with a Ptolemy class transport from somewhere. Fred knew that it was not a Star Fleet ship or one contracted by them. He did not buy her story about getting it from a junk man. Watson figured that a junkman might get a hold of one of these, but not the seventy year old Chinese Jaeger nuclear tipped anti satellite missile that sat in the cargo bay.

"I saw it once from a Marine transport," he remarked. "For all this big galaxy there are still great things to see here in this system."

"Something that may have to be annihilated," Dom interjected. "Comets are things of legend and prophecy even among we who dwell in the mines. It would be a shame to have to destroy this one."

"We don't have to," McCoy piped in. "I'll go with you fellows. We aren't going to blow up the comet!"

Watson knew that this was an ongoing argument between Soames and her subordinate. The admiral turned in her seat and eyed McCoy.

"We need someone to stay behind in case we don't come out—or Reed comes out," Soames stated. The admiral looked at Catères. "If we can't kill this _drak'ha_ thing then it'll be up to you to stand off and nuke the comet—and Mister Reed."

"And leave me to explain everything," McCoy retorted. "Look it's not that that bothers me. Dominique says that I could be drugged to resist this thing."

"Drugged to render the _drak'ha_ harmless," Catères said. "It could still inhabit your body."

"I'm no pilot!" McCoy exclaimed. "You should be the one to stay here admiral. You can nuke the comet then scoot back to earth."

"I'm resistant," Soames said. Watson could hear the note of command finality in her voice. "You have a modicum of flight training. I've preprogrammed a return sequence and this ship's jamming gear should be able to get you through the sensor nets."

"You'll have a difficult time explaining things. But, I've left evidence behind that will implicate me and only me. I left a note saying how I planned to take a long swim in the Atlantic. There won't be any other evidence. Star Fleet Security will hopefully assume that I committed suicide out of a sense of remorse."

"What if this thing jumps into me while I'm waiting out here?" McCoy asked.

"Reed has to be within close proximity to do that," Catères said.

"This is all probably a big joke on this Reed's part," McCoy said. His voice conveyed a surly mood.

"Then we'll come back and pursue another course," Soames said. She turned back to the control panel. Out of the collage of gauges and indicators one had caught her eye. Watson left her to her flying.

"You need to be around McCoy," he told the man. Frank was setting at the navigator's station in front of Watson. "So it makes sense from that viewpoint that you should stay back." He decided to have some fun with McCoy. Watson liked the man's easygoing nature.

"What do you mean?" McCoy asked. He turned to face Watson.

"You and the missus have a little one to worry about," Watson said with a grin pasted on his lips.

"She's not my wife!" McCoy exclaimed.

"You coulda surprised me," Watson shot back. The two had been most passionate before the departure. "Is that how you say goodbye to friends, McCoy? If it is, I'll let you know ahead of time that I'll just settle for a handshake." Watson chuckled when McCoy's cheeks turned red.

"Producing and rearing the next generation is what keeps our races alive," Catères added. "You have been dilatory in that regard. You and Kanya should have several more children."

"Advice from the enemy," McCoy commented sourly. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Dom helped us when she realized what Reed was," Watson said. He had mixed feelings about his adopted partner. He had since the start. One thing he had determined about her was that she was loyal. She hadn't told him everything but nor had she lied when confronted with the truth. "She's on notice the same as you guys are," he added in his best police voice.

"If not for the _drak'ha _I would be doing everything in my power to assist the empire," Catères said. "They are what you humans call blood enemies of my race. I'd leave this one here to cause havoc but he'll move on; possibly to Remus."

"I've matched vectors and am moving in for a rendezvous," Soames told them. "I wish that we had subspace sensors in this ship. Radar is picking up the comet and nothing else."

"Kanya told me that Professor Carlson's research suggested that early man had more toys than he let on," McCoy said. "I don't know if they could build anything to beat radar or sensors. Don't forget that our tech hit a bump in the road during the Third World War. That's why we have warp drives but fell behind in other areas. There's a lot of history of governments covering up their high tech projects."

"We'll enter the tail and see what we can see," Soames said. "We should have our answer shortly." McCoy sighed.

"Something bothering you bud? Watson asked him.

"EVA stuff; this is going to be fun," McCoy answered. His face showed that he thought it was going to be anything but what he had said.

Fred chuckled and smiled. "Yeah I tend to agree there." Soames took the Ptolemy into the tail. A sound like sand pouring over a metal roof permeated the old freighter's interior: particles of cometary debris striking the ship's skin.

"A big, tough Marine like you?" McCoy chided him.

"Ex-Marine," Watson corrected the man. "I used to love the in-the-womb feeling of zero g." He sighed. "But that was twenty years ago and I've gotten used to up and down being where I expect them to be!" He tapped McCoy's arm in a friendly manner. "You'll get used to a lot of things: including a little one looking up at you."

McCoy turned around and seemed about to come back with a remark. He smiled instead. "You know what?" he asked Watson. The man's smile dropped. "I'm more afraid of that little boy than I am of alien creatures in my mind. I look at him and think: how in the world am I going to make things better for him?"

Watson nodded. "We do the best we can. We can't save the world but we can salvage a piece of it. Don't worry McCoy. You seem like a good egg. His mother seems a bit strange but being raised by aliens I guess that makes sense. You'll both do fine."

"Bloody hell!" the admiral exclaimed. Watson felt an unpleasant sensation in his inner ear. He heard the Ptolemy's forward thrusters firing.

He looked out the thick forward ports to see what he had at first taken as a larger piece of debris. Soames had apparently thought the same thing. He realized that the stylized image of pilots looking out the window that was portrayed on holovids was far from reality. They had been lucky in this instance that Soames had been looking out and using her eyes. A large cylinder looked to be less than a few meters from the nose of the spade shaped Ptolemy.

Watson immediately thought of old rocket booster stages. He realized with a start that that was what he was seeing. Soames had maneuvered over the object and was examining it in the light of the Ptolemy's service lights. The words 'United States' were emblazoned on the side. A pitted, burned old US flag was beneath the words. He didn't know the specifics of sensors but he wondered how such a huge chunk of metal could have avoided detection.

"I'm not reading it!" Soames said in a frustrated tone. "The magnetometer shows nothing. The mass detector is reading the comet. Radar isn't reflecting back and it should! We are right there!"

"You were saying about high tech toys McCoy?" Watson asked.

"Yeah," McCoy answered breathlessly. "Call me Frank." McCoy shook his head. "They probably got this thing out of a parking orbit and towed it here."

"That looks like an airlock," Catères said as Soames was playing the service lights over the module's pitted hull. She stopped where Catères had spied the oval shaped collar that protruded from the booster's hull.

"We'll dock there and then stand off," Soames said. EVA into those particles was a quick way to die. "You back off Frank and if you don't get the right response then the Jaeger is primed to fire. You need to lay off at least four hundred klicks."

Soames had worked out a selection of random words. Each of them knew some of the words but needed another's for confirmation. Catères had said that that allowed for at least one uncompromised person. All of them should be resistant, yet even the Reman didn't want any chances taken.

"Don't worry admiral," McCoy agreed. To Watson's surprise he winked at his commanding officer. It was almost as if he had something up his sleeve. He unbuckled and started to change places with Soames. "I wish that I was going."

"It'll be fine Frank," she answered. "He knows that we are here. Reed will either come to claim his property or he won't. I left enough crumbs that he should know that we are here." Watson was not surprised when McCoy came to attention and saluted his commanding officer. She formally returned the salute and then hugged McCoy to her. "Let's end this thing," Watson heard her whisper.

McCoy took the seat and wished them all luck. They went below and quickly suited up. Watson heard the sounds of metal scraping as McCoy gently guided the Ptolemy's lock against that of the booster stage's. The squat, bulky freighter was less than half as long as the booster. His voice came over the audio system announcing that he was showing a good seal.

"I'm reading another ship on approach admiral," his disembodied voice announced to them.

Soames walked over to the comm panel. Watson watched her stand there for a few seconds before hitting the call switch. "Stay close to this thing until they get closer. I'm guessing but whatever is foiling our scanners might encompass this freighter. Look at his course and try to keep this thing between us and them. If they dock then drift back in the debris. Hopefully the former owner lightened this thing up enough to throw a mass detector off."

"You're a better pilot than me admiral," McCoy insisted. "Maybe you should--"

"Keep your place Frank," Soames snapped. "I don't want to tell Kanya how you died. I have a feeling Reed is more interested in the vault than our ship."

"Okay sir," he replied formally. "You fellows better scoot. I'll have to maneuver this thing pretty shortly."

Soames acknowledged. She put the visor of her space helmet down. Watson and Catères followed suit. The freighter's lock slid open. Beyond the accessway illuminated by the Ptolemy's lights lay a battered airlock. Watson followed Soames and felt his stomach lurch as they stepped into zero g. Soames found a manual lock entry on the vault's hull. She twisted the bulky affair. The lock of the Doomsday Vault slid open. All was darkness beyond. Soames' startled gasp came over Fred's helmet speakers. He realized what had surprised her as he felt gravity again. Someone had been busy in the Doomsday Vault.

"Someone is out here," Commodore Jocelyn Stiles informed him.

She looked at her odd passenger. Her father had always told her that personality meant more than looks. Stiles had figured that that was true for ugly people. On reflection she realized that her father had been right. Malcolm Reed was handsome but she found him abhorrent. Reed looked at her and smiled as if he had gleaned some of her thought. She had finally told him to shut up after more than eighteen hours in the Sinjan class shuttle with him.

"I would expect no less from dear Erica," Reed said. "She has been subtly letting me know that she is coming this way." He laughed, "About as subtle as an old style atomic bomb. Don't worry my dear. They won't shoot at us. Erica wants to ensure that I'm dead. Who can know who is in this shuttle?"

"I'm getting a reading like a heavy metal in a packaging," she told him. "That spells nuclear warhead Reed. But I can maneuver this thing and we have twin railguns. Unless Admiral Soames has an Archer out there I wouldn't worry."

"I put myself into your capable and pretty hands dear Jocelyn," Reed said. "Pretty," he remarked.

She thought that it was a clumsy attempt at flattery until she realized that he meant the comet before them. Stiles looked at the comet and its tail. Years ago before all of this she would have agreed with him. Now all that she saw was a navigation problem. Stiles let the Sinjan's onboard navcomp take them behind the comet. Stiles slowed the shuttle on the advice of Reed.

"There's nothing here Reed," she said. Part of her had thought that he was crazy when he had told her of their destination.

"Have you ever heard of the Philadelphia Experiment my dear?"

"No not really," she answered after a few moments' thought.

"A truth hidden in a fable," he said. "Ancient man was on the way to writing a unified field theory. They just lacked the hardware to realize their dreams until the last century. That is part of what is in the vault. That is how old Ed Barstow hid the vault."

"We sure could've used that against the Birdies," she said. Reed could hear the outrage in her voice.

"I discovered it only last year," he said. The Reed entity had had a fascination with ancient secrets. It had happily pursued that interest unfettered by morals. "I did try to undo Mark Hawkins with something I discovered there."

"You tried to assassinate the world president?"

"Let's be adults here Jocelyn. Soames and McCoy have some fairy tale vision of man. That is all well and good but sometimes shepherds have to do unpleasant things. Killing a diseased lamb might save the flock. Hawkins would have had your dear mother killed. He was in with the anti war movement and their Romulan backers. Stupidity is a disease Jocelyn. The trouble is that in groups it can lead to the deaths of others."

"Okay," she said. "Maybe I'll find something in the vault." She looked away from him. He knew that she was avoiding something unpleasant.

"Soames and McCoy have blood on their hands my dear. Soames killed a man in Italy after obtaining information from him. McCoy has killed people at a hangar in my country. Don't think that we are dealing with nice people here. Once they see that we are in league they won't hesitate to murder you."

"We aren't…in league," she retorted angrily. "I'll help you and then that is it!"

"As we agreed in Florida," he said. "Slow down to forty five meters per second here and keep a lookout forward. It should be coming up soon."

"What these twenty-first century scientists came up with a…with a cloaking device?" she asked.

He watched her gasped as the old Apollo booster section came into view. He chuckled. Stiles slowed the shuttle and after some instructions from him made for the airlock. He was quiet as she mated the shuttle's lock to that of the late Barstow's construction. Reed told her that they should wear pressure suits although there was atmosphere on the other side.

"Admiral Soames might do something nasty with the environmentals," he told her. "I did install a gravity web over there. Weightlessness is so twenty-first century!"

The Sinjan's inner lock slid up. Reed closed his visor and ran through a radio check. Stiles acknowledged and showed him how to secure their transmissions. Reed had seen that a few years ago. He was glad that he had this one's knowledge of espionage and tactics. It had vital recollections from all of its hosts. Stiles cycled them through so that they stood next to the airlock of the Doomsday Vault. He worked the familiar lock control. The hatch opened to darkness. Reed switched on his helmet light and led the way in.

Someone was here, he was sure that he could smell the alien Catères presence. Reed decided to even things up. He opened the door to a small metal box that was bolted onto the hull. His gauntleted fingers switched on several old style circuit breaker switches. Old style light emitting diode strips lit up. He turned and nodded at her.

"Close up the shuttle lock," he told her. He was pleased to see that she held a Beretta XI at the ready. "The corridors branch off to the left and right." He made for a panel near a bulkhead. "I doubt that Erica and her friends know all the ins and outs of this place." He pushed on what appeared to be bolts in the panel. Malcolm reached up and hit the middle of the metal panel roundly with his closed hand. It fell away to reveal a corridor that a suited person might just squeeze in and move.

"Age before beauty," he said as he inserted himself into the narrow passageway. Reed led with an auto pistol that was mounted into his gloved hand; a favored weapon of Colonel Green's troopers. He was pleased to see Stiles pull the false covering back into place.

"We can bypass the main routes," he explained. "We'll come out in the main stowage area. Erica can't have gotten into their yet."

"Some of those things that are supposed to be here major," her voice started. Reed could not turn and look at her. He had no sense of her mind as it was too strong for that. Yet he had been among humans enough to hear curiosity in her tone.

"Yes commodore," he answered. He looked ahead as he moved sidewise through the passage.

"They could have been used against the Romulans…or against any enemies that might come along."

"That is why Barstow didn't just simply destroy them," he explained. "You see, the colonel realized that man might have enemies, and that as dreadful as some of these things are, there still might be a need for their use. I suppose in some sense that he believed that man would become civilized enough to use these things wisely. When a race becomes that civilized they might as well line up for the butcher. The stars belong to those who can smell fear and take advantage of it."

"I didn't know that you were a philosopher Reed," she answered after a long pause. They were close to the vault's main area. He could hear her doubt about what he had said.

He stopped and worked at a second rectangular access panel. This one was secured through a keypad access control. "Come now my dear, you are a predator. You know what I mean. The bold and aggressive have always led the way. They've also acted to protect the weak. Who knows what would have happened if the Stellar Navy had been stronger. The ancient Vulcans were said to respect strength. This war might have been averted if the Romulans had to factor in a stronger earth navy."

"No one can tell the future Reed," she replied as the hatch slid open. More diodes lit up.

"The field generator is on the other end," he told her. "It is all powered by a small fusion reactor fed by debris shed by the comet. This area," he said as he motioned several rows of low metal containers, "is where all the fun things are."

He walked over to one of the containers and opened the lid. He looked at the vials inside. He gently lifted one out and tossed it to Stiles. He chuckled as she fumbled to catch it. She would have dropped her weapon had it not been attached to her suit by a lanyard.

"Flesh eating virus developed in an innocuous looking lab in jolly old England." He liked hunting humans. Their fear sustained him well. But he was always puzzled at how much of a hurry they seemed to be to wipe themselves out. At least this struggle seemed to have gotten them over that. "Don't worry; the vial is unbreakable by normal means."

"Airborne AIDS, a hybrid flu virus, Sarin IV," he announced pointing at each locker. "An electromagnetic device that permanently scrambles a person's mind," he pointed to a large metal box for that. He followed her gaze.

"Oh yes my dear," he said, guessing her thought. "The device produces a low level field. It could probably be deployed in space and probably could be reengineered for an alien mind." Reed licked his lips. He planned on leaving earth but he would leave a legacy behind him.

Many had called his species evil. Or more precisely he thought; they had condemned their actions as evil and wrong. But Reed knew better. His species, now so old that he couldn't recollect their name, culled the weak. He remembered his feedings. Each and every one of them had been perpetual victims of this and that. All of it was pap. All of them could have made something of their lives. Instead they had chosen the easy routes. If Reed or one of his many past carries had not come along then they most certainly would have been a societal burden until some human predator finished them.

"These could have been used against--"

"It's too late to worry about things that can be used against the Birds." He stooped to open another chest. "It appears that we may win here." Reed peered down at the small metal containers in the locker. Some of the computer viruses were antiquated. Others were as powerful as the one he had given to Erica many months earlier. "These toys, these wonderful devices should be used sparingly and with surgical accuracy. Someone needs to be in charge of all of this. Someone needs to act as a guardian for men."

"What are you saying?" she asked. Malcolm didn't have to be able to penetrate her mind to know what she was thinking.

"It's you my dear," he answered. "I needed a pilot but I need a replacement. I plan on leaving soon. It's hard to get into. When you encounter Erica and her group they may tell you some things that sound absurd. Just remember who was there for earth."

They looked at one another. Reed could feel the vibration of the main hatch sliding open. He warned Stiles to get down. Reed doubted that Soames or her people had seen her. He pointed his hand and fired as he dived beneath a storage locker. He saw sparks where Soames or one of her team was returning fire. He crawled and then rolled behind another locker. Reed knew that these containers were strong enough to resist even modern gunfire. He bet that Erica did not. He ran his comm unit through until he found a common frequency.

"Better be careful doing that Erica," he announced. "You might let the genie out of the bottle."

"This is it for you Reed," Soames answered promptly. "The same for whoever is with you."

"Let's agree to be civil," he said. "We can talk this thing out." Malcolm switched to the secure frequency. "You can crawl out to the service passage commodore. I'll delay them here while you circle around." He hoped that she would raise the hatch only part way.

"Okay Reed," Stiles answered. He did not see her slither away but seconds later heard her announce that she had reentered the passage.

Stiles scrambled to her feet as best she could. Somehow she managed to shimmy up while holding onto her gun. She quickly shuffled down the narrow accessway until she reached the entrance. Reed must have loosely replaced the hatch. She pushed it away and led out into the larger passage with her Beretta. No one was there. She crept to the end of the passage and stuck her helmet around the corner as best she could. A large space suited figure knocked her to her feet. She tried to bring her rifle up but her attacker batted it down.

The figure rolled on top of her revealing an older balding man. She realized that he was trying to work her external mixture controls. She rapped at his helmet. He slammed his helmet into hers. The noise distracted her somewhat. She looked as he undid the lanyard holding the Beretta and then knocked the weapon away. He pressed his helmet against hers.

"Stop it!" he ordered. His voice was dim and distant through the armor of the helmets. "You're helping a killer!"

He scrambled away from her and then rolled up and swung his visor open. The man stared defiantly at her. He was yelling at her but all she could hear was muffled exclamations through her protective helmet. Stiles reluctantly followed suit and opened her visor. His glare faded to recognition.

"I know who you are," he said. He shook his head. "I don't know how you fell in with Reed but you are on the wrong side here Commodore Stiles."

"Why do you think I'm on this Reed's side," she answered after a moment's thought.

"Yeah, you just happened on this storage vault when I ran into you," he answered. "My name is Fred Watson. I'm an agent with the UI. Your friend Reed is responsible for several murders. There is more too."

Stiles didn't doubt that the major was capable of murder. This was the agent that Reed had told her about. Had he been tracking Reed for other reasons then what the major had indicated? Reed had accused Soames and this McCoy of murder. Stiles wasn't sure who had did what to whom but she reckoned one thing. If one of these groups was killing it was likely that the other one was too.

"Reed has told me that you people are running some kind of clandestine group," she retorted. "Don't try to act all high handed here Agent Watson."

Stiles was beginning to read this as a standoff. But one thing was on her mind: what Reed had told her in the vault. Whoever was killing who seemed irrelevant; these weapons were crucial. Reed was right. A person had to be in control that had some thought for the future. There couldn't be anymore innocents sacrificed by politics. If Soames and Reed killed each other perhaps she could use her rank to secure the vault.

"We are just here for Reed," Watson told her, "then all of this," he waved a hand in the air. "All of this has to stop."

She agreed reluctantly. Somehow Jocelyn would hold onto the vault. She heard the warning voices of her mother and father. But her father, despite his good natured moralizing, was dead. He was radioactive dust. So was David. Believing in the good nature of others had caused their deaths. Trip Tucker was right. Sooner or later they would defeat the Romulans. He had asked her what she would do after that. Stiles was having the glimmer of an idea about that now.

"We have Stiles, Reed," Soames told the major. "We know what you are. We know about the _drak'ha_."

"We have been called that by others," Reed's voice answered. It sounded small in Erica's earphones. "You are allying yourself with one of those, admiral. What do you think that that makes you? You wanted to defeat the Romulans, not join them."

"No one is giving up Reed," Soames answered. "When this is over the Reman goes her separate way. Stand up and face up to what is going to happen. It'll be quick for you."

"You would slay me," he answered. "I've lived a long life Erica. I've helped your people. I was there during the Middle Ages and later during Victorian Era. It might interest you to know that I contributed to early medicine. I wish to leave here. The Reman has surely told you that Malcolm Reed is gone. This doesn't have to turn ugly my dear."

"No!" she exclaimed. Reed had murdered the journalist Carson Maclaren. He had killed the geneticist after he had tormented her; added to that were the lives taken on Alpha Eridani and several unsolved murders here on earth. But more than that, this monster had killed Frank McCoy's father. Soames could not forgive herself for allowing that. Watson had told her that there was nothing she could have done. Still, she had a rough time looking at Frank and wondering if he didn't blame her in some part of his mind.

"You're a killer!" she continued. "You can't run around and judge who should live and die. That isn't how we operate here Reed. Humans are free and free to make decisions, even bad ones. They will pay the consequences but you have no business doing that."

She heard a chuckle from Reed. "Very well, I'm standing up dear Erica." She peered over one of the gray metal containers to see Reed rising to his feet. His helmet was open and he was holding a metal cylinder. His shark like grin was in evidence. "If I release the handle of this container it will release a corrosive gas. It will eat through your suits—and your flesh."

Erica stood up and leveled her pistol at him. She cautiously opened the visor of her space helmet. "Maybe I'll take that risk," she told him. Her tone was angry and defiant.

"You may decide for yourself but you won't for the Reman," he retorted. Catères was indeed standing behind and off to Soames' right side. "What about that perfectly delicious lecture you just gave me about murder?"

Before she could answer Reed went down in a blur of motion. Soames bounded up and over a container. She saw that two people were on the deck. One was Reed and for just an instance she thought that the other was Watson. She soon saw that it was not. This other person was wearing a civilian dockworker's suit. The mystery person hammered at Reed's helmet with a heavy spanner. Reed flung his attacker off. Soames recognized Micah Brack.

"Ah, Inspector Abberline," Reed said as he rolled to his knees and faced his opponent. "It has been several hundred years and you should be dead." Reed was minus the cylinder that now rested in Micah Brack's gloved hand.

"As should you," Brack answered.

"How did you--,"

"Thank Frank admiral," he told her. "I shadowed your freighter in a company shuttle."

"He cannot be here!" Catères exclaimed.

"I think that I've met Reed before ma'am," Brack said. The man looked at Dominique. "I know what I'm dealing with here."

Reed stood up and smiled broadly. "Inspector Abberline was hot on my trail at White Chapel!"

"I always suspected that there was more to you," Brack told Reed. "I hadn't thought about it until I read about some of the serial killings a hundred years later."

"Well, you were dealing with an extraordinary predator." Reed was obviously pleased with himself as he spoke. Soames saw a strange expression on his face. She snapped her visor closed and started to shout a warning when Catères let out an inhuman scream and then dropped like a lifeless sack.

The vault lights flickered out. The corridor outside was still illuminated. Soames heard a grunt over her earpieces and saw muzzle flashes coming from Reed's direction. She saw Brack silhouetted as he turned onto Reed. She shouted a warning. Brack dived out of the way and rolled over to where Catères' crumpled form lay.

"Get her out of here!" Soames commanded.

"Since I am going to die it seems better to take you all with me," she heard Reed's voice inform them. "This storage module is about to blow itself to bits admiral."

Soames doubted that but knew that she had to act. She suspected that Reed had other plans. She snapped an order to Brack who said that he was out of the chamber. Erica saw sparks erupt as Reed fired at her. She saw Brack pulling the unconscious alien into the light.

We have Stiles, Reed," Soames told the major. "We know what you are. We know about the _drak'ha_."

"We have been called that by others," Reed's voice answered. It sounded small in Erica's earphones. "You are allying yourself with one of those, admiral. What do you think that that makes you? You wanted to defeat the Romulans, not join them."

"No one is giving up Reed," Soames answered. "When this is over the Reman goes her separate way. Stand up and face up to what is going to happen. It'll be quick for you."

"You would slay me," he answered. "I've lived a long life Erica. I've helped your people. I was there during the Middle Ages and later during Victorian Era. It might interest you to know that I contributed to early medicine. I wish to leave here. The Reman has surely told you that Malcolm Reed is gone. This doesn't have to turn ugly my dear."

"No!" she exclaimed. Reed had murdered the journalist Carson Maclaren. He had killed the geneticist after he had tormented her; added to that were the lives taken on Alpha Eridani and several unsolved murders here on earth. But more than that, this monster had killed Frank McCoy's father. Soames could not forgive herself for allowing that. Watson had told her that there was nothing she could have done. Still, she had a rough time looking at Frank and wondering if he didn't blame her in some part of his mind.

"You're a killer!" she continued. "You can't run around and judge who should live and die. That isn't how we operate here Reed. Humans are free and free to make decisions, even bad ones. They will pay the consequences but you have no business doing that."

She heard a chuckle from Reed. "Very well, I'm standing up dear Erica." She peered over one of the gray metal containers to see Reed rising to his feet. His helmet was open and he was holding a metal cylinder. His shark like grin was in evidence. "If I release the handle of this container it will release a corrosive gas. It will eat through your suits—and your flesh."

Erica stood up and leveled her pistol at him. She cautiously opened the visor of her space helmet. "Maybe I'll take that risk," she told him. Her tone was angry and defiant.

"You may decide for yourself but you won't for the Reman," he retorted. Catères was indeed standing behind and off to Soames' right side. "What about that perfectly delicious lecture you just gave me about murder?"

Before she could answer Reed went down in a blur of motion. Soames bounded up and over a container. She saw that two people were on the deck. One was Reed and for just an instance she thought that the other was Watson. She soon saw that it was not. This other person was wearing a civilian dockworker's suit. The mystery person hammered at Reed's helmet with a heavy spanner. Reed flung his attacker off. Soames recognized Micah Brack.

"Ah, Inspector Abberline," Reed said as he rolled to his knees and faced his opponent. "It has been several hundred years and you should be dead." Reed was minus the cylinder that now rested in Micah Brack's gloved hand.

"As should you," Brack answered.

"How did you--,"

"Thank Frank admiral," he told her. "I shadowed your freighter in a company shuttle."

"He cannot be here!" Catères exclaimed.

"I think that I've met Reed before ma'am," Brack said. The man looked at Dominique. "I know what I'm dealing with here."

Reed stood up and smiled broadly. "Inspector Abberline was hot on my trail at White Chapel!"

"I always suspected that there was more to you," Brack told Reed. "I hadn't thought about it until I read about some of the serial killings a hundred years later."

"Well, you were dealing with an extraordinary predator." Reed was obviously pleased with himself as he spoke. Soames saw a strange expression on his face. She snapped her visor closed and started to shout a warning when Catères let out an inhuman scream and then dropped like a lifeless sack.

The vault lights flickered out. The corridor outside was still illuminated. Soames heard a grunt over her earpieces and saw muzzle flashes coming from Reed's direction. She saw Brack silhouetted as he turned onto Reed. She shouted a warning. Brack dived out of the way and rolled over to where Catères' crumpled form lay.

"Get her out of here!" Soames commanded.

"Since I am going to die it seems better to take you all with me," she heard Reed's voice inform them. "This storage module is about to blow itself to bits admiral."

Soames doubted that but knew that she had to act. She suspected that Reed had other plans. She snapped an order to Brack who said that he was out of the chamber. Erica saw sparks erupt as Reed fired at her. She saw Brack pulling the unconscious alien into the light. She snaked along behind the containers, stopping only to fire and distract Reed. Soames emptied her Webley and made a lunge for the outside. The hatch slid shut. Erica came up hard against gray metal. The lights came up.

Soames spun around, only to find that she was staring into the muzzle of Reed's hand pistol. His visor was open. He motioned for her to do the same. Erica reluctantly did as he indicated. He made a slashing motion. Soames recognized it as the gesture for cutting communications. His expression grew hard. She shut off her suit comm system.

"That's better love," Reed said. "Now we can be alone. It was touch and go there but everything is exactly where I wanted it."

"Is this more games Reed?" she asked. She could believe that he was a psychopathic killer. She still harbored a doubt about the alien part.

"Life is a series of games," he said. "I've lived a long one and I've always won. I was a trifle surprised to see Inspector Abberline show up. But you humans are all too predictable."

"What is it that you want?" she asked. "You know that Frank McCoy will nuke this module if we don't come out. You can't win here."

"You're wrong my dear," he answered; "and what I want is you." She stared aghast at him.

"Listen, we don't have much time. The cylinder was a decoy. Its only purpose was to engage a device called a scrambler. The Reman will be temporarily out of our little game. I have hunted her kind and know the geography of their minds; which is fortunate for us. But the corrosive gas is real and it is set to be released in this vault. You may be prepared to die but are you prepared to kill the policeman and the Reman and Commodore Stiles?" He held up a hand.

"I promise you Erica that I'll depart earth. It is becoming too dangerous here for me and Watson will be on the lookout. You seem quick to want to sacrifice yourself. Are the deaths of all of those on Mars still on your mind?"

It was a stab like one into her heart. She looked away from him. Antonov and Frank McCoy's father; all of them haunted her nights. There seemed little that she could do about it. Time had blunted the edge of the pain but had not taken it away. He smiled at her and that felt worse.

"Listen to me. I'm offering you a way allow everyone to live and for me to leave. I'm offering you an end to pain my dear." She looked up at him as the horrifying realization of what he was saying descended upon her.

"Catères will find out!" she exclaimed. His smile faded to an almost kindly grin. The major shook his head.

"If we possess a being unwillingly then that is true. If the individual accepts us, invites us in, then we can submerge ourselves and stay concealed. No one need die here Erica. Reed is already gone. Accept me into you and everyone goes home and I leave."

"You mean…you mean we leave," she said. A dreadful feeling overcame her. Soames felt as if she was a prisoner being condemned. There was nothing that she could do.

Soames recalled a presentation on the survivors of Antonov City. She remembered a young girl, horribly burned and reduced to being on life support for the rest of her life. Erica had done that. She had saved the shipyard, but the cost had been high. Soames had done the unthinkable after seeing that and had seriously considered jamming the Webley into her mouth. Frank, the policeman Watson, Arnie Griffin, Kanya Nayyar, they had all said that she had helped to save earth and perhaps this federation that Thorpe wanted. Perhaps she had but in doing so she had not saved herself.

"You won't feel anything Erica," Reed said. His tone was almost that of a gentle lover. She watched him look at his wrist chronometer. "The gas is set to release in five minutes." He unbuckled his gauntlet and removed it. Reed followed with his inner glove. He held out his bare hand to her. "I'll leave this system and promise never to return. The hunting here has dried up. Save your friends and end your pain Erica."

Tears welled up in her eyes. She nodded. He reached out and touched her face. Reed's hand was warm in the vault's cold. Erica closed her eyes.


	45. Chapter 45

Fred looked with concern at Catères

Fred looked with concern at Catères. He put a supporting arm behind her as she set up on one arm. The Reman looked around at each of them as her eyes seemed to clear. She looked up at him and gave him a very human nod.

"I am…better," she said. Dominique started up.

"Take it easy, partner," Watson cautioned. She reassured him that she was okay. He asked her what happened.

"I don't know," Catères answered. "I felt a sudden sharp pain in my head and then…then it felt as if I lost control and then I remember looking up and seeing all of you."

Watson looked around at Micah Brack and Commodore Stiles. He had heard stories about the legendary billionaire. He wasn't surprised to see him here. Right now Fred wouldn't be surprised if President Thorpe showed up with the Romulan praetor, so fouled was this situation with conflicting loyalties. He looked back down at Dom.

"How is your…radar?" he asked her.

Rather than reply verbally she looked at each of them in turn. She froze when she got to Brack. Watson leveled his rifle at him until Catères reached up and told him it was alright. Dom continued looking at the industrialist.

"How…," she left the question open.

Brack hung his head. "I wish that I knew."

"What are you two…?" Watson asked. He was confused and didn't like that.

Catères looked away from Brack. "It is nothing Fred. Mister Brack is himself as is the commodore."

"Who are you?" Stiles asked. Her voice held suspicion and surprisingly to Watson, authority; especially for one so young. He guessed that her nickname "Iron Maiden" was well earned.

"She's…gifted," Watson supplied. "Reed is not who…or what you think he is. I told you that he committed murders. You would find the rest hard to accept." He told Stiles about the geneticist who had been tortured and then gutted.

"You can prove that?" she asked him.

"Reed started his killing on Alpha Eridani," Watson told her. "I can offer you evidence."

"So you are just going to execute him?" Stiles asked. "I would have figured a law officer would be above that."

"I told you that there is more to Reed," Watson answered. He was frustrated but also understood that this Stiles was privy to only a small part of what was going on. He jumped as Catères tensed and pulled out her sidearm.

Watson spun on his knee and leveled his needler at the vault's hatch. Admiral Erica Soames stood in the doorway. Her pistol was at her side. Her helmet was off revealing her lank, greasy mop of hair. Fred reflected that spacesuits didn't exactly accommodate a person's vanity. Soames mopped at her face. The silence penetrated through the vault. Fred turned to see Dominique looking hard at the admiral.

"Nothing," Catères said at last.

"Reed…the _drak'ha_ is dead," Soames announced. "The body is in there. You better examine it Miss Catères." Fred looked at the admiral, still unsure of her. Soames seemed to sense that for she handed her pistol, butt end first, to him.

Dominique scrambled to her feet and went into the vault. Brack followed her cautiously. Fred wanted to make sure that he asked the Reman what she had read in the billionaire. Watson stood back and listened while Soames told them of the final battle with Reed and how he had received a bullet in his brain. Catères emerged several minutes later with Brack.

"It is done," she announced.

"What is a…a _drak'ha_?" Stiles asked.

Stiles backed the shuttle out slowly. She thought of the vault and all that was in there. She remembered Reed's words to her. They had seemed pointless to Jocelyn until she had discovered a hastily written paper note balled up like garbage on the shuttle's deck. Stiles was sure that Reed had left nothing like that. Jocelyn maneuvered the shuttle while acquiring the Ptolemy on radar. Soames had discovered the old module's station keeping thrusters.

They had decided not to blow up the familiar comet. Soames had devised a plan where the module would be kicked out of the comet's tail and then safely destroyed several hundred kilometers away. Stiles wondered if Reed and the admiral hadn't had a secret arrangement. Her knowledge of navigation told her that Soames was taking up an odd angle to fire from. Stiles supposed that could be accounted for as a way to protect the freighter's occupants.

Jocelyn waited. She rotated the shuttle so that she could see the blast. The sight of the comet was momentarily replaced by a small sun. Stiles knew that the sensor net would be turned this way very soon. She accelerated at a rate that overcame the gravity web and pushed her hard back into her seat. She cut the impulse drive as she passed back through the tail of the ancient comet. The forward view pane changed to black space with cold hard points of light as she left the tail. Stiles gunned the impulse drive and made for the military training routes.

Local control was soon scanning her and verifying her route. She flipped on her comm and told the controller that she had scanned something strange. Stiles gave a location that would leave any prying eyes with nothing to see. She returned to her original course and grabbed a sandwich. Mars was almost twenty hours away. She had orders to return to command. Beagle was docked, repaired, rearmed and waiting. Stiles thought about what was next as she examined a holo that the Sinjan's camera had recorded as she had flown through the tail of the comet. The booster module was tucked neatly behind the comet where it had been.

Erica stepped out of the boat. The warm sea breeze blew through her hair. She looked toward the shore at Griffin's villa. It would be her new home. The water went past her ankles and soaked the bottom of her dress. It was warm. She waved to the taxi driver and threw her bag over her shoulder. He started his engine and turned the boat away. Soames walked onto the beach carrying her sandals in her hands.

Erica did not miss her uniform. The war was over. The federation had come about despite the knowledge of the Vulcan Romulan connection. Star Fleet Security augmented by Vulcan troops was on Romulus. It was no longer her time. Commander Frank McCoy was running intelligence. She had been pleased when the president had made Frank's rank permanent. He had the morals and good sense that the new Star Fleet needed. He would be busy with his new daughter, but still able to lead Star Fleet Security, she thought.

Soames had bid Frank and Kanya goodbye at their New Jersey home. They had moved there after the death of Carlson. The late professor had willed the augment his possessions. At least the old man had lived to see the birth of Julianne McCoy. Erica smiled. She was retired and she was home. Arnie stepped out onto his veranda and waved. She smiled and waved back. Soames tried to recall their net conversation from last night. She seemed to be forgetting a lot lately.

"You seem to be able to move about without being seem Mister Brack," Admiral Erica Soames told Micah Brack

"Let me guess, debonair playboy by day, spy by night," Fred Watson said to him.

"Let's just say that I'm a concerned citizen and let it go at that," Brack told him. Frank McCoy had told him that the agent could be trusted. He would have had more doubt about that except that his thoughts went back to the major.

Abberline was not a name that he had heard in quite some time. He had reflected on the Ripper several times during his long life. Brack had seen his share of murderous rampages before then. He had seen many after that. Even with the knowledge that he had accumulated over the ages he had sometimes wondered if there wasn't something to the ancient beliefs of demon possession. As Frederic Abberline he had seen his share of killings but nothing with the premeditation of Jack the Ripper. Jack had wanted to terrorize.

Now Brack finally understood why. The immortal had seen men do evil but these types of murders had always impressed him as something even darker. Inspector Abberline might have understood that something deeper was involved. That it was possession by an alien energy being was something he could not then have comprehended. He still found it hard to believe even now.

"Funny how you stayed hidden on this barge." Watson remarked. Micah could hear the suspicion. He had been on both sides of the law during his several thousand year long lifetime. "Or do you have a big 'S' on your chest and you just flew alongside?"

"I added his weight into the basic weight Fred," McCoy interjected. "That's why the admiral never even knew." McCoy turned in his seat and faced them. "I'm sorry. When I realized that there might be a showdown with this thing I told Brack about it. I figured that he had some kind of mental resistance. What do you mean a big 'S'?"

"From the twentieth, Frank," Brack explained, "a superhero, red cape, and tights?"

"Oh yeah," Frank said as he snapped his fingers. "The guy who used to crawl up walls like a spider; I seen a restored holovid of him."

He watched Watson shake his head and chuckle. Brack was pleased with the diversion. "It's all the same I guess," the detective said. He turned and looked at him. "I'll give you the same warning then: stop monkeying around with things! It took awhile and the help of some alien thing—sorry Dom; present company excepted, to catch you guys. But it won't take me long at all if you start up again."

Watson looked ahead to where Soames was programming in a course change and speaking to system traffic control. She finished and turned her seat to face Watson. Frank had told him about the Reman agent named Catères. She had given Soames and all of them a second going over. None of them were carriers. Still, Micah wondered about her last minutes with the _drak'ha_.

"I've had enough," Soames declared in a weak tone. "I wrestled a long time before I decided to do this. I'm sorry Frank, for involving you. The vault's gone, the thing in Reed is dead and The Sons' of Terra are on their way to extinction. I'm done."

"Agreed," Brack added.

The Katra of Mistral was returned to its rightful place. The Romulans on earth had been beaten. Micah realized that there could be sleeper cells but then again their space forces were being beaten back. He suspected that the Romulans had their hands full. Earth, Tellar and Andor's civilian security agencies all seemed to finally have a grip on internal security. Brack smiled as he thought of how Christophur Thorpe had compelled them all to act, but only with the maximum respect given to citizens' rights. When they had been ready to bow to fear Thorpe had made them stand against that. Brack knew that it was all too easy for leaders to succumb to the base elements in their societies.

"Can we at least get to together and barbecue sometime?" McCoy asked jokingly.

Brack looked around at all of them. He had lived this too many times. He knew, or sensed that these wayward companions would never see one another like this again. He read in each face that they were coming to the same conclusion. There was a long minute of silence.

"There's still a war to win," Soames stated. "We all have some work to do."

The third planet of the Zeta Reticuli system, Nov 2158

"Well you are British enough to be Allan Quatermain," Omar Bashir persisted. Captain Michael Cromwell sighed as he readied himself for another round of digs from the civilian. It didn't help when his staff played along with the doctor. But they were all paired off into separate groups.

"I've never shot an animal in my life," Cromwell said. That was strictly speaking not true. His father had taken him coney hunting. Neither Cromwell really liked the gamey meat. Michael had suspected that the main purpose of the hunting trip was an introduction to a celebration of manhood for him and an escape for his father from his mother's numerous chores.

"It's all in the mystique captain," Bashir said.

"You must have read a number of Haggard's book at any rate," Cromwell said. Bashir had adapted surprisingly well to ZR III's arboreal equatorial belt.

"I like the finer things captain but I've always fancied myself an outdoorsman." Bashir pushed a large leafy plant out of his path. A large multi legged furry creature scampered away from the base of a tree that they were walking past. They had learned that the little creatures were harmless, or at least not aggressive.

"It's a good thing but we should be nearing the city," Cromwell said.

The shuttle trip and subsequent insertion had taken almost a week. None of the shore party was looking forward to another week's passage in the shuttle's cramped quarters. They would have to do so Cromwell thought. He did not know what if anything they could accomplish here. But he had already discovered that the Romulans had three taskforces tied up here. He wondered why as the Reticulans that they had met didn't seem capable of mounting a ship to ship attack.

They had coasted in unpowered save for their suit mounted environmental systems. A series of meteor storms similar to earth's Leonids and a highly energized ozone layer had granted the shuttle some cover. Cromwell was still worried about their departure. They would need power to climb out of orbit. He hoped that his plan for escape would work.

"I'm rather surprised that we haven't seen any locals in the countryside," Bashir commented.

"The Birds probably gathered the conquered ZR's into the cities," Cromwell said. "It seems like a common practice, at least among our human tyrants. They can dictate the captive population's food and fuel supplies. When one is scrambling to eat and stay warm it is hard to speak of mounting a resistance."

Cromwell motioned for Bashir to seek cover. He had only just heard the roar of the aircraft. Michael threw himself down into the undergrowth. Off in the unnaturally blue sky two fast moving jet aircraft were make a low level pass. They dropped several small canisters that burst into white hot fore just before touching the ground. The jets performed a leisurely turn and passed nearly overhead Cromwell. He just made out the great raptors painted on the lower fuselages.

"I thought that you said that there weren't any native buildings out here," Bashir hissed.

"We did a good holo pass," Cromwell said. "In fact, the areas around the cities are remarkably clear of housing. There is nothing there—that we can see. Perhaps the natives have formed a resistance." He brought up his rifle when he heard a snap of a twig. Marcel Dieulafoy blundered into a path along with Mariel Picard. He admonished them both to get under cover. He waited several minutes and then crawled over to where Dieulafoy lay beneath a large shrub.

"You two had the high ground," Cromwell whispered. "Did you see what the Birds were bombing?"

"It was quite odd captain," Dieulafoy answered. "There are the remains of a road, perhaps vehicular. Neither I nor Mariel saw anything except for that. Could they have been practicing sir?"

"I suppose that that is one hypothesis," Cromwell said.

Doctor Trudy Schultheiss caught up to them. Cromwell had been against her acting as rear guard but she had served some time in the Marine component of the European Hegemony. She had wanted to do that. She knelt beside the small group. Cromwell told her about the strafing run.

"Yah, I saw that too," she remarked. Schultheiss shook her head. "If they are using that as a range then it is their first time. Either that or they don't bomb that often. It looked like they were using a phosphorous compound. That usually kills the flora for several months."

"Well, we are near the outskirts of the city," Cromwell remarked.

Indeed, the points of tall metallic spires, the first sign of the alien city, were just becoming visible on the horizon. Cromwell had been momentarily surprised that there was anything left. Then it had occurred to him that the natives had probably surrendered rather than be annihilated. He decided to stay put just in case the Romulan aircraft were looking for them. Cromwell guided them into a heavily wooded depression near a stream. They waited half an hour before proceeding.

"This water is mildly contaminated with industrial byproducts Herr Kapitan," Schultheiss told him. She had used the short stay to test the water. She discarded the contents of the test tube and reassembled her kit.

"We'll follow the stream," Cromwell announced. He studied an electronic map. "Your findings make sense doctor, as it leads into what looks like an industrial section of the city. I had hoped to enter near the more populated areas but this will do."

"I'm glad that you agree," Trudy said with a smile on her lips. "Wouldn't it be better to have went this way all along?"

They had started the final trek into the city. "I also saw visual evidence of something different there. The Zeta Reticuli aliens have a certain architecture and design. This appears different."

Cromwell hadn't gotten to brief them on everything. Dieulafoy had reviewed the charts and had agreed with Cromwell. They had both felt that the Romulans had a base in that sector of the city. He explained his findings to the rest of the shore party.

"We'll follow this into the eastern edge and then turn north," Cromwell said.

This world seemed peaceful. He almost said bucolic but he remembered academy lectures about early explorers who had thought that bout new worlds. The deadly Denevian tumbleslug had taken its first human casualty because an ensign had thought that the creature was cute. Cromwell was cautious about where he put his hands and where he stepped. They walked for almost two hours. It was hot and stuffy and Cromwell was sweating. A brief rain shower did not cool them and when the heat and humidity returned, it was with a vengeance. Cromwell held up a hand and stopped.

He heard rather than saw the heavy ground assault vehicle. It roared past the stand of trees where the shore party lay in concealment. Michael peeked out and spied a vehicle built of the same greenish hued metal as were Romulan warships. Several Romulan troops walked behind the massive, turreted vehicle. Rather than the golden helmets that they had seen on bodies from the cruiser Tan'geira these Romulans' helmets were covered in camouflaged netting concealing a dun coloring beneath.

Cromwell watched through binoculars as the soldiers spread out. He jumped as the vehicle's gun opened fire. The weapon sounded like some massive zipper being opened. The soldiers fired a combination of laser rifles and machine guns. Michael's initial fear turned to confusion. The Romulans were blazing away at a bare patch of ground. Several of the troops were weaving and firing as they went. One of them jerked as if he were hit. That caused the rest of them to plunge to the ground as if someone was firing at them. The vehicle's weapon turned the ground into a cloud of flying debris. The firing slowed and then stopped.

The vehicle commander rose out of the top turret and shouted orders. This was the first time that Cromwell had heard the Romulan tongue. It seemed smooth and somewhat relaxing. Michael found it hard to believe that its speakers were so warlike. The dust cleared and the soldiers converged upon the area where they had been shooting. They seemed to be looking at things on the ground. All Cromwell saw was blasted dirt. The Romulans gathered their fallen and slowly turned away and started an ordered march back from whence they had come. The humans waited in silence.

"Bombing no visible targets and now this," Cromwell said. Cromwell remembered his vision that the Zeta Reticuli aliens had bestowed onto him. He looked at Trudy and guessed that she was thinking the same thing.

"You are quite right captain," a strange voice announced. Cromwell spun around and unslung his rifle.

A single gray skinned alien stood before him. How the alien had arrived without being heard he did not know. The creature's large, black unblinking eyes lent a sinister quality to the creature. Cromwell wondered if the gray was indeed really there.

"I am here physically," the creature responded. The lack of a mouth on the alien made the whole thing more surreal. No wonder the grays had so frightened early man.

"We did not mean to frighten," the alien said, or rather thought. Cromwell wondered how the alien could deal with the flood of his thoughts. He felt an emotion that seemed close to humor.

"The Romulans," Bashir began. "They are fighting an insurgency that exists only in their minds."

"You are correct," the gray answered. "We have gone through your minds. We know that you encountered some of our race. We know that you too are at war with the Romulans."

Somehow Michael concluded that the gray alien's attention was turned upon him. "We could not oppose the Romulans because we could not counter their missile technology. They have subjugated a race called Remans. Some of those possess the mental prowess to defeat us. We have not fought a war in many of our lifetimes. We were unprepared for the Romulans. Had they not conquered us they would have bombed us from a distance away."

"Surely you knew that they were out there?" Cromwell asked.

"We studied them as we studied your race captain," the alien told them. "The last expedition to their system showed them to be in a period of consolidation. Their citizens were afforded many freedoms. Our scientists conjectured that they would grow past their aggressions. They were wrong." Once again Cromwell sensed humor and also a touch of sadness. "Our explorers also conjectured that humans would destroy themselves."

"A few more bombs and that would have been true," Picard said. "What is really going on here?"

"Our few surviving ships are spiriting the survivors away," the gray answered. "We were several billion when the Romulans came. It will take time for all to escape."

"This is your world," Cromwell said. He was angry at what he had heard or had thought at him. "Will you, capitulate world after world? You will be forever on the run."

"Soon we will be more," the gray answered. "This ephemeral existence means little to us. Some of my race can now journey across the universe with only their minds."

"But not all," Bashir said.

"Very astute doctor," the alien thought. "We are maintaining the illusion that the Romulans want to see. That saves those who have not progressed yet. Their aggression against your races has been a fortuitous circumstance for us. Our refugee ships have managed to slip by the Reman monitors and they have rescued almost a million of us. Before they engaged your forces they had three times as many ships with their Reman observers posted here."

"We had hoped to help you further," Cromwell said.

"And help your own cause as well, captain," the gray responded. Cromwell had hoped to do that but he would stand firm on ensuring that the ZR's safety. A sound or word popped into his mind. Michael realized that it was the alien's name for themselves.

"The Romulans won't expend anymore assets on this world," the gray explained, "unless there is a reason." Several more of the gray aliens entered the clearing.

The leader gray must have sensed Cromwell's concern. "We are safe here. Bentanex is the commander of the cohort that you just seen. As far as he is concerned his soldiers just ambushed one of our resistance cells."

"What of…what of their dead?" Picard asked.

"We study them and find those who have physical defects," the gray leader said. "One of those who died would soon have been dead from excessive alcohol consumption. The other one had a minor flaw in a blood vessel in his brain. He would probably have ceased unless he was near immediate medical help."

"You are caught in a lie," Cromwell said. He had thought of the whole scenario and some possible outcomes.

"We have maintained this pretense only through the most extraordinary of circumstances," the gray replied. "Once our world was occupied it quickly became an assignment for Romulan soldiers that had fallen out of favor. When their leader turned upon your races this quickly became a campaign that they wanted to forget. We could craft battles in their minds but once they returned to Romulus they communicated among themselves, discovered inconsistencies."

"How can we help?" Cromwell asked.

"We wish to spirit the weakest off world," the gray said. "We have a large fleet of what is left of our ships standing by to take on those individuals. It will not be many. Those who dwell on numbers reckon that it may be two of your centuries before all of us can be saved. The stronger will stay here. Some of us need technology to create the illusions and we have that here."

"Do you have enough left to engage their taskforces?" Cromwell asked. Rather than a reply he saw their force dispositions in his mind. Their ships, he figured were perhaps a generation ahead of those of men. He gasped as the gray projected specific details about their ships into his mind.

Rather than matter anti matter, the grays had developed a way to use an artificial quantum singularity. The power source was a recent development for the aliens. Cromwell was rather surprised that their maximum speed was only warp seven. The grays had reached the crossroad that man had faced. At that time they had had no enemies. Their ships therefore were lightly armed. The grays had designed their ships with exploration and trade in mind.

"We wish to use most of our ships for the rescue," the alien explained. "The Romulans have discovered a stellar phenomena." Cromwell saw a great passage that wound through space. "We shall use that to migrate to a faraway part of the galaxy. It will close very soon leaving the Romulans—or your races no chance to find us. Our race will then ascend."

"I can read that you wish us to stay and battle the Romulans," the alien thought at them. "Our race is older than yours. We are tired and ready for that which awaits us. We desire that you divert the Romulans long enough to save those who can't save themselves. When that is complete the Romulans will be shown a vision of us gradually beaten into submission. If your people defeat the Romulans as seems certain then perhaps we can accelerate our diaspora."

"What do you mean?" Both Cromwell and Dieulafoy asked almost simultaneously. If they knew anything about Romulan weaknesses then Cromwell wanted to hear it.

"It is a feeling in the minds of their legionnaires," the gray explained. "Their forces are ill supplied and demoralized. Bentanex has just received orders extending his tour here. His admiral has had to cannibalize two supply ships in order to maintain his warships."

"What can we do to help you?" Cromwell asked again.

"We know the ships that the Remans are on," the gray answered. "Follow us and we will lead you to a safe place where you may rest and take nourishment." Cromwell nodded at the rest of the shore party. They let the gray aliens lead them.

Cromwell had a vision of three Romulan ships. They were positioned in orbit of the planet. He also guessed what the grays had in mind. Michael wondered if that was his thought or the gray's. The alien told him that it was not his mental intrusion. The humans soon found themselves at a one story, round stone and metal building. It looked more like a work of art than a dwelling. They entered. Michael found it interior cool and inviting.

"You want us to attack those ships so that your forces can sneak by," Cromwell said.

"We are only outnumbered thirty-to-one," Schultheiss mumbled. "Sir, remember why we are in this section of space."

"We are on a secret scouting mission," Cromwell told the gray.

The aliens made them comfortable in what Michael could only describe as beanbag chairs. The grays scurried about. They put laid unidentifiable blue wedges before each of them. The lead gray, who Cromwell kept an eye on since they looked practically the same, assured the humans that the blue wedges were safe for human consumption.

"We know of your mission," the gray said. "I apologize to all of you: it is more expeditious for us to read your thoughts. We know how you cherish privacy. Your ship is unknown to the Romulans." Cromwell looked at Trudy as she uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

"Weisswurst und pretzels!" she exclaimed. Cromwell knew that it was a guilty pleasure for her.

He took a cautious bite of a wedge. "Bloody hell," he mumbled around the food. "Fish and chips!"

There were similar exclamations from the rest of the humans while their host explained that the taste was whatever they desired it to be. Cromwell soon got past the appearance and ate with relish. Their rations had lost their taste three days ago.

"Your ship is unknown to the Romulans," the gray thought at them as they ate. "The use of nacelles to house space distortion field generators is a common practice. We have not warred in many generations but I conjecture that an unknown ship attacking the Romulans might prove to be a valuable distraction for your forces." The gray seemed to focus on Michael. "We are adept at a technology that involves holographic generation. I can give you coordinates where you can rendezvous with one of our ships. The Romulans need not know that it is your ship attacking them."

"Holographics, eh?" He spoke softly. He sensed that they would not be able to keep the technology. The gray confirmed that. "We came through a subspace eddy. Do your people have enough knowledge of those to say how long it will last?"

The gray looked at him. The entire time its expression had remained the same. For a few seconds Cromwell thought that he was looking at a frightful manikin. When the lead alien seemed to once again acknowledge him Cromwell sensed that the creature had been in communication with another.

"We shall transmit to you exact data," the gray said. "But in short: the subspace distortion will collapse in six of your months."

Michael nodded. Perhaps Daedelus should not be disguised. He mulled over some plans in his mind. The gray told them of several gravimetric folds that they could use to mask their approach.

President Thorpe and Admiral Forrest had talked of delivering a death blow to the Romulans. Cromwell had a good idea of the disposition of their forces. He held his hope in check. If they lived to get that information to the Star Fleet then the war in space had an ending. How long an invasion and occupation of Romulus would take he could not say.

Romulan cruiser Riitraxa, entering the Romulan system, the fifteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of beginning

Admiral Valdore listened to the off duty crew's cheers. They were in the exercise facility watching a repeat of the presentation of the Battle of K'arnirtha. Valdore had taken up station in what had been the Tal Shiar officer's observation node. Commander Festenza had hidden in the atmosphere of the gas giant as they had discussed. It had been a dangerous ploy and could only have been done in a system like K'arnirtha. Other systems might have such a planetary alignment but Valdore doubted that any Triple Alliance commander would step into a trap like that.

He sensed the presence of another in the chamber. "A great victory for us Vrax," he said without turning to face the senator. Unfortunate accidents had befallen the Tal Shiar operatives on Riitraxa. This space was no longer used to conduct surveillance on the crew. Only he and the senator had access. It had become a place for Valdore to go and think.

"The ships that we lost cannot now be replaced," Vrax replied.

"It is my role to be the pessimist Vrax," Valdore swiveled his seat around and looked at the senator. "You are, of course correct. I was thinking of the moral victory for our soldiers. They have seen too many defeats lately. I must act to reverse this situation soon."

"There is news about that," Vrax said. "The Imperial Network is unresponsive. I got a secure frequency with my office. The praetor has not made a new broadcast in many dawnings. Yet there has been no move from the Tal Shiar. Could the human and the Vulcan have succeeded?"

Valdore punched some studs opening a channel to the command center. "Centurion Baraza make an inquiry of dock spaces and any future openings. I will be on channel three when you are complete." Valdore punched another stud closing the communication.

"I have ordered the battle replayed. It helps that Uhlan Galen is handy with animation. He has improvised where the recording equipment could not see." Valdore changed to the cruiser's external viewing equipment. Riitraxa was in normal space, passing by the dark curve of Remus. "It is better that they see that instead of the view outside."

The light of Romulus' star reflected off of a wide field of expanding debris. None of it was recognizable as their once proud main shipyard. The Imperial Budgetary Committee had balked at the idea of building another yard. Their reasoning had been that no power was great enough to attack the empire. The Triple Alliance had showed them how wrong they had been in an instant. Valdore watched as a few scavenger ships gathered up pieces of wreckage. It would be a tenturn before a ship building facility such as what was could be built. Riitraxa glided silently past one such scavenger: its mechanical claws full of a burned section of hull.

Valdore switched back to the Battle of K'arnirtha. He watched once again as one of the enemy's monstrous Conqueror class battleships had its bow cleanly shot off. It had been too bad that Festenza had been unable to deal the behemoth a death blow. Valdore knew in the larger scheme of things that it wouldn't have mattered: the alliance had plenty of those ships. But it would have boosted morale even more. Too many legions reported encountering the new battleships only to fall silent.

"I had planned to move quickly once we arrived but now we must be cautious," he told Vrax.

"Both our plans and those of Vrinak would only work so long as there was a living praetor," Vrax said. "What if Praetor Karzan went beyond? Not as a result of any plots but answering the call of his spirit?"

"Then perhaps my only recourse is a conciliation with Vrinak. Let him have the power that he craves in return for releasing the legions over Venador to me." Valdore hated his next words. "I would lend him my support so that the empire might be victorious."

"All attempts to contact Vrinak have failed," Vrax said. "That is the second thing that is puzzling. Tal Shiar activity is at a standstill. Random arrests have nearly stopped. Rumor has it that several citizens have banded together to seek retribution against certain Tal Shiar operatives. Three segment controllers and several monitors were caught and burned alive. There has been no official reply. It is as if our government is crippled."

"That cannot be permitted," Valdore said. The ancient punishment of burning might have been warranted but order was the way of Romulan society. He applied his military training to the situation. If the praetor died, under normal circumstances the senate would appoint a successor from the House of Regents: those who could claim at least a minor blood relation to Careaza or his brother. Valdore knew how tenuous that claim was in these times. Romulan blood was diluted and he guessed that no regent could claim more than two percent direct ancestry.

All of that was before the dawnings of the Tal Shiar and Vrinak's power. He understood the obvious paralysis that was coming from the senate. Fear of Vrinak probably stopped any official line of questioning. But why, he wondered, had Vrinak not acted? Surely the Tal Shiar director knew of Karzan's condition and had prepared for his passing. Something was missing Valdore knew. Some vital piece of information was absent. That left him, for once, indecisive about his course.

He could not just proclaim martial law without a reason. That could well be the trap laid by Vrinak to get rid of him. But he also knew that this paralysis and growing civil disorder had to stop. The Triple Alliance would not stop to wait for them to get their house in order. Valdore made a decision.

"Has anyone in the senate petitioned the praetor?" he asked Vrax.

"Alvega Gesaam recently issued a petition," Vrax replied. "He has self interests but he is a patriot. There has been no answer in two dawnings. There is no reason for the praetor, if he lives, to heed the request of one senator. I have contacted Gesaam and indicated my support. That should attract more signers to a petition and force an answer of some kind." He saw Vrax's look of consternation. "I am sorry if I sidestepped your authority Valdore--"

"No worries old friend," Valdore interrupted. "I would have asked you to do so anyway. You took the initiative. Add my hand to the petition." Valdore rose from the comfortable seat. "Inform the senate of my return and request that they issue an order putting the legions at Venador under my command. They have the power until and unless they appoint a new leader. If Vrinak is alive let him come forth, and spring his trap."

The commutation channel buzzed annoyingly. Valdore selected channel three and answered. "Admiral," Centurion Baraza began, "the information that you requested is available. I have sent it to your information bank."

"Very good," Valdore replied. He switched over and brought up the data that Baraza had obtained. "Make preparations for orbit but prepare to bend space as soon as possible. I must, unfortunately cancel morale time. I suspect that either we will be leaving or else I shall be dead."

"I shall do as you bid admiral," Baraza told him. Valdore ended the communication. He scrolled through numbers and port entry times. The System Control Bureau kept tight control of the ships that entered the Romulan system.

"There," Valdore proclaimed. "A section is cleared for several dawnings from now. Someone of high rank is arriving."

"Sinphius?" Vrax asked.

"It has to be," Valdore replied. "The mystery deepens. We must find out what has happened on our world and act on it."

The victory that they had just achieved and the release of the legions to him could provide the impetus that the empire needed to win. Valdore knew that the alliance worlds were each dipping deep into their capital. If he could destroy the new Star Fleet's shipyard at Utopia Planitia thus striking a blow at the humans, then perhaps he could stop their advance. Valdore knew that they had underestimated the humans. That they would become the primary movers behind a galactic empire had come as a surprise to him. He would not be surprised anymore.

The Jeweled Forest of Ath'reshaar, Romulus, the earth winter of 2158

Tarang Gupta floated comfortably in the volcanically heated water. Praetor Karzan seemed to be better than he had been in many dawnings. The old Romulan was sitting by the hot spring and reading a book. Gupta could see the script on the book's title cover. He recognized it as the script used by the ancient Romulans while they were still locked in internecine warfare on Vulcan. There were several books like it in the library of the great estate. Karzan ceased his studies when T'Pol sat a plate of cold vegetables before him.

"Thank you Promise," the old Romulan said. He sat the book down and proceeded to eat. When T'Pol seemed about to leave him at it he stopped and bid her stay. "I have access to the classified network; what Vrinak has left of it. Still, I believe that the answers to our current dilemma lie in our past." He cast a sharp, intelligent glance at T'Pol, "and in our future."

Karzan had been a wreck for many dawnings. He had spoken to people that as far as Pakesh knew were now dead. He had started to move about, slowly and painfully at first. Sometimes he had neglected to dress. But through all of that Karzan had showed some lucidity. That clarity had improved with each dawning. The praetor, besides becoming more lucid, also seemed to have developed a paternal attachment to T'Pol, Pakesh and Tarack. Gupta knew that the praetor's sons had died many tenturns ago. Two daughters had also perished early.

Pakesh emerged from a study in the estate. The great building was in a zone that was literally forbidden. A plague had swept through the early Vulcan colonists here. This area had been sealed off. Gupta could not recall its name but he remembered an island, intentionally contaminated with anthrax by early man. That island had become forbidden for many decades after that. This stretch of forest, occupying a position in the lap of a great mountain range in the southern continent was isolated both by accessibility and fear. Deposits of metals confounded even newer types of scanning devices. It had become a secret retreat for the empire's praetors.

The estate, a great stone edifice looking like it was carved from the mountain rock was overcome by the growth of weeds, shrubs and trees. For all of that it still looked regal and commanding. Pakesh stepped carefully down the stone pathway to the edge of the hot spring. He bowed before Karzan.

"What of the past, Pakesh," Karzan asked.

"Our expedition did not discover the third family my praetor," Pakesh answered. "But I believe that they were relying on data that was derived from a different base number system. I think that I may have come up with a coordinate system and converted it."

"What of the writings?" Gupta asked. He had climbed out of the water and was toweling himself dry. The praetor encouraged them to speak their minds around him.

"I had dwelt long on those during my exile," Pakesh replied. "I believe that the first family, our true ancestors, warred among themselves. They split into two camps but decided in the end to send out seeds; their DNA. They were able to follow up their work for a short time. One group flourished. The other seemed to be failing but still showed promise. If they exist then they are probably quite primitive in their development. We are the group that flourished—on ancient Vulcan."

"And nearly destroyed ourselves," Karzan said as he closed the book. "So much hatred then, we could not unify ourselves. That was why Reunification was so important. We flourished until we battled among ourselves. We can only be great together. I allowed Vrinak to turn Reunification into a tool of politics." This last was angry and mumbled so that Tarang barely heard it.

"Vrinak is no more," Pakesh proclaimed. Gupta felt flush. He had murdered the Tal Shiar director in a fit of rage. That certainly had not been Valdore's bidding. Gupta suspected that the admiral wanted to reach an agreement with Vrinak. Romulan society was so interlaced that one group could not dominate. It was all a power play.

"You are a loyal citizen Tarack," Karzan said. "It is no small feat for me to admit that I was Vrinak's prisoner. I was ready to surrender my life before all of this. It was my dream to see Reunification but I believed that we needed another tenturn to accomplish the work that would be needed. I was content to have lived to lay the groundwork. Now our brothers will never accept us; all of that so that Vrinak could seize power. I do not see how we can salvage this situation."

Gupta saw an opening. Syrran had impressed upon him the need to conceal the identity of the Romulans. Syrran, in typical Vulcan understatement had thought that the secret would cause a great stir in Vulcan society. Tarang's experiences had convinced him that Syrran was correct. Not the least damaging was the knowledge of Careaza and Surak's shared identity. Gupta had seen enough on Vulcan and now here to convince him that that secret would soon be discovered. He had seen what the knowledge had done to T'Pol.

"It is too bad that the empire could not somehow go back in time, praetor," Gupta said. "Perhaps the fortune of war would go one way but our--" He had almost said your. "Our identity might remain secret; until our two races are ready for Reunification."

"It is possible Tarack," Karzan said. "I must face a thing that no praetor has had to face: we are losing the war, all to secure power with one group. Our forces are mighty but it appears that they were misused. The industrial reports are all bad. The bulk of the legions are stationed here and around Venador. We cannot win a war in space by remaining stationary. I recall Valdore when he was a commander. I do not understand why he is not fighting the war with vigor."

"He is not in charge praetor," Gupta said and instantly regretted it. Karzan turned sharp eyes onto him and asked him for a further explanation. He could feel a sense of warning from T'Pol.

Gupta debated what he should do. "Yes idiot, fill us in further on your knowledge of military affairs." Pakesh's voice was full of suspicion. As Tarack he had never strayed too far into politics.

Gupta took a deep breath. "Admiral Valdore sent us praetor."

He heard Pakesh's sharp intake of breath. "That explains much," the former gang leader said.

Karzan looked at the three of them. "A joker, a thief and a princess, it must have been a prank of the admiral's." His mood showed that he thought that it was anything but. "Why did he send you Tarack?"

Gupta realized that this was a time for truth. "To kill you so that he could set up a type of committee to hold power and negotiate with the Triple Alliance." Tarang waited. He knew that Pakesh could kill him. He stood his ground but made no other gestures. "He says that T'Pol is infected with a lethal virus; that she will die in less than a halfturn now. I am doing this to save her."

"Will you do as Valdore commanded?" Karzan asked him.

Pakesh pulled his dagger out from his boot. "He'll die before he has the chance my--"

Karzan held up a trembling hand. Tarang knew that it shook from age rather than fear. He looked expectantly at Gupta. Tarang looked at T'Pol. He had gone too far and wasn't sure how to proceed. Karzan repeated his question. This time it was as Praetor of the Romulan Empire and not as a doddering old Romulan.

"I won't," Gupta said at last. "I do not belive that the admiral would want that if he were here. He believes that you are nothing more than a figurehead praetor."

"Then what is your interest here if you won't do your duty for the admiral, Tarack?" Karzan was without fear whereas Gupta was scared to death.

"I want to save T'Pol, stop the war and go home praetor." Karzan made a sound that seemed like a growl. Gupta realized that he was laughing.

"You don't want much," Karzan said. "You have not told me everything Tarack. What of you Promise?"

"Tarack convinced me that it was a chance at life. I chose that over death."

"You are afraid to die?" Karzan asked.

"I was ready to do so to defeat Valdore's plans." T'Pol said. "Your forces were going to invade my world and force Reunification upon us. There is nothing noble and redeeming about that. How could Vulcan teach you anything when you reach out to us as conquerors instead of descendents of our ancestors?"

Gupta's mouth dropped open. Pakesh shared in that gesture. Karzan merely looked reflective. That shocked Gupta even more. The praetor looked at them as if he knew more about them than they did themselves. Karzan took a bite of _maq'a _root. He chewed carefully while staring at both T'Pol and Gupta.

"So Valdore did go to Vulcan." Karzan continued to eat. He turned to Pakesh. "If Tarack had meant to kill me he could have done so when he broke in my residence. Be at peace and sit down Pakesh. You are a good and faithful citizen of the empire." He turned back to T'Pol. "I met another Vulcan once: a young scholar named…V'Las. He was brought here as part of a plan to start Reunification. I wonder, what became of him?" Karzan's eyes saw things past. Gupta worried as the praetor had looked like that most of the time after they had rescued him.

"Don't worry Tarack," Karzan said to him. "I am myself. It takes everything to hold onto my faculties. I say that Promise because some of us have the mental gifts of our ancestors. I do and my parents trained me. I sensed something about you almost as soon as Vrinak's drugs wore off. A Vulcan! Our brothers of old, you are less dour than was V'Las."

"You I cannot read," Karzan told Gupta. "I know from your words and deeds that you are not one of us, although your inner being is Romulan. I sense that." Gupta was taken back by the off handed compliment; for so he perceived it as that. Karzan gestured for him to come closer. Tarang was fearful but he walked over to stand before the praetor. He wanted to flinch when Karzan reached out and touched his face. "I am acquainted with the ancient ways. Some of Careaza's soldiers learned the techniques of Surak and his followers. My mind to your mind," Karzan said softly.

Gupta could not resist. He realized that the praetor would find out everything he knew. He wondered if he would even wake up from this meld or would Pakesh's blade cut into his throat. Tarang wished that he could tell T'Pol how much he loved her. Everything was black until the light grew. He found himself dodging a viscous blow from a short sword.

"Why use a sword when you can use a gun?" he was asking an older Romulan. Gupta saw a reflection of this self, an adolescent Romulan stripped to the waist.

The older Romulan looked at him and smiled. "We train our bodies to be as sharp as our minds. They must go together Karz't." Gupta recognized the corruption of the name as a gesture of affection.

"These old ways, the things that my mother and father show me," he said as he stabbed outward with the heavy blade. "Of what use will they be?"

Calenaex dodged his pathetic stab. Somehow he knew that this had been his childhood friend and teacher. His sparring partner used his free hand to deliver a savage blow to his sword arm. Gupta started to cry out but something in him stopped that. He pirouetted out of the way and slashed at his mentor.

"One day we will meet our brothers. They are not a myth. Our explorer ships have journeyed to their system. They are experts at the mental arts." Calenaex was breathless. He had dodged the slash and deflected Gupta's blade. Tarang realized that he had lost both momentum and position.

"We too should be ready for them," Calenaex said as he tripped Gupta and followed him to the exercise mat. The blunt sword point pricked at the skin of his throat. "We must know their ways as they will come to understand our ways. Swords come in many shapes young master. Some like the one that I hold at your throat. Others can be as intangible as a thought, but just as lethal."

He found himself staring into the wizened face of Karzan. He felt the older Romulan's fatigue. Tarang also sensed that the praetor was overwhelmed by what he had discovered. He was a little taken aback when Karzan gave him a very human nod. They both looked around at Pakesh and T'Pol. Pakesh would take the nod for a tremble from Karzan.

"There will be no killing here," Karzan said. The praetor rose shakily. T'Pol went to help him. "Keep your seat Promise. I am well. I must rest." He turned to walk back to the estate. "I must rule soon. I am tired, not just from what I just did but tired to the bone. I am past my time. I created this problem. I suppose that the gods have preserved me so that I can repair the damage." He looked up at the warm sky. "Wake me early the next dawning. We must return to the capital." He walked slowly and painfully toward the estate. He stopped for a brief instant. "I will save the empire. Now I only wish that I could have lived long enough to see the _Taj Mahal_. _Jolan tru_," he said as he continued on.

"Vulcan?" Pakesh asked them as the praetor entered the main building. "And you idiot, he said that he did not sense that in you. I suppose that you are a _hewmaan _in disguise?"

Norfolk, Virginia, the old United States, earth, Nov 2158

Lieutenant Frank McCoy listened intently to the voice on the other end of his handheld. He stifled a cough as he breathed in the wind blown fumes of burnt wood and textiles. A fireman walked past him. He looked at Frank's uniform and then into his face and shook his head. McCoy winced in pain when Kanya squeezed his fingers. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Fred Watson walked up to the company with his alien partner, Dominique Catères. "The DNA snooper confirms that it is the admiral's remains. Sorry Frank." Watson reached out and squeezed McCoy's shoulder.

He nodded. "Mister President, I've just been told that it looks like…it looks…it looks like Admiral Soames died…in the fire."

Frank heard a sigh on the other end. "Continue to check everything. But in the meantime the business of military intelligence must go on. I know that you were a confidant of the admiral's. There just isn't time to school a new head of security. I understand that this is a big responsibility McCoy. I hope that the admiral is just away. In case the worst has happened though, I am hereby appointing you as head of intelligence. I'll confer with my protocol officer tomorrow to push through the necessary orders."

"Mister President I'm sure--"

"No," Thorpe interrupted him. "You are not sure and neither am I. I am, however in charge. I need my key people in their places. You may bow out McCoy but you had better train a replacement to be your equal. If you think that the Romulans are bad then you haven't seen me when I'm angry. Do we have an understanding?"

"Aye aye sir!" Frank exclaimed. He had to keep himself from coming to attention.

"I know that this is sudden. I wish to god that there was no need for it. Do you need anything?" Thorpe asked.

Frank thought quickly. "I'll need the omega-alpha-x-ray keyer to open up the admiral's restricted files sir."

"I have no idea what that is but you shall have it. There is nothing pending and you know better than me if the admiral was working anything tonight. Report as intelligence chief tomorrow morning," Thorpe continued. "I'm sorry that there won't be any time for grieving. We can do that when this is over. Good luck McCoy."

"Thank…thank you sir." Frank could hear the computer created click that signified that the connection was severed.

"What do you think happened?" Watson grabbed the passing fire chief. He was an older squat looking man who had missed shaving that day. His tanned face was covered with a thick fuzz of gray whiskers.

"We've run the remains through our scanners," the old man answered. "There was evidence of increased hydrocarbons. I'd say that the lady was three sheets to the wind for sure. Did she smoke?" Frank who knew the admiral best shook his head.

The chief absently scratched at his beard. "She was probably passed out drunk. The fire alarm couldn't wake her out of something like that. Smoke inhalation would have killed her before the body was consumed. She didn't suffer; if that is any comfort to ya." He looked at McCoy. "You musta worked with her. Anyone here her next of kin?" he asked.

"She has elderly parents in the Hegemony." Frank would have to call them. The staff duty officer at 'Frisco could do it, but he had known the admiral. "I'll notify them when things are…sure." His father had died. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause grief to an old couple.

The chief looked at Watson and Catères. "What about it agent? You checked the DNA."

"It's a ninety percent lock," Watson answered. "I'm pulling her records from the SN database to make sure and I'm sending the findings here to Mexico City."

Frank could see the fire chief's suspicion. He nodded at Watson's hand scanner. "Those things are supposed to be super effective. Seems like a lot of extra work when all the pieces are here."

"We are just being thorough," Catères chimed in. She seemed fixated on the chief.

"You are just being thorough," he repeated in a slow drone. He shook his grizzled head. "I better get back to cleaning up. Check in with me before you go?"

"Sure thing," Watson said.

Frank watched him walk away. He felt Kanya press up against him. Professor Carlson was watching David McCoy. Nayyar had wanted to be here to see this. McCoy had resisted doing that but she had won out. He looked at Watson.

"Was it her or…" he trailed off.

Watson started to speak when Catères intervened. "It is no more!" Her mood softened. "The admiral was a good woman. She was a defender of your people. I believe that she died here."

"We'll examine the rest of the scene," Watson said. "The chief didn't mention foul play but I'll have him double check. We'll talk later, huh?"

"Sure thing Fred," Frank answered. He had to notify Soames' parents, comfort Kanya and take over Star Fleet Security. The McCoy family curse at it again. The two detectives walked back toward the burned out house.

"She was pretty well busted up over Antonov City," Frank said. "I know she was hitting the bottle but I never thought…"

"I never had a mother," Kanya said. She had pulled away from him and was staring at nothing. "Erica was the closest thing. She taught me a lot about being human. I had hoped that she would be there for David."

"It's just you and me and him," Frank said. He gently took her chin in his hand. "Before we went to the vault she said that I had to make my mind up. She was talking about us. I've been an ass, with you, with Eileen. I want to not do that anymore. We've…been close. I know that isn't everything but do you think that I'm…that we…"

"You are not good with words McCoy," Nayyar said. She took his hand in hers. "The admiral told me that human relations were complicated but that I shouldn't run from one. Yes, I wish to go with you through life. She also said that I was naïve, but I believe that I wanted this from the day I met you."

"Was that before or after you tried to kill me?" he asked. Frank grinned. He recalled their meeting on Space Station One.

"It was after," she answered with total sincerity. "After all, I never saw you out of a spacesuit until then."

"Okay you can bullshit them but I know you Dom," Watson declared. He kicked at a burnt piece of slab wood. The edges were still smoldering.

"Whatever Reed used made me feel as if my mind was being torn from my body," she answered softly. "When I recovered I felt as if I was alright. Soames was clear. But now I am not sure. Perhaps in my weakened state…._Drak'ha _have no natural end to their lives, or at least we believe that they don't. Some have lived for tens of thousands of turns."

Watson was disgusted. He shook his head. "Christ on the cross! Don't tell me that--"

"It is gone," she declared. "Don't ask me how I know, but I do."

He looked at his handheld and sighed. "Just like I know that we are going to find out that this DNA belonged to Soames. It is all very convenient."

He watched as she looked up into the clear winter sky. "It is gone. If it did live then it knows that you would be on the lookout. It would move on."

"Dontcha mean we would be on the lookout?" He didn't like the way this was going.

"I promised to help you because the _drak'ha_ was my blood enemy. I've done that." They walked through the mess of Soames' front yard. Fred watched McCoy button the augment into an aircar. He wondered what kind of future the two would have. McCoy got in and the car rocketed up and away.

She uttered a very human laugh. "I am not fully human. If I stayed I would eventually be found out. The empire's spies here are no more. You should be on your guard just the same but the admiral and her people were quite effective. There is nothing here for me any longer."

He knew that it would come to this. Watson had, at the beginning hoped to see this spy and saboteur off of his world. But he had come to understand that the two had common interests and goals. She had saved his life and he hers. He had worked with a few other agents but he had not been in tune with any like he had Catères. She had his back.

"I understand." Fred did, but he still did not like it. "What are your plans?"

"I'll hop an alliance freighter to the outer sectors," she replied. "I already booked passage on a Denobulan ship. I'll leave the day after tomorrow."

He would miss her help. He would miss her. "Want to get drunk?"

"It is late," Catères answered.

"It's five o'clock somewhere in the galaxy," he said with a grin on his lips.

She smiled and offered him her arm. "You are buying the first round."

The fog had coalesced around them. Watson took her arm and turned toward where he had seen an all night pub. He smelled the sea air and started walking. Fred said a silent prayer for Erica Soames.

The Romulan Continent of Olatask, the earth winter of 2158

Tarang Gupta reclined in the auxiliary control officer's chair of the coach. The flight to the Jeweled Forest of Ath'reshaar had nearly proved fatal as none of them were any good at flying. Pakesh had considered allowing the pilots to live but had changed his mind on the way there. The luckless crew had been forced to depart the coach at an altitude of several thousand _elil'n. _Gupta had had several nightmares about that deadly flight. Somehow they had made it to the place that the praetor had wanted them to go. To his right sat Pakesh who actually had seemed to have some proficiency when it came to flying.

To Gupta's left sat Karzan. He had told them that he had been a fighter pilot in his youth. Judging from the skilled manner in which the praetor handled the air coach that must have been true. Gupta felt comfortable with the old Romulan in control; more than that he felt safe, whereas he had collapsed onto the ground in relief after their arrival at the estate. T'Pol sat behind them in an observer's position. She was scanning ahead using the coach's radar.

"There is civilian traffic ahead, praetor," she advised him.

"There is much travel to and from the capital," Karzan said. "I'll bring us in on a spiraling descent. The crews should have kept a code response program so that we can enter the airspace around the residence and land."

"I have that praetor," T'Pol said. Gupta sat back, feeling very useless while T'Pol sent the coded sequence to whoever was in control at the Inner Sanctum. Karzan had told them that Vrinak had maintained a staff that did not know what was happening inside. The praetor was counting on those Romulans still being there and having no one in command.

"Would that you two had come to Romulus as free travelers," Karzan said to him. It had been hard for him to look at the praetor after their meld. The experience was quite intimate and Gupta knew that besides knowledge of his humanity, Karzan also knew many of his deepest secrets. "My world, our great race has so much to offer. We have museums full of Romulan art from the past and present. Great wonders that even one who has seen the _Taj Mahal_ could appreciate."

"Your world is indeed awesome Praetor Karzan," Gupta told him. "We—I have come to respect your people despite…"

"As do I praetor," T'Pol said. "Reunification should take place. I can see that my race has lost part of its greatness when your ancestors left."

Pakesh, who had taken the discovery of Gupta's heritage surprisingly well, commented: "Perhaps Tarack and T'Pol are the key praetor. We might discover yet a third group."

"The legend of Sargon," Gupta muttered.

Pakesh uttered a curse. He quickly apologized to Karzan who held up a warning hand. "I have said worse when I was a centurion. What is this Sargon?" the praetor asked.

"I have been trying to reassemble a phonetic algorithm, my praetor," Pakesh explained. "One of the possible sound combinations was that word. I had thought it an error until Tarack said that. That is a key word. There are many references to Sargon in the writings. Who was he?"

"The Vulcan Syrran once mentioned that," Gupta explained: "the legend of Sargon. I believe that it referred to Vulcan descent from a greater race." He recalled Syrran's discussion with V'Las before the minister had been killed. "That is the tablet that you have been examining!"

"How could this Vulcan know of that?" Pakesh said.

"Minister V'Las let it be known," Gupta answered. "Apparently he was aware of your research."

He saw Karzan's knowing glance directed at him. Syrran knew because he had carried Surak's _katra_. Gupta knew because he had been shown the life of Surak who was Careaza. The praetor had discovered it in his meld with Tarang. Karzan had taken the knowledge well. He had confided in Gupta that he had always believed that the Vulcan Surak had a greater connection to his Romulan ancestors. Such a great leader had to be more Karzan reasoned.

"Praetor, I am not receiving a response to the code," T'Pol announced. Gupta could feel a wave of tension beneath her of veneer of control. "There are unidentified aircraft on an intercept course with us."

"I can see that Promise," Karzan replied. Gupta wondered, for the voice was that of a Romulan in his prime. Karzan stayed fixated on the coach's instruments. "Tarack, there should be a gunnery station near the aft section of this ship. I'll need Pakesh to stay here and help me."

"I'll do as you bid praetor," he rose and declared. Gupta knew that he was useless in the cockpit and dangerous. Dangerous was fine for adversaries but not for them.

"The unknowns are closing," T'Pol warned them. He passed by her and reached out to touch her face.

"We'll be fine," Karzan said. The voice was youthful and full of joy. "I haven't felt this good in many a tenturn!" The aircraft rolled harshly. Gupta grabbed a hand hold. He smiled and her and mouthed the words 'I love you.' "I'll see you both down the path when we land. Now get back there Tarack!" Down the path was the Romulan term for a marriage ceremony. Gupta beat his way toward the rear of the aircraft while reflecting on where life can take a person. He was going to be married to an alien by the leader of his people's enemy. That was, if they lived.

Gupta sprinted to rear of the aircraft. There he did indeed find a station. He sat in a thickly padded chair that faced aft. He briefly studied the console before him until he found a control that caused the board to light up before him. He started to cinch up the restraints when a clamshell type of door opened up above him. He found himself looking at the blue sky of Romulus. A heavy pane of transparent material protected him. He also saw the dual snout of a heavy weapon pointing out.

So the empire must have had some discontent he thought. Someone had armed the praetor's aircraft for self defense. That implied to Tarang that not every citizen was loyal and happy. Of course Romulan society had a tradition of arms. Perhaps these guns were a working type of showpiece. Gupta saw two grips that blended into the back of the panel.

He took one in each hand. The gun barrels moved as his inputs commanded. He squeezed the triggers. He felt a strong vibration through the seat of his pants as fire spat out of the barrels. He heard Pakesh yelling at him to put on his helmet. Tarang looked up to see a dust covered, golden battle helmet hanging from a strap. He pulled down on it. Gupta felt foolish putting it on. He thought that if they were hit there would be more serious worries than shrapnel.

The inside webbing was easy to adjust. Tarang put it on and instantly heard Pakesh though the helmet's comm system. He winced when he felt sharp pinpricks on his eyes. He blinked and gasped. A holographic targeting system was before his eyes. He absently turned his head and realized that the guns were tracking with him. Gupta swept the horizon. It was clear blue. He studied the display and discovered what he guessed were countermeasures. Tarang hoped that he would not have to find out.

"Idiot, are you there?" Pakesh's insistent voice broke him out of his revelries.

He searched for a comm panel. He could hear Pakesh but not answer him. The Romulan was sounding increasingly agitated to Gupta who had come to know his moods. He fumbled around discovering that his display icons did indeed represent counter measures. Much like human equipment it had been built for intuitive use. He looked at a strange symbol wondering what it was. He felt vibration and barely saw two high speed projectiles leap out from beneath the coach's wings. He cursed out loud.

"It's about time you answered idiot!" Pakesh roared. The helmet must have be voice activated he thought. He could hear Alvin Crosby saying that it came with all the bells and whistles.

Two bright flashes intercepted the projectiles that he had just launched. He heard Pakesh cheer. Gupta had just hit two of something. He hoped that he proved as deadly when he actually tried to use the equipment.

"Hostile aircraft are making an approach from the rear!" Pakesh exclaimed. Gupta felt like his stomach was coming out of his mouth as Karzan threw the craft into a steep dive. He saw three blinking dots in his display. Gupta looked hard at one and squeezed the triggers.

The dot moved aside and launched several smaller blips. Gupta looked at his countermeasures and ejected four of them. One was probably a type of flare while the others he was not sure about. Three of the smaller pursuing markers vanished. The last did not. Gupta was about to try the guns on it when a larger target moved into his display. He heard Pakesh's warning and felt the plane turn and climb slightly.

There was a screaming high pitch tone in his helmet. Gupta saw the hawk like aircraft rather than its return. It grew in size and was bearing down on the bulky coach from a high approach. Gupta squeezed the triggers. This time he saw the solid rounds actually hit the attacker. Pieces of their adversary's wing were shredded away. The aircraft spiraled away. Gupta saw nothing but spinning clouds as the praetor sent the coach toward the ground.

Another hostile crossed his line of sight. Gupta squeezed the triggers in a pathetic attempt to hit it. It streaked by, ejecting two projectiles as it vanished from sight. Four more high speed inbounds showed up on his helmet display. Gupta squinted at every countermeasure that the plane had. The racks showed empty not long after that. Tarang felt weightlessness.

Karzan had leveled the coach out. Gupta saw the ground not far beneath him going by in a blur. He saw a glint, looked at it and fired. Panic rose in him when he saw his intended target increasing in size. The ground seemed to slow down. The missile roared by overhead. He started to breathe a sigh of relief when there was a flash and a loud pop. Alarms sounded everywhere.

He actually heard Karzan give a cry of glee. "Hold on Tarack! I have to make it appear that we have been hit."

Gupta heard a horrible grinding noise which turned into the noise of metal shrieks. The coach slowed. For a brief instant he felt the ship's protective gravity web. A warm rush of air hit his face. Tarang pulled the helmet off and tossed it to the deck. He heard nothing. It was in fact, strangely silent. He looked below to see why. His chair was hanging in a tree. The helmet sat where it had landed in a pile of leaves below. He shook his head. T'Pol appeared beneath him along with Karzan and Pakesh. Pakesh's right arm was cocked at an unnatural angle. Other than that the trio seemed to be alright.

"We must move away before they come in to see how they've done," Pakesh said. His brashness was gone.

Gupta released his restraints and plunged to the forest floor below. His ankle twisted sending waves of pain up his leg. He wiped at an embarrassing line of drool. T'Pol supported Karzan who was struggling to stand on his own. Gupta pulled himself to his hands and knees. He took in a deep lungful of air before trying to stand.

"I am well Promise!" he said as pushed her away. "I may not have many more turns but I won't be treated like a beggar any longer."

"Praetor, I spotted a small habitat off to the east," Pakesh said. "Shall we go there?"

Gupta stood shakily. He did not disdain T'Pol's help. How long had he been in that tree? He listened with half an ear while Karzan and Pakesh spoke of where they were. He was surprised at how observant the old Romulan was. Karzan was sure that they were near Tankaara Segment. After some discussion they decided to proceed. They had not walked far when they heard aircraft roaring overhead. Gupta looked around as did T'Pol and Pakesh.

"Fear not," Karzan declared. "We've not changed our procedures that much: they will orbit over the wreckage until they determine it is not an immediate threat. After that they will land foot soldiers. The town is a quartrent away. We shall be there before they land." Karzan stopped, bent painfully and picked up a long gnarled old branch. "Almost as old as me," he remarked as he looked at the tree that it had fallen from. He used it as a walking stick and went along a little better than he had.

"Praetor, who shot at us?" T'Pol asked.

"Tarack killed Vrinak," Karzan answered slowly. It was apparent that he had been mulling over that very thing. "My memory before the drugs says that Vrinak had only one trusted officer, Sinphius. For some insane reason the senate gave him status as a Hand. But I know, even through the drugs, that Sinphius is at Venador. He could not have arrived here in time to take over."

The group was silent as they walked. Gupta had recovered and looked with concern at Karzan. He knew just how fragile the old Romulan's condition was. But Karzan did have the mental abilities of a Vulcan. Gupta knew that Syrran could literally shut off the signal from certain nerves. How ironic that he was worried about someone that he had been tasked to murder. Gupta could sense that Karzan was still thinking about what had happened.

"There is confusion in the capital," Karzan said. "I'm sure that Vrinak would have eliminated any senator who might've opposed him. Perhaps that was nothing more than the residence's automatic response."

A matter had been plaguing Gupta. He decided that now was the time to speak on it:

"Praetor, I hate to ask this. Perhaps I'm just being stupid--"

"That is likely," Pakesh interjected. He was returning to his old self.

"Go ahead Tarack," Karzan said. "I much prefer that to _Guuptaa_," the praetor remarked.

"How can we just walk into the capital?" he asked. They had walked away from the aircraft with some pistols, a first aid kit, some rations and each had a knife. That was all. "I mean, Praetor Karzan, the image of you that the citizens know…"

"Trust that I used my mental conditioning to hide some secrets from Vrinak," Karzan replied. "He did not know about the retreat. I have other resources that were hidden. As far as your question: will the ordinary citizen see this bag of bones and believe that it is me?" Karzan continued: "Probably not, so I have some work ahead of me. Let us to it."

Star Fleet light cruiser Daedelus, in the Zeta Reticuli system, Nov 2158

Captain Michael Cromwell could tell that his engineer was distressed. Shato's antennae were bent down in the Andorian version of a scowl. The blue skinned alien stood with his hands on his hips. A very human gesture Cromwell thought. Commander Devlin followed behind the Andorian. They both were overtly suspicious of the gray aliens. They were both leaning over and crowding several of the grays as they tried to work.

"Gentleman," Cromwell surprised them with a boisterous voice. They had had their backs to him and both jumped and turned. They were assembled in the engineering section near the port warp pylon attachment.

"Yes sir!" they replied, not quite in unison.

"Why don't you give our guests some breathing room," he suggested.

Shato looked at him, then at Devlin and then at the aliens and finally back at Cromwell. "Captain! They are making modifications through the hull plating conduits! I don't even know what some of this equipment does! I'd like to know what is being put on my ship—your ship."

"I agree sir," Devlin added. "I have questions about your decision to allow aliens to do this to the ship."

"I agree sir!" the Andorian interjected. "What do we know about these aliens?"

Cromwell wanted to chuckle. "Probably about what we knew about Andorians eighty years ago," he answered. Michael could understand Shato's concerns. This was his ship in a manner of speaking. Cromwell commanded her but Shato put motion behind his orders. He pulled the clipboard that he carried out from where it had been tucked under his arm.

"Our guests want to put a face behind our ship," he said as he handed the clipboard to the engineer. "The Romulans probably have a type of telescopic recording device such as we do. Hopefully their intelligence people will see something that might cause them to have nightmares."

Shato looked at the computer generated drawing. "This will never fly," he declared. The Andorian studied it further. "Then again perhaps it has some merit. Did you create it sir?"

"Actually no," he answered. "You are looking at Jon Archer and Lieutenant Jason Crusher's next generation deep exploration starship. Of course I am told that the technology for it won't be available for several more years. You have to admit: it is quite impressive looking."

Judging by Shato's antennae, he too found the conjectured starship impressive. "You want me to help these alien—our guests make this possible?"

"Yes I do," Cromwell agreed. He understood Shato. Cromwell knew that the engineer felt useless while others crawled over his ship. This would give Shato something to occupy him. He did not understand Devlin. A gray walked up to them. "Please go with this individual Shato and give him—er her," he stumbled. The alien sent him a message that sex was not an issue among the grays.

How unfortunate, he thought. "Help our friends, fine tune their equipment." He turned to Devlin. "Walk with me Phillip."

Devlin fell in beside him. "Sir, I'm sorry I popped off back there. I am thinking about the ship. I am also thinking about our mission. We've made an important discovery. Star Fleet could come through the eddy and strike out at Cheron, maybe even Romulus itself. If Daedelus is lost fighting for these aliens then we lose a lot more than just our lives."

"I don't know if we'll win the war. I am well aware of the tactical situation." They passed several crewmen who were going about their business. "There is a larger issue here." He wanted to win Devlin over instead of rebuffing him. "We have to reach out as ambassadors and helpers."

"These grays speak of ascending." Cromwell chuckled. "My dad used to tell me that you should always stop to help someone: no matter how lowly or disconnected from you that they may be. He said you never know if you'll meet that person somewhere on the way up."

"I understand the analogy sir," Devlin replied. They descended a ladder toward the main thoroughfare to the command module. "But I wonder if the poor people in Florida get it? That all sounds good when we are at peace, but we aren't."

"Our mission is to explore," Cromwell said. "We must never lose sight of that. I know that it all sounds like high sounding nonsense to you but listen." Cromwell looked up the corridor that connected the command sphere to the engineering section. He stopped when he saw that it was relatively empty.

"It has to do with who we are," he explained. "We can go out and distrust every alien we meet. We can set up bases and build mighty fleets for the next war but that defines us as being as bad as the Romulans. Or we can also go out as explorers. We'll still train to fight but the thrust of our mission, the heart of it will be discovery. We've seen what war did in the last century. Men must grow past that. When it our time to ascend perhaps these ZR's will be there to help us. Maybe these are our first steps."

"Sir, we might have to put off these steps until we win this one. I understand what you are saying but the Romulans were going to drop bombs on our planet."

"But we beat them," Cromwell retorted; "thanks to the efforts of those ambassadors and explorers that you disdain. We owe much to the Vulcans but our own teams went out to contact the Tellarites and Andorians. Our ambassadors laid the groundwork for a relationship after the explorers were busy studying their cultures. I suppose under your scenario that we shouldn't have bothered." He decided to continue on. Devlin scrambled to catch up.

"We were lucky there captain," his first officer argued. "We could easily have been suckered into the Vulcan-Andorian conflict. Okay, I'll consider what you've said. One way of looking at it is that if we live then I guess you are right. If we die out here then who knows what way this war will turn."

"You've heard the grays. The Birds are beaten down. Admiral Forrest will lead an expedition against several possible targets if we don't return. He won't have our information but you've seen the findings: a knockout blow against either Cheron or Romulus will likely end this."

"And this should interest you number one: if the Romulans believe that we have an advanced starship they will be put further off balance with redeployments. That won't do their morale any better either."

"You mentioned Cheron sir," Devlin started. They went past an engineering gang that was engaged in routine maintenance. "Is there any truth to the scuttlebutt that we are just supposed to force an armistice on the Birdies? That we won't go to Romulus and achieve a final victory?"

Cromwell started the climb up the narrow stairs to the bridge. He had almost stopped, hauled up short by Devlin's question. A Romulan surrender was exactly what the president desired. How that would affect these crewmen who had seen so many deaths because of the war, he did not know. Michael knew that it would not be good. It was one thing to deal with xenophobic attitudes: they could be changed. Broken expectations could not. The brunt of whatever happened would fall squarely onto the president's shoulders.

"I don't know what the future holds," he said as the topped the final stairwell to the bridge. "I feel that we are close to victory but how and what that is I cannot say."

Cromwell was glad that he was a starship captain responsible for one hundred and nineteen lives. He saw that no matter how this war ended some would not be appeased. If they landed on and occupied Romulus how many humans and aliens would be calling for blood from the Vulcans? If there was a negotiated peace how many like Devlin would cry foul?

It was not his bailiwick and he was glad. Cromwell stepped onto his bridge where the answers seemed black and white to him. He had a battle to plan. Devlin too launched himself into his tasks. Michael had decided to allow the primary crew some time to stand down. They would need the rest for later.

Kalenara, capital of the Romulan Empire, Romulus, the fifteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of beginning

"Admiral Valdore has his own interests," Senator Nivita Brelag declared. "This continuing committee proposal would leave much power in the hands of the military."

Brelag stood in the speaker's circle directly beneath the apex of the senate chamber's mighty domed ceiling. The senator was far older than Valdore. He had once been Valdore's mentor. He respected Brelag who was bound by the empire's laws. But now was not the time. No law, even those laid down by Tarl, covered the present situation. The empire was leaderless.

"We have no one in charge!" Senator Vrax interjected from the darkness of the gallery. "The admiral is proposing this committee so that no one group dominates. He merely wishes that our remaining forces are released to him."

"Senior, are we now speaking over those who are in the Speaker's Circle?" Brelag asked the ranking senator.

"No we are not," Senator Vellon'aise replied. He was the oldest Romulan in the room even more elderly than Brelag. "Senator Vrax is reminded to observe protocol."

"My thanks," Brelag bowed his head slightly and plunged ahead. "It is fitting I suppose that Vrax has spoken. It is he who carries the blood of Tarl and Careaza. It is he who would be praetor if dear Karzan has made the final journey."

Brelag drew himself up. "I ask this body to restrain any rash action. Sinphius is about to land. Praetor Karzan's last decrees established the Tal Shiar as the body that administers the Residence's security. Let us receive the Hand's report on the condition of Karzan. Then, my companion senators, then we can set a course of action."

Valdore sat beside Vrax in the darkened gallery. He was disappointed by Brelag's conservative approach. He was not however surprised. Valdore might have endorsed the same course when he had been a senator. He listened while Brelag stepped down. Vrax was on the rolls to speak next. An aide handed Vrax a rolled up document as Vrax stood to walk to the Circle. Vrax skimmed the document and then handed it to Valdore.

Valdore grew agitated as he read the document's contents. The human must be alive. Nothing else explained what he had just read. He needed to get out of here. If the praetor lived then it was Valdore who must get to him first. There could be nothing else. Even if Gupta and Promise had gotten the defense codes why had they tried to return? He forced himself to calm down and listen to Vrax's counterpoint.

"Our great empire is at war and we sit here and founder," Vrax stated. "Senators, we are entrusted to preserve the empire. There are others with the blood. If you choose one then I shall endorse him! I am not here seeking that. I am here for Romulus. Our great legions are bearing the costs of our foolishness here. Let the admiral command! It is our role as politicians to sit and wring our hands while our soldiers win victories for us. Allow that to happen. Put a stop to this inaction."

It was a violation of protocol for him to get up and leave; unless, Valdore remembered, unless there was an emergency. He looked ahead intently. Vrax was storming on, delivering a lecture about the landing of the first Romulans on this world. He listened as Vrax spoke of the starvation and death of the first Vulcans to land here. It was an inspiring tale Valdore thought as he reached into his cloak, found a small control unit and depressed its only stud. He thought though that no matter how just their cause that this body would come to no decision.

The senate was like some multi legged creature with no brain. There was a commotion by the entrance. It was not unexpected by Valdore who feigned surprise and then interest as Denaton brusquely conferred with the senate's ceremonial guards. They were soon escorting him to where Valdore was seated. Vrax stumbled on and then stopped as if he too had been taken at unawares by the intrusion.

Denaton came before him and saluted. He informed Valdore about a vital military issue. Valdore rose, apologized to the senators and asked Vellon'aise if he might leave. The old senator looked hard at him. Vellon'aise could recognize theatric for what they were. Even with that the senior excused him. Valdore bowed and left with the major. The two were silent until they were well clear of the senate hall.

"The Hand has landed admiral," Denaton informed him. "His entourage is headed here with him."

Valdore noted that Denaton was leading him along a different route. "Assemble an assault team from Riitraxa. I'll need them and at least two Harriers."

Denaton stopped him. Valdore looked past him to see Sinphius and his security team march down an adjacent hall. They looked more like thugs from the guild than military personnel. Valdore almost wished that they saw him. It would allow him to shoot Sinphius who was, no doubt, here to claim power. But they were outgunned. The sneering Hand and his security detail marched by, several _elils_ from where Valdore stood with Denaton.

"What is to be their mission my admiral?" Denaton asked as the Hand and his escorts passed and the two of them continued. They passed out into the inner courtyard. The air smelled of vegetation and fresh cut grass.

"We are going to search near Tankaara Segment." Valdore walked past his groundcar. He had arranged for another vehicle. It was bad enough that the Triple Alliance was trying to kill him. It was worse that some of his own race might try the same. A private aircoach sat in the public area. He keyed in the code that opened the coach's door.

"For what admiral?" the major asked.

"A small group," he replied. "We are in a race to find someone. Sinphius will have reached the same conclusion and will be sending in teams of his own."

"Rumor abound that the Tal Shiar has infiltrated the monitors," Denaton said. "They will have an advantage of using local personnel to search admiral."

That is why he encouraged his subordinates to say what was on their minds. He had been busy thinking about many things. That one item had not occurred to him. He told Denaton to sift through the crew for Romulans from Tankaara. He started and then engaged the coach's engine. He stopped as he peered across the outer parking area to the street. A small troupe of bedraggled street entertainers was putting on a performance. One of them was holding aloft several orbs at once. Valdore had read about this. It was a form of entertainment, on earth.

He stared ahead. "Gupta," Valdore said quietly.

"Admiral?" his aide asked.

He was a long time answering; so much so that Denaton seemed surprised when he did speak up: "Things are poised, frozen in motion. We have a little time to change the outcome. I will command the team." He relinquished the coach's controls to Denaton and told him to angle for Tankaara Segment. Denaton turned to the task of flying.

"It is unusual for one from the admiralty…"

"To command an assault force?" he asked, finishing Denaton's comment. "These are extraordinary times major. We must rely on what we have. Sometimes we have to use weapons that seem as dangerous to us as they are to an opponent."

Star Fleet light cruiser Daedelus, in the Zeta Reticuli system, Nov 2158

"Stations," Michael Cromwell ordered.

He swiveled slowly in his chair. He stopped and looked across the bridge to the engineering display. He waited while several lights turned from green to red. It was much like submarine. Cromwell pictured the heavy airlocks descending into place along the intersections of major bulkheads. Shato called him and notified him that hull plating was charged. Cromwell turned to Devlin and nodded. The bridge lighting dropped.

The bridge viewer switched from a picture of the blackness of space to the tactical display. A gray, looking more like a made up creature from animation than a sentient being, stood beside Cromwell's chair. Michael thought that the alien was being unsafe, but the gray that he had dubbed Klaus because his eyes reminded him of a cat that Trudy's mother and father kept, assured him that he would be okay. Michael passed along a course to Kay Stansfield and ordered her to engage.

"Chief Custis?" he asked.

"I'm having a tough time seeing anything sir," the chief answered. "If Klaus' people hadn't helped us I would call it an unsafe navigation condition." Custis removed his face from the display hood. "On the other hand I doubt that the Birdies are seeing anything captain."

Despite the grays' claim that they would not help with technology Daedelus now boasted the most advanced sensor system of any Star Fleet ship. Without saying, or rather thinking it, they had inferred that the improvements could stay. The holographic and force field technology was something else. That would be gone after they helped these unlikely allies.

"This is a zone of cometary debris, much like your Oort Cloud captain," Klaus thought at him. "We believe that a large comet struck a primordial planet that was composed mostly of nickel and iron and heavy metals. That caused the particles and some of the smaller comets to become charged."

"Rendering this an area of extreme electromagnetic interference," Cromwell added.

"Preparing to execute a turn to port captain," Stansfield proclaimed.

Daedelus was following a series of turns prepared for them by the grays. Cromwell knew that Custis was correct: this section of the Zeta Reticuli system was nearly impossible to navigate through. They were almost flying blind. He told Stansfield to proceed.

"Missile room reports that they are manned and loaded captain," Chief Walter Matsui reported. "We will be within Cachalot range in eight minutes."

"Very well," he answered. He turned to the gray. "We'll follow that last fold until our scanners clear. The Birds will be on to us by then but we can attack their first taskforce."

"I have isolated the ship with the Remans aboard," Klaus thought at him. "If I may captain?" the alien asked.

Michael knew what the gray wanted. He nodded his assent. Cromwell suddenly saw the Romulan vessel in question. He absolutely knew its position as he was aware of the position of his own ship. He saw Stansfield and Matsui tense up. They were going through similar experiences he reckoned. Cromwell looked back at the tactical display. The first returns from Romulan ships were becoming visible. Michael knew exactly which of those points of light had to be attacked and destroyed.

"Five minutes until we are in attack range captain," Matsui said.

Cromwell was about to acknowledge him when he felt an exclamation of astonishment from Klaus. The normally passive gray was clearly on about something. Cromwell turned quickly. Klaus was blank. Cromwell sensed that the alien was seeing something in his mind. They had told him that some of the grays could project themselves out of their bodies.

Cromwell wondered if Klaus was one of those with that ability. If so, the alien was risking much. According to their assertions the Remans could sense and nullify their mental intrusions. The Remans weren't as powerful as were the ZR's, but they could see through their mental defenses enough to allow Romulan plasma cannons to do the rest. That is how the ZR's had been conquered.

"What is wrong?" Cromwell asked Klaus.

There was silence. Klaus of course, said nothing, but he also thought nothing at Michael. Devlin suggested turning about. Cromwell was beginning to think that was an option he should take. Custis chimed in hesitantly about something he had picked up on subspace scanners.

"Sir I'm starting to read individual Birdie ships. I don't think they can see us yet. I'm not only picking up their power signatures, I can see their deck layout. I'm reading sections of their ships as being depressurized. There are indications of small explosions aboard several of them." Custis shook his head in amazement. "I wish these things were hooked to a better computer. I think that I could read their biology; call them bio signs."

Cromwell was glad that the chief didn't have his wish. He doubted that a final victory under Thorpe's terms of anonymity could happen. But he would work to try to do it. Those were the orders to Admiral Forrest. Those were then his orders. He shoved aside those thoughts as he wondered what could have happened to the enemy ships. Michael gasped when he saw that he was outside of Daedelus.

He was moving through space without a suit. Cromwell took a few seconds to realize that he was with Klaus. He saw a Romulan Sabinus class bearing down on him. He threw his hands up and instantly felt foolish. Cromwell's intellect told him that he was sitting comfortably in his chair aboard Daedelus. At least his body was there he thought.

Klaus turned and looked at him as they appeared inside the Romulan ship. "We can feel the Remans' minds before they realize it. When I reached out to confirm which vessels you should attack I felt nothing. I probed further to discover why. This is what I found."

Cromwell floated rather than walked to where a body lay in a pool of green gore. He looked down. The Romulan's face had been torn off. He only knew that the body was Romulan because of its only remaining ear. He floated to another body that was riddled with gunshot wounds. That was bad enough but that former Romulan had been torn up too. Michael was no forensics expert but he thought that this body had been mauled after death. The faceless bloke had his hands out as if he had been trying to ward off his attacker.

He floated onward. Several corpses littered the corridor. Cromwell looked back. He got the sense that they were attacking someone, or something at the end of the corridor. Cromwell started as they passed by a gaping hole in the hull. He had the spacer's fear of being ejected live into vacuum. Once again he reminded himself that he really was not here. He moved along until Klaus stopped before a corpse that was not Romulan. The word Reman popped into his mind.

Cromwell remembered a play about a vampire, a Nosferatu. That is what this creature with its sallow skin and long dangerous looking nails looked like. It was somewhat larger than the Romulans and had a type of gun in each hand. It must have made its stand here Michael guessed. Its chest and abdomen were open, riddled with gunshot wounds. Bluish blood made a pool beneath the corpse. Several orbs hung on the creature's belt. Grenades, he thought; probably what had made the hole.

"I had assumed that the Remans were allies of the Romulans?" he thought at Klaus.

"They have a lower status in the empire. Most of them participate only because not doing so would exact punishment on their clans."

Klaus seemed to pull him along. Cromwell tried jumping out of the way of an exasperated Romulan. Cromwell issued a cry of dismay when the Romulan walked right through him. He was shouting orders in his language. Cromwell suddenly heard the orders in English. Klaus must have done something. Cromwell saw another Romulan approach the first one. He was shocked when the new arrival removed his helmet. Michael wondered if the youth was even sixteen.

The young Romulan thumped his chest with his fist. "My commander, the last of the mutineers has been killed. The communications' centurion reports that our equipment has been sabotaged."

Cromwell perked up when he heard that this was his counterpart. The Romulan wore a sash with a badge on it. Both wore gloves. Cromwell remembered that from the corpses they had discovered on their derelict Romulan cruiser. The young soldier's uniform was plain in comparison. The Romulan officer's face burst into a study of rage when he heard the news.

Cromwell had thought of the Birds as Vulcans, once their origin had been discovered. That preconception was torn away before him. The alien commander stormed over to the body of a Reman. He withdrew a sidearm and emptied it into the corpse, all the while cursing. He turned back at the youth. He wiped at some spittle on his mouth while catching his breath.

"You fool!" he roared. "This was no mutiny. This is a rebellion. We must raise the Citadel!"

The Romulan youth was quaking. It amazed Cromwell that he could muster the courage to speak. "Commander, the centurion is attempting to patch through a shuttle's communication unit. He is working as fast as he can!"

The change was amazing. The commander's face calmed. He blinked and holstered his weapon. "Find him whatever assistance he needs uhlan. We need to get a message home." Cromwell watched him reach out and lay his hand on his subordinate's shoulder. "I fear that this may be happening on Romulus."

The younger Romulan was visibly taken aback by the commander's assertion. "But commander…the retribution…how could they…"

"Go about your duties Ulan Tuix. I must know what else is happening in this system. We must be able to contact Colonel Munalez." The Romulan commander returned the grave youth's salute. Cromwell suddenly felt the need for haste.

"Klaus," he said as he opened his eyes and took in his familiar bridge. "Can your people reconfigure the holo devices to make us appear as a Romulan?"

"We can captain," Klaus answered. "I read your thought as we teleported back here. It is done."

"Helm, slow to warp two!" he snapped.

"We are entering Birdie sensor range captain," Custis announced.

"Sir! We will be a sitting duck at this speed!" Devlin exclaimed.

"Mister Matsui," Cromwell started, deliberately ignoring his first officer's warning. "Target those ships at your discretion. You may fire when ready." The weapons' chief acknowledged his orders.

"Thirty thousand kilometers and closing captain," Custis said. "Sir…they aren't taking up a defensive posture."

"Mister Devlin you were conjecturing about aliens," Cromwell said while staring at the tactical display. "It might interest you to know that," he stopped. He could not say that Klaus had taken him aboard a Romulan ship. "There is some kind of internal conflict within the Romulan ranks according to Klaus." The gray understood that Cromwell was keeping secret the Romulans' identity.

"Then they know what the Romulans are," Devlin said.

"We are herded into cities. We know that the Romulans are bipeds and probably similar in biology to your species commander," Klaus said. "We are able to sense things from them. That is all."

Cromwell was not even convinced by the telepathic lie. But it would have to do. He ordered Stansfield to exit warp. Further discussion was cut short when Matsui fired their first salvoes of Cachalots. Two points of light vanished from the view screen. Cromwell ordered Stansfield to maneuver right into a group of Romulan ships. He wanted a close enough pass for them to see his ship. Matsui fired again as Daedelus passed near to what sensors identified as a Veronus.

"They are on a buildup to fire sir!" Custis warned.

Cromwell watched another Romulan fall to a Cachalot burst. He also saw the telltale spikes of the plasma cannon firing preparation. Daedelus had made a close enough pass here. They had also been close enough to have been captured on video. It was time to move to the next phase of the attack.

"Lieutenant Stansfield, set course one-one-five mark nine and engage at warp two," he ordered. He turned to Devlin. "Their comms are down number one. We must take the time to sow seeds of dissension among them. Helm, prepare to exit warp ten thousand kilometers from their orbiting taskforce."

"Sir, I think those seeds have sprouted," Custis remarked. "Four ships are breaking formation. I think that they are after us. But several of the ones hanging back are firing—at each other."

"We are nearing the orbiting taskforces captain," Devlin announced.

"Several of those are powering cannons sir," Custis warned.

"I'm starting to read coded subspace messages from them captain," Ensign Li Chang advised him.

"Chief Matsui, we aren't going to hang about very long," he told his gunnery chief. "I'll give you about thirty seconds and then we shall depart."

"Twenty seconds until we exit sir," Stansfield announced.

Cromwell looked carefully at the sensor readings. "We'll be in the thick of it for about fifteen seconds. Helm, work with guns to keep them off of us." He turned to the gray. "What about your end Klaus?"

"The Romulans are confused and fighting among themselves," the alien thought at him. "The first wave of our rescue ships has landed. This has been most fortuitous captain. If you are successful they will be unaware of who attacked them and convinced that the problems here were all internal."

"I have targeting solutions based on our exit captain," Matsui informed him.

"Entering normal space…now sir," Stansfield announced.

"Targets acquired sir!" the chief exclaimed.

"Fire!" he replied.

"Firing and away!" Matsui exclaimed.

The ship that entered normal space did not look like a stellar navy starship. Instead it appeared very much like a Romulan Sabinus. The Sabinus appeared to fire its primary weapon. The streaks left by Cachalot missiles as they went to warp were masked. Romulan ships launched anti missile missiles and neutronium pellets in defense. The Cachalots were destroyed before they could engage their targets. The faux Sabinus maneuvered wildly. Another apparent plasma volley belched out.

This time, both Cachalots exited warp and exploded within meters of their targets. Two Romulan cruisers erupted in blinding fireballs. Daedelus once again maneuvered among the Romulan forces. Two more Cachalots left the starship's tubes. A Romulan space station, still under construction was hit by a Star Fleet missile and destroyed. The second missile was defeated. The attacker leapt away into subspace just as fire from two plasma cannons converged where it had been.

Rather than chase the intruder the surviving Romulans paused. A Veronus accelerated away. It was pursued by a hail of Moolah missiles. One of them exploded near to the escaping ship a second missile finished the cruiser. A Veronus and Sabinus exchanged deadly plasma cannon fire resulting in the two of them annihilating each other. A further missile battle erupted among several other ships. Three more Romulan ships erupted before the battle stopped.

"Our ships are leaving the atmosphere Captain Cromwell," Klaus told him. "Some will stay behind. They will maintain the fiction of a Romulan conquest until we can return for them."

"That will be long?" Cromwell asked the alien.

"In terms that you understand, yes it will." Oddly enough Cromwell felt something like humor from Klaus. It was the humor he remembered from his great grandfather. A humor of someone who knows a secret learned only through age. "I will leave now."

"What course shall we set to rendezvous with your ships?" he asked.

There was that humor again. "I was never here captain. And your advice to Devlin was correct. We'll be there to help when it is your turn."

Cromwell watched as the image of Klaus faded away before him. Devlin sprang up and sprinted to the spot where the alien had been. Michael merely smiled. It was no surprise.

"Pursuit?" he asked.

"Negative pursuit sir," Custis said. He too looked at where the gray had stood.

"All of the holographic equipment," Devlin started. "The alien technicians who helped us…"

Cromwell flicked a stud on his armrest. "Engineer, what is the status of the equipment that our guests installed?"

"Sir!" the Andorian answered. Cromwell was not surprised to hear bewilderment in his voice. "Everything is gone. The connections that we made to the hull plating are the only things that remain!"

"Investigate further Taln," he replied. "But don't be surprised if you don't find anything. Bridge out," he said and cut the connection.

"I'm not sure that I like this sir," Devlin said. "They played us like children."

"They needed our help commander," Cromwell said. "And, in a way…perhaps we are children to them."

There was a war to win. Cromwell reflected that man had resolved his own differences only to come out here and discover that some had not resolved theirs. That was no reason to revert to aggression. When Michael thought of why they were out here he remembered people like John Glenn and John Kelly. He thought of Jonathan Archer and those who pursued this way of life to chase a dream. Those were the people who had shaped the future, not the conquerors and generals. It would be for another generation to build a future. This one would start out among the stars.

"Lieutenant Stansfield, set a course for the eddy," he ordered. "Stand down from battle stations number one." He smiled. "Chief Custis, work with astrophysics to use our enhanced sensors when we pass through the eddy. There is a lot to learn and we won't do it by standing still."


	46. Chapter 46

Tankaara Segment, Romulus, the earth winter of 2158

Tankaara Segment, Romulus, the earth winter of 2158

Tarang Gupta found Pakesh by the El'Nado River; the same river that they had journeyed upon to the capital. The green water flowed by. The former criminal gang leader was tossing stones into the water and watching the resulting splashes. Gupta knew Pakesh well enough to make some noise announcing his coming.

"Idiot," Pakesh said with his back turned away from him, "or shall I call you _Guuptaa_?"

"Idiot is fine. Tarack would be even better." Gupta sat down beside the chieftain. The two were silent for a long time.

"Promise is taking care of the praetor?" Pakesh asked.

"He seems able to take care of himself," Gupta replied. "I believe that our—your leader could best all of us." Tarang laughed. "T'Pol is looking after him, just to answer your question."

Another uncomfortable silence passed. "I just wanted to apologize, Pakesh. I…you…did so much for us. I don't believe that either of us would have lived if it weren't for your help."

"I ended up helping assassins," Pakesh answered. "We criminals are a part of this society. Our role may be heinous but we believe in our destiny: the Romulan destiny to rule. Now I have questions. It seems that our own have betrayed us."

"That is a story in many places Pakesh," Gupta remarked. "We had our own misadventures on my world."

"Your world," Pakesh remarked. "That sounds so foreign. How much else were you lying about?"

"I'm not making excuses Pakesh," he answered. "Admiral Valdore kidnapped us. He says that T'Pol is infected by a fatal virus and will die. I think that I'm not as much an earthman as you are a Romulan. I did what I did because I love her. I'm not a patriot. I just wish that she was safe and we were home." He looked at Pakesh.

"Tell me. If I had told you the truth those many quatrents ago what would you have thought? What would you have done? I'm still who I was." Gupta stopped and thought of what he had just said. "No, I'm not sure who I am. Things are different."

"You didn't complete your mission," Pakesh said. "You must not value Promise's life as much as you say."

"I love her very much," Gupta said. "But when it came to it, I knew that the answer was not as simple as taking one life for another. I've come to admire many things about your race. One of the things I discovered was how you play games within games. _T'flal_ is an example of that. Killing the praetor seemed like the move that was ordained. But more than that, I could not kill him. I thought that that was the Romulan solution. We need a _hewmaan _solution. That is the only thing that will save T'Pol and stop this war."

Pakesh laughed. "Perhaps our races aren't so different. You are arrogant enough to believe that you can stop a war and save your mate. That is no small feat and is something a hero of old would have set out to do."

It was Gupta's turn to laugh. "I'm no hero. Idiot does seem like a better term."

"You saved the praetor. You backed the gang when I asked you. You took risks when you both could have run off. I respect that." Pakesh looked over at him.

"I appreciate that Pakesh. I'm still your friend. I doubt you feel that way towards me or T'Pol. Somehow it is important that I earned that from you. It means a lot." Gupta sighed. "Let's get Praetor Karzan back to the capital. It seems like the senate and Tal Shiar has made fodder of everyone. Perhaps it is time to change that."

He stood up. Pakesh did likewise. "It is odd," the Romulan commented. "I still count you as a friend. I only know of your race through the war announcements. You are not the laggards and perverts that I thought that you were. I always thought that you were just strange." He seized Gupta's shoulder. "I still don't know your race but I agree with the praetor: your soul is Romulan, whether you believe otherwise."

"Are you two planning on mating?" a strident voice demanded. The two turned to see Karzan standing on the hill above them. "I am quite ready to leave! I finally escaped from Promise's care. It is time to go."

T'Pol came up behind the aged leader. "You should take care to eat well…"

"You mean at my old age?" the praetor asked, finishing what she had tactfully left out. "I have been full of so many sedatives that there is not much left of me to provide nutrition for." He turned and stomped off.

They scrambled to catch up to him. Gupta thought that for an emaciated old Romulan Karzan moved pretty fast. He hobbled along at an ambling jog, supporting himself with his gnarled walking stick. They soon found themselves walking down a heavily grown trail. Gupta pushed rubbery tree limbs out of his way as he went. He started to smell the characteristic combination of chemicals and sewage that signified a Romulan town.

The group pushed into a small clearing. A stream ran through the clearing. No aquatic life or vegetation was near the waterway. Gupta thought that he would not drink out of it. Given their direction he figured that the stream ran out of the town.

"You there, halt!" a harsh, mechanically amplified voice announced.

Pakesh motioned for them to stay still. The praetor leaned on his stick. A group of uniformed monitors emerged from the woods beyond the stream. Gupta saw to his distress that they were surrounded. They also had weapons which were illegal fro the average Romulan citizen. The lead monitor stepped forth. He removed his gray, cloth clad helmet. He mopped at some sweat that was beaded on his brow. Gupta thought that he was quite pudgy for a Vulcanoid.

"You dandies have traveling seals?" the fat monitor asked.

Pakesh usually had several copies of seals issued by minor officials. But that had been during his days as a bandit. None of them had thought to take anything like that into the Inner Circle. Pakesh smiled. Gupta could see him leading into the con game. He had seen it many times.

"We are just heading into the city for work," Pakesh explained. He watched Pakesh reach cautiously into his pouch. He pulled out two crowns. "We don't have much, but I'm sure it will get us into the city."

It was a bribe. Gupta knew the routine: the monitors would check Pakesh's pouch where they would find a few more crowns. They would take all but the initial offering and leave them alone. That had been what had happened on previous occasions. This time was shaping up to be different.

"You haven't gotten the message yet," the surly monitor continued. "We aren't playing games with the guild anymore. Things have changed." Gupta froze when he saw the Romulan police officers taking their saps off of their belts. He had seen many who had been unlucky enough to cross a group of monitors.

"Since when are Romulan citizens questioned for no reason?" Karzan stood forth and asked the monitor. Gupta winced inside. He doubted they recognized Karzan and to question to a Romulan monitor was usually taken as disrespect. Retribution was frequently swift and painful. "Seals are only needed when leaving a segment. This is Tankaara Segment is it not?"

Gupta prepared for whatever came next. The monitor leader walked up to Karzan. His team grouped up assuring that each of Gupta and his companions was overmatched at least two-to-one. He grinned evilly at Karzan.

"Who do you think you are old one; an administrator?" the monitor asked. He laughed. His mates sporadically joined in the laughter. Gupta thought that they were looking forward to roughing them up more than they were looking for a joke. The monitor shoved the end of his sap into Karzan's ribs. The praetor blinked and looked at his tormentor. Could his mental technique be on a par to a Vulcan's?

"I believe that I'm a citizen of the empire. Monitors are supposed to protect our citizens, not act as ruffians. What is your name?" Karzan asked.

Gupta stepped forth slowly. "Please, our father is old. He knows not what he says." The monitors had tensed up. Gupta stopped, but the monitors were now out of position if it came to hand-to-hand. That proved to be pointless as one of the monitor's covering him drew his stinger. The end crackled as he powered it on.

"I'll make you remember my name you worthless old _v'roul_!" the monitor spat. He swung his club at Karzan.

Surprisingly the praetor managed to bring his walking stick up. But he was not the youthful warrior of many tenturns ago. The praetor's arm deflected the clubbing that had been intended for his head. Gupta heard a dry crack and despite any conditioning Karzan cried out. Gupta kicked out at the monitor with the stinger. The monitor spun away and stabbed the stunning device toward him. Gupta cried out and collapsed as the device touched him. He lay on the ground unable to control his jerking muscles.

When he finally gained some control over his limbs he looked from where he lay to see all of his companions on the ground in various stages of being bludgeoned. The two officers who were attacking T'Pol were leering at her. They clearly indented to do more to her than administer a beating. The monitor leader shouted for his crew to stop. Karzan was bent forward, on his knees before his tormentor. The praetor's forehead was nearly touching the ground.

"Old fool!" the monitor shouted. "If you are the father of these then you are a poor one!" He took in a great draught of air and then spat on Karzan. He sidestepped the beaten praetor so that he could kick the old Romulan in his side. Karzan rolled over mournfully.

T'Pol's attackers grabbed at her tunic. Gupta tried to get up when he was kicked hard in the side. Blows rained down on him. He raised his hands to shield his face. He suddenly realized that the beating had stopped. He started to get up again when one of his attackers collapsed in a heap across his legs. He squirmed out from beneath the former monitor. The legs of his pants were stained green with blood.

The lead monitor lay flat on his face screaming. Gupta wondered why until he saw the wreck of what had been his knees. Jagged white bone protruded from a gaping wound on one of his knees. Tarang figured that the other knee was in the same shape by the way that the officer tried to crawl away. Several tall, shadowy figures emerged from the thick brush.

Had Gupta not known Elcan he would have been afraid of the pale creatures that surrounded them. He realized that they were his saviors, but he drew no comfort from that fact. The Remans carried a type of long weapon with an enlarged cylinder on the end. He didn't know what that was until the monitor chief tried crawling away. One of the Remans shot the officer in his hand. The heavy cop fell with an oomph onto his side. The cylinder had muffled the gun's retort.

The Reman stepped forward and put his booted foot firmly on the fat Romulan's shattered, bleeding hand. The monitor screamed while the Reman let out a long slow hiss. Gupta could hear satisfaction in the hiss. He struggled to his knees only to have one of their rescuers firmly plant the butt of his gun in his stomach.

"Stay there _wuf'n_!" the Reman snapped at him.

Gupta was shocked by the use of that word. Elcan had used it a few times. He had explained to Tarang that it was a derogatory slang term for a full blooded Romulan. It was a slur against their supposed superiority over all others. Some Romulans in the Criminal Guild used the word when referring to those in higher stations in life.

The Remans talked among themselves in their language. Gupta understood a little of it as it had been blended with the Romulan tongue through the long turns. He sensed T'Pol's mind touch his. She too knew that the Remans were discussing their fate. Another vampire like alien joined the group. Gupta could see that the others deferred to this one. Tarang felt a brush across his mind. It was not T'Pol.

"These two…," the new arrival proclaimed indicating T'Pol and Gupta. The Reman, a male that was even taller and broader than Elcan hesitated. He looked at Karzan. "This one also," he added. The Reman approached T'Pol. He grabbed the back of her tunic and used it to pull her to her feet. "What are you?"

"A Vulcan," she answered without hesitation.

The Reman laughed at her. It was not the cruel laugh of the monitor leader. It was a sage laugh. "A Vulcan; one of the great _wuf'n _saviors?" he asked. He turned to Gupta. "What of you? Your brain seems completely different. I see strange, alien images. I suppose that you are one of these _hewmaan _in disguise?"

"Actually I am," he answered. The same captor who had hit him before once again drove the butt of his rifle into Tarang's stomach. He bent over in pain but stayed on his feet. "You wanted an answer," he gasped out. He could feel the mental brush again. This time it was stronger.

He was back in India. Gupta was staring across a table at Vijay Karmarkar and Asha Dey. He gasped at the sight of his old school friends. It was their favorite restaurant. The outdoor seating was next to the bustle of New Delhi traffic. Ground and aircars weaved a deadly dance with small electric scooters. The scooter operators seemed careless when it came to their lives. A young couple, not much older than Gupta and his teenaged friends, shot between two large delivery vans. The van drivers didn't give the daredevils a second glance. The three Indians took it all in stride.

Vijay, Gupta looked at one of his best friends from that time. They were both competing for Asha's affections. Neither would get it. Asha Dey would marry an exchange student from Mexico. The couple would emigrate to Deneva. Gupta grew sad as he thought of what would come, what had been. Oddly enough they were discussing that very thing.

"You should stay here Asha!" Vijay exclaimed. "There are great demands for physicians don't you know?"

"I was thinking more of geology Vij," she answered. "I'll use my study of you two and apply it to rocks. What is wrong with you Tara?"

Vijay snapped his fingers before Gupta's face when he did not immediately answer. "Sorry," he said. Gupta could not take his eyes off of Asha. "I was thinking of the future."

"Some soldier you will turn out to be!" Vijay exclaimed. His friend turned back to romance. "Wouldn't you rather stay here on earth where it is exciting? There is nothing but dust and sand on the colonies! Why it will be months before you can return for a visit!"

"That will be my new home," Asha declared. "And I am sad to leave my family behind. I wish that you would not remind me of that Vij. I just…want to be out there and see it all. I don't think of myself as some naval pilot exploring the cosmos like Tara will be doing. But I'll be out there, where no one has gone before."

Both boys rolled their eyes. They were both accustomed to Asha's moods. She had been like this since they were kids playing in the streets of New Delhi. When they looked up at the sky she saw a future. Gupta supposed that he had seen a future too. It was one gleaned more from the action adventure novels that he had read instead of reality. Vijay reminded him of that.

"Four eyes here?" his friend asked. "He will be on some ship preparing rice and peeling potatoes; if he even makes it past the moon! You would be better off staying and helping your father in his business Tara."

"Your friend was right _earther_," the Reman told him. "You should have stayed home. This is no place for you."

"I tend to agree," he answered.

"Another Vulcan?" the Reman asked Karzan. Gupta sensed that this was their leader.

Yes," Gupta interjected. He was about to take another gut shot when their leader stopped that.

"Let him speak F'Nar," the leader said. He eyed Karzan. "Your brain is different too. But I would have to be more intrusive and that could kill an old one such as yourself."

"Why not kill them Brinza?" F'Nar asked. "They are nothing but lower class _wuf'n_. They will inform on us just as fast as these would have." F'Nar pointed at the corpses of the monitors. The monitor leader still lay bleeding on the ground.

Two Remans pulled the officer up by his shoulders. A third removed a large heavy bladed knife from his belt. The blade was the size of a small sword. Gupta was amazed when he realized that the knife wielder was a female. He had become accustomed to male dominated Romulan society. He looked away when the Reman female started to methodically hack and saw at the monitor's neck. One of his captors grabbed Tarang's head and turned it, forcing him to watch. The Romulan screamed until his vocal chords were cut. The female pulled the head away and looked into the monitor's dead and terrified eyes.

"For my young that died of the bone death!" she proclaimed. "May you rot in _vorta-tx_!" The Reman tossed the severed head to the ground.

"I may kill them F'Nar," Brinza said. "I haven't decided yet." The Reman looked intently at Pakesh.

One of Pakesh's captors held his arm up for them to see. "A member of the guild!" the Reman announced, displaying Pakesh's tattoo.

"That is a point in their favor," Brinza said. "The guild has always treated us well." Brinza looked at Gupta. Tarang felt a brief mental intrusion. "What of you _earther_; will you liberate my race? What are you doing here except to make mischief."

"I don't want to be here," Gupta confessed. "We were abducted and brought here." He gestured at Karzan and T'Pol.

"I have lived on Romulus all of my life," Karzan announced. Gupta winced internally. He did not know what these Remans were doing but he felt that the praetor should keep his identity secret.

"That sounds like truth old one," Brinza said. The Reman looked at the captive group. "I doubt that there is a _plil_ of truth between the three of you: an enigma, a supposed savior and a crook," Brinza said looking in turn at Karzan, T'Pol and Pakesh. He looked back at Karzan. "I have been a slave all of my life on this world. Enough, it is over. While that one's race," he looked at Tarang, "is engaged against the empire we saw our chance. The mines are closed. There is no one to repair your ships."

"You are revolting!" Gupta exclaimed.

"The price will lay heavy on you," Pakesh said.

"To remain slaves or have our freedom?" F'Nar asked. "This world's energy comes from the mines. The hook noses won't bomb the mines. They might as well surrender to the Triple Alliance if they do. We on Romulus are prepared to die: whether it is fighting the oppressors or being caught and executed it matters little. We will have accomplished our goal."

"What goals?" T'Pol asked. "This revolt seems pointless and illogical."

"We want left alone on our world," Brinza replied. "Does it surprise you that we would desire such a planet? When you dwell beneath the bright sun? That is our home. We still treasure it as such."

Karzan seemed to be recovering a little from his beating. "What of the initiatives to grant your race self rule?" the praetor asked.

"Now I become convinced that I've set upon a group of escaped _mon'zel't_," Brinza commented. "The initiatives," Brinza continued. Gupta could hear the bitterness in the Reman's voice. "It must have made the praetor feel good for while he still had a mind. Talk, talk and more talk, and always a reason why our overseers had to stay; always a reason that the yoke couldn't be loosened and now a war where our very youngest are being sent into the deep mines."

"We were to remove the overseers and appoint home rule for the clans," Karzan said. Gupta could see that he was clearly taken aback. "The legions being garrisoned there were to be released for other uses. It was thought that the Remans could become productive citizens…I do not know what happened."

"Like one slave can affect the outcome for another," Brinza countered bitterly. The Reman eyed them all harshly. "You…are just the same as us. Your petty government officials have sold their allegiances to the Tal Shiar. Your aristocracy is no more. That fool Karzan is just a stuffed figurehead."

"This is all horribly awry," Karzan lamented. "There are over two hundred thousand soldiers on Remus."

The female laughed gleefully. "There are none now! We have been preparing this since we saw that the praetor meant nothing with the self rule initiatives. Those officers were only too happy to have us in their private quarters to clean their filth. They acted like young aristocrats, so angry that they had to soil themselves by being stationed on our world. Now they will stay there forever! Now they are soil!"

"What do you want?" Karzan asked weakly. "What are you fighting for?

Gupta could only imagine how Karzan must feel over the loss of that many soldiers. Romulans were trained to be prepared to sacrifice their lives for the empire. But the sacrifice was not supposed to be meaningless or over what was preventable. Gupta knew that Karzan had regrets over the war dead. He had never intended for this war to happen, but it was too late now and regrets were all anyone had.

"We just want what was promised," Brinza said. "There is no place to go and we won't be _kevat'n_ in this war. There is no reason to believe that these _hewmaans_ or their allies are any better than you _wuf'n. _When the senate grants home rule we will supply the empire with fuel. It will be at a cost this time and our race will no longer accept our status as slaves."

"Why bother with these hook nosed _wuf'n,_ Brinza?" F'Nar asked. He pointed his weapon at T'Pol's head. "Let's kill them and be done with it."

Brinza looked at them for a long time. "The guild has helped us before and these others seem like lost fools. Let them go. They will probably be dead before too much longer. Perhaps they can tell the other _wuf'n _what we want. We must busy ourselves for the _skaal_. Get along now!" he ordered them harshly.

Gupta went to Karzan whose breath was coming in whistling gasps. The praetor did not refuse his help as Tarang put his arm under his thin shoulders. The group ambled away slowly, impeded by the older Romulan. The Remans faded into the woods as mysteriously as they had appeared. They walked in silence. Gupta was concerned about Karzan until his breathing seemed to improve. He did not disdain Gupta's support however.

"They are assembling to attack the city," Karzan said.

"Praetor we have been lucky. There is no reason to assume," Pakesh began.

"I was garrisoned on Remus as a young soldier," Karzan interrupted. "_Skaal_ is a word in their tongue that signifies a major event. It has been many a tenturn since I've worn a uniform but remember that all citizens are soldiers. Tankaara is a key point in cutting off access to Krocton Segment and the capital. That would cripple Romulus."

"Praetor, what of our air armies?" Pakesh asked.

"Have you seen any aircraft?" Karzan asked. "I have been puzzled by that ever since I woke this dawning."

"We've become fat and decadent. We--I appointed too many pretenders who just wanted a uniform as a decoration. Too many of those took Reman servants. If they have planned this over many turnings then it is not inconceivable for me to believe that they've crippled our aviation."

"They mean to buttress one end of a line of attack," Gupta said. He was still an intelligence officer no matter what else had happened. He remembered the layout of this section of the Culth'lak Continent.

The northern end of Tankaara lay between two rivers and pointed at the capital. Most of the administrators and senators had estates along the Vitenga River. Gupta and T'Pol had seen those on their journey up river. Although a space faring power much of Romulus was similar to twentieth century earth in infrastructure. With the mountains behind Kalenara and the river beneath it the Remans could rampage up the river, destroying the homes of governors as they went. The Romulans would not bombard their own world; at least Gupta believed that they would not. For a war like race the Romulans had never fought a battle on this planet. There were basic training bases on Romulus but except for Remus there was no major military presence on this planet.

"My thought too Tarack," the praetor said.

They climbed a short hill. T'Pol was the first to smell the smoke. They stepped from the dense woods onto a paved but badly maintained road. Across the road several small homes were ablaze. Bedraggled citizens were fighting a losing battle to save their homes. They were carrying buckets of water from a foul looking pond past the burned out remains of a fire fighting vehicle. Some of bodies of the fire crew were torn and mangled. Two were headless.

A female, too old to help stood against a fence, watching over several youngsters. Some of the children were in tears while others merely gaped at the horrific wreck of their homes. One boy asked the old female when they could go home. She recovered somewhat and told him, soon. Karzan shrugged off Gupta and T'Pol's help. He hobbled over to the old female.

"What has happened here?" he asked. Gupta could hear the authority in the old voice.

"The Remans," she said. "They came just after light. They had military weapons. I remember those types of weapons from seeing pictures of my mate; when he was a uhlan. They made us leave our homes and then they set fire to them. We called for the monitors but they were no where! They killed the fire fighters."

"They emptied the monitors out of the city," Karzan told them. "Tell me, mater, which way did they go when they left?"

"They headed to the east," she answered.

A young Romulan male joined them. More like half a male Gupta thought. His right limbs were both prostheses. He must have been one of the wounded veterans lucky enough to have survived. A slight, pretty young Romulan female accompanied him. He knelt to comfort one of the crying children.

"We will stay at mater's house in the city Kili," he told the child. "You know how much you like to go there. You can play with Anox." The child smiled gleefully despite the carnage around her.

"They may have attacked the city already," Karzan told the veteran.

The young Romulan stood up. "No, old one, the fire crew's wireless worked for a little. There is confusion in Nalva and they have attacked the monitor stations but so far they have not moved against the city." He looked hard at Karzan. "You seem familiar old one."

"I hear that all the time," the praetor answered without skipping a beat.

"You all look like you have had a rough time of it," the veteran commented. "At least you have your lives." He looked around. "I don't know what to do. We could defend ourselves if we had weapons."

"What?" Karzan asked, clearly aghast. "Every citizen should be armed. Every citizen could be called upon to fight."

"Where have you been old one?" the young Romulan asked. "Private weapons were taken over five turns ago. I know some in Nalva who hid their guns. I've also heard that a detachment of soldiers landed there."

"Then you think that the city is next?" T'Pol asked.

"Yes," he answered. "They attacked here to lure the fire fighters and monitors away. We'll go there and get her mater," he said as he looked at his mate. "Perhaps we can escape across the river then."

"You will not stay to defend your home; the city?" Karzan asked.

"I was a soldier once," he answered, holding up his artificial arm. "I would fight but I have no weapons. We have no weapons. No one was prepared for this. How would we fight? Who will lead us?"

"I have been gone too long," Karzan said. "I am back." Gupta could feel him exert his mind. He looked hard at the broken ex-soldier. "Gather everyone together. Those that can't walk must be carried or left behind. We'll go to Nalva and make a defense there." He raised his voice. Gupta wondered where the loud, strong voice was coming from. "All of you, you cannot save your homes here. We are Romulans. We survive. We conquer! Gather what is useful! We will make a stand in the city!"

The old Romulan woman looked at Karzan. "You…it cannot be." She started to drop shakily to her knees. Karzan reached out and stopped her.

"I am Praetor Karzan," he declared.

Gupta watched as there were gasps and few peals of laughter from the crowd. There followed a muffled exclamation and several exchanges of 'it's him'. The mood of the mob changed from humor to one of awe. More than a few Romulans dropped to their knees.

"Do not do that!" Karzan ordered. "I have failed you. I have failed in the most important duty that a praetor can have. I must earn your fealty again. Gather what you can carry. We will go to the city!"

"Snap to it!" the young veteran cried. "The praetor has issued a command!"

The stunned crowd milled about and then started moving. Gupta was impressed at the Romulan commitment to duty. He doubted that humans would move that fast, fresh out of a tragedy like this one. Karzan appointed the wounded veteran as his centurion. Gupta discovered that he was named Kataan. Kataan seemed surprised but immediately helped to organize the crowd.

Karzan turned to them. "The Remans would only do this if they could concentrate an attack against Kalenara. They must have migrated here to Tankaara and hid in secret. They will attack the city and then set out for the capital. It is the only way they could defeat us. It is the only possible explanation"

Pakesh laughed. He looked at Gupta and T'Pol. "The Reman was right my praetor: a thief, a savior and a fool. You have this thief's loyalty my praetor." Pakesh looked at Gupta.

Gupta in turn looked at T'Pol. He could feel her mental affirmation. "You have our loyalty too my praetor."

Nalva City, Tankaara Segment, Romulus, the fifteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of beginning

"We've lost both Harriers my admiral!" Centurion Shinza proclaimed. "The _snag'n _have ground-to-air launchers. The pilots didn't have a chance!"

"Doubtless they used the old _b'trila_ shoulder fired missile launcher," Valdore replied. He remembered reading about large amounts of antiquated arms coming up missing. Government administrators quick to defend their jobs had dismissed his worries as baseless.

Yet he could not blame them. Valdore had had no clear idea of where the weapons had been going. He asked about Riitraxa.

"Major Denaton reports that the Reman maintenance teams had bombs imbedded in their bodies," Shinza informed him. "The shuttle bays are unusable and admiral…over two thirds of the crew was killed when the ship was depressurized. The major barely had enough crew to get out of orbit and contain the damage. He also wanted me to tell you personally that The Praetor's Hand's ship was destroyed; probably by Remans, he did not know."

Valdore looked at a burning building. It had been a monitor station. He gestured at the gutted corpses that were stationed outside of the building. The humans had had a way of executing their own: _crucifixion. _That was the fate that had befallen these monitors. Valdore ordered the bodies taken down and burned.

He stopped a passing uhlan. "What is your name soldier?" he snapped. Valdore knew the name of each and every member of the assault team. He had asked merely to get an impression of this soldier's mettle.

"Artrax admiral," the uhlan answered. Valdore was pleased to respect without fear. He looked past the uhlan to the crashed shuttle beyond. If the landing had been reversed his ship would lay smoldering. As it was he had less than half a _limati _at his disposal; nineteen soldiers with few senior uhlans and officers for guidance.

"You are Centurion Artrax now," he said. Valdore hoped that his judgment about this young Romulan was correct. "Detail five uhlans to set up a defensive _orbis_ at the end of this section." It looked to Valdore like his new centurion had a different opinion. "Speak up if you disagree, centurion."

"Admiral Valdore, I grew up not far from here," Artrax explained. "A small hill overlooks this section." He pointed to where he meant. "We used to…we used to throw sacks of flaming _d'plis _at the entrance of the monitor station and then hide until they came out to stomp it out. They would chase us to the hill. We would hide up there until their anger went away." The new centurion smiled. "No one can come from behind that hill without going around the freight access road." Artrax's smile vanished. He was plainly mortified by the repercussions of his confession. There were limits to his strength Valdore realized.

Valdore wanted to laugh despite the situation. Instead he said: "I used to do much the same when I was your age," he said in a reassuring tone. Actually he had never done things like that until his appointment to Norcela. He reached out and laid his gloved hand on the young Romulan's shoulder. "I've dispatched the other _centi _on a mission to plant mines along that access. This battle…our enemy is without hope. They will be all the more dangerous for that. Understand that Artrax and fight them as if they are as deadly as a Triple Alliance adversary." 

"Admiral Valdore…how could this have happened?" the soldier asked. Artrax's fear was replaced with curiosity.

Valdore wanted to lie. He wanted to lie to protect the image of the empire that this young soldier had. He did not. "Because centurion, those that we trusted to handle security issues turned their spies onto lawful citizens of the empire instead of looking where the dangers were," he answered.

"Do not fear to ask questions. But right now I need you to attend to your duties. It is plain that this first attack was done before their forces were fully marshaled. Perhaps a vigilant monitor saw an increased number of Remans. We'll find out why after we defeat them. All they need to do is secure this position. With no air army opposed to them they will be in a direct line to attack Kalenara."

"I shall do as you command admiral," Artrax answered, saluted gravely and turned to his duties.

They had waited. No citizen would go into a Reman warren. How many turns had they spent assembling fighters and procuring weapons? The home defense forces would recover in a few dawnings and be in a position to land troops. But would that come in time? Valdore determined that he would defend his empire. If it took the fleet a turn to recover then Valdore and his victorious forces would be here waiting. A darkness crept into his very marrow.

In a turn a fleet might land relief forces: a Triple Alliance fleet. It was imperative that he deal with this threat now. Time was not an ally of the rebels, nor was an ally of the empire. He too had duties to attend to.

San Francisco, California, the old United States, earth, Dec 2158

Jocelyn Stiles had been pleased by the news that Trip Tucker would be here. She was nervous and had decided to come clean with him about her procuring of his code groups before the attack on Deneva. Her mother had been a voice of morality. Stiles also heard her father's voice telling her that doing the right thing sometimes hurt. Jocelyn wondered how much hurt. She waited at her mother's assigned residence. These homes, built on the site of an old military base, still reminded her more of military billeting than houses for politicians. She stood looking out of the patio doors onto the beach below.

Cool December air blew through her clothing. She had disdained her uniform for this meeting. Stiles had chosen a tight fitting dress that was neither formal nor provocative. Her mother had characterized it best as saying that it showed off her best features as well as good character. Stiles feet were uncomfortable in the matching heels, but she looked good and knew it. She slid the door shut when she heard the front door open. Trip would have knocked. Commander Jeffrey Sutton stood in the doorway. Stiles knew that he was still a political advisor to his mother.

Sutton wore his duty uniform though he was just returning to active duty. The docs had grafted one of his new lungs into him. He breathed better and seemed to be more himself than he had been. Sutton seemed at a loss for words when he beheld her. Stiles also remembered her mother's confession that Sutton was attracted to Jocelyn. He did not remove his blue foul weather jacket. He looked at her and said nothing. She greeted him. He returned the greeting awkwardly.

"Mama is in council if you want to--"

"Right," he interrupted. "Right…I…I needed to tell her that BuPer has moved me to light duty. I won't be able to…to see her…to act as her political advisor anymore."

"You could have left a message," she told him.

More silence. "I wanted to see…I wanted to see you," he answered at last. He looked her up and down. "You look good. Tucker is coming isn't he? I mean I know that Trafalgar is in orbit."

She nodded. "He is going to meet me here, yes."

He smiled sadly. "He's a lucky man commodore." Stiles knew that he wanted to say more. She hoped that he did not.

"Jocelyn is fine," she answered. "Looks like I'll be back in the saddle pretty soon."

"I've heard the rumors; a big push," he said. "They will need the best officers we have. Taskforce 18 is supposed to be completely rearmed and ready."

She nodded. It was pointless swapping rumors and that was all she had. Stiles had indeed been ordered to HQ by Admiral Forrest. She had connected the dots about the rest. Her taskforce was ready and rumors abounded about a new major offensive. Stiles also listened to the political winds. The new alliance was strained. The new ships didn't come cheap. There seemed little else to say.

"I just thought that I'd stop by and wish you luck," Sutton said. He extended his hand. She reached out to take his. Stiles absently looked at her painted nails. She had not applied that cosmetic touch since high school.

Her hand was warm in his. He leaned in quickly, embraced her and kissed her. Stiles started to push him away and then stopped. The kiss was passionate. She returned it but without his fervor. He backed away from her and released her. He had that same sad smile.

"Tucker's a lucky man," Sutton said. "I love you Jo-jo. I always have. It is not about getting over Talas. The docs talked to me about that. She's a part of my life that's over. She was a good part. It's just that…all that time we spent helping your mom and then on Tortuga. The more I got to know you the more I realized how I felt." Sutton sighed and shook his head. He reached out to touch her cheek. "I just wanted you to know."

"I don't know what to say," she answered. "You know that me and Trip…"

He shook his head. "Don't say anything." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. "It's handwritten. My dad would call it cheesy. I'm not sure what that means. It's for your mom. I just wanted to thank her for pulling me back from the edge." Sutton handed her the letter. "Good luck commodore—in everything."

"Good luck to you," she answered slowly. He turned around and stood in the doorway for a few seconds. She looked past him to see Trip Tucker headed up the walk. He turned back to her, smiled and left. He saluted Tucker as the two passed. Trip stopped and banged on the doorframe.

She invited him in. Stiles ran to him and hugged him. It didn't take but a few seconds for her to realize that he was not returning the gesture. She backed up. He was visibly frowning at her. Stiles felt a stab in her heart that she hadn't felt since she had discovered that David had been killed on Salem One. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry…sorry…Trip," she said.

"You used me," he declared. "You used to me to get the codes to disable the battle network. You just had to be there; had to get in your jab in at the Birdies. Hell Jo-jo, I don't want to negotiate with them! But maybe if we had talked to them we'd have learned enough to beat them sooner! Did it feel good to press the buttons and burn them up?"

Her anger boiled to the surface. Stiles was sorry for what had happened. She was sorry that a single Romulan had ever lived to come to earth. She was sorry for those who had died. They hadn't seen it coming. She was sorry for David and her father. She was sorry for every person her age that had had their lives ripped apart.

"Yes!" she roared back. Tucker actually took a step back. "Yes! I did that," she exclaimed. Spittle flew out of her lips. "The only trouble I have is that none of them suffered." He opened his mouth to speak. "You wait a minute! I was right about them from the git-go!" Stiles realized that her native accent was asserting itself. "They aren't going to stop. They don't know what mercy is. They live for war!"

"You can't know--"

"Yes, damn you I do know! I know exactly who I'm dealing with!"

He shook his head. "No, how can you when you don't even know me."

"I'm sorry about your goddamned career! There were other things that seemed more important then."

Tucker laughed bitterly. "I don't give a damn about my career. You lied. You used me and then you lied about it. I loved you. I thought that we were lucky to have each other after what had happened. I know that you hate the Birdies. But Jo-jo, you let that hate make you do something that was wrong. Did you tell your mother what you did?"

The noise from her slapping him was explosive. Tucker looked back at her and frowned even more. "Good, get it out of your system. Did you tell your mother? I mean if it was so right then you must have—"

"No damnit!" she shot back. "They had to be taught a lesson. They only understand strength. I had to…" She stumbled as tears burst forth from her eyes. "Goddamned butcherin' bastards!" she said as she ran to him.

He comforted her as one does a friend. All of this time she had heard her father's voice warning her. Stiles had gotten some revenge but deep down she felt empty. Beneath the rage and hatred there was nothing. That emptiness was worse than anything. Jocelyn realized just how much she had clung to the rage to avoid that nothingness. She cried as she had not since she was a little girl. She gradually regained control.

She wiped at her nose. "You…you're right," Stiles blubbered. She touched his arm. "I love you Trip. I love you more than anything. I…it was there. It was almost like I couldn't stop it. It's eaten at me ever since."

Tucker dabbed at his eyes. He shook his head. His countenance was mournful, as if he had just discovered that an old friend had just died. Stiles realized that he was looking into her soul. Sure it had eaten at her. Yet she had had numerous times where she could have told him. She hadn't. He knew it.

"I'm not asking you anything for me. I'm asking for you. You need to tell Admiral Forrest what happened. It's not my career I care about. It is about doing the right thing. I know it hurts. I still think about Elizabeth. But if I killed every single Romulan nothing would change. You're right about the torn lives. But one day it'll be over. For your own good go and confess. So when that day comes you can move on. I loved you, but I don't trust you." Tucker shook his head. "See you around the galaxy commodore." He turned and left.

Stiles stood there for some time. Mama would not be home for several hours. She stripped the dress off and threw it in the trash. The shoes followed. Jocelyn dug in the closet for a uniform. She would see if Admiral Forrest would see her sooner.

Nalva City, Tankaara Segment, Romulus, the earth winter of 2158,

Tarang Gupta stepped back into the slice made by the small brook. He knelt down. The small mountain overlooked Nalva from the west. Karzan had surmised that the Remans would send foragers through the woods and then down the mountainside while making a simultaneous approach down the western road. Karzan had made Gupta a centurion and gave him a _limati_; forty Romulans many of whom had seen too many turnings and many who had seen too few.

He looked through an antiquated optical scope into the deep woods. A Romulan boy lay not too far from him. He too had an antiquated type of weapon. Gupta looked around him after sweeping the woods to find nothing. The youth was looking at him with a mix of hero worship and fear. He smiled at the Romulan who he guessed was lucky to have seen ten turns.

"Remember, aim and shoot just like your father showed you," Gupta said. Hunting was a sport here much like on earth. Gupta saw little use in it. Many citizens had kept guns in secret and risked their liberty to go out and hunt.

"Yes Centurion Tarack!" the boy exclaimed. There was a short pause: "Are you really the heir to the praetor?" he asked.

Gupta wanted to laugh. "No, just a loyal citizen, just like your father," he answered.

"My father is killing many _hewmaan'n_. He is a great soldier."

Tarang winced. His father was killing his people. "I'm sure that your father is a great warrior, as you will be Si'tel."

He stopped to scan the woods again. There was movement. Tarang had earlier mistaken the movement of a type of bison for the Remans. He had since taken an almost cavalier attitude toward this task. It may be that the Reman rebels would come from another direction entirely. That was not to be. Gupta clearly saw the vampire like image of a Reman. He cursed under his breath.

The defenders had arrived here and hastily set up this skirmish line. Rumors abounded that a small force of real soldiers were holding across the city. These were not real soldiers that were under Gupta's command. The Reman had a small mic wrapped around his head unlike anybody in Tarang's unit. Gupta's makeshift _limati_ had no such fineries. They were reliant upon hand signals and faked animal noises. Gupta looked again.

More attackers became visible. The Remans were almost an _elil_ away. Gupta held up his fist. He was distracted when he heard a strange, distant sound. It was like a giant zipper being opened and closed. Gupta remembered that sound. His instructor in ground tactics and small arms at Khadakvasla had fired such a weapon. The final genesis of the machine gun; earth's version had been developed early during the twenty-first century. This had to be an alien relative to that gun that he was hearing Tarang thought.

Gupta turned to his left and right. His soldiers were holding up their fists and confirming that the line was ready. Tarang had planned hastily. He remembered that old class at Khadakvasla and how everyone at scoffed at the class and instruction of Subedar Major Carmody. Now less than a few years later he was clumsily instructing others in the construction of bombs using petro chemicals and construction materials. He remembered the subedar's incessant drills out on the dusty plains that surrounded his academy. He hoped that it worked as Carmody had said. It had back then, it should now. He lowered his fist and sighted.

He saw a Reman in the corner of the scope's field of view. He thought of Elcan. Had gentle Elcan been a part of this? This alien was not the target of this bullet. The cracks of rifles did not distract him. He looked past the Reman to what looked like a _piphleggi _nest. This bit of leaves and branches did not however house the winged Romulan version of the squirrel. Gupta fired. He saw a flash of red through the scope just before he pulled his eye away.

Low booms sounded and fire burst out as several apparent _piphleggi_ nests exploded and spewed out nails, screws and burning death. Gupta bellowed an order to fall back. He stayed low but started to scramble out of the brook when he glanced back and saw a screaming Reman attacker, his entire body engulfed in flame charging through the forest. Si'tel saw the same thing and was transfixed with terror at the sight. Gupta pulled out the Romulan version of semi automatic pistol, slung his rifle over his shoulder and leapt back into the brook. He seized the youth by the collar of his tunic and hauled him along.

He heard squeals as bullets flew past them. The bark of a tree exploded before him. Gupta looked down and saw that Si'tel was running on his own steam. He let the Romulan boy go. Si'tel ran along with him. An abandoned factory sat atop a winding road; the only vehicular access to this end of the mountain range. That was where the praetor and Gupta had decided to make a second stand.

Gupta's _limati_ held a position on the southern end of a north-south running mountain range. The range was separated by a mighty notch hewn by the passage of a once great river. A main highway ran along the floor of the notch. The highway paralleled a creek, the remains of the river. That was to the right and below Gupta, almost sixteen hundred _elt'n_ down. Tarang figured that the zipper sounding gun was mounted on a vehicle that was navigating that road below.

They had discovered that the Remans had attacked a basic training facility some distance from the city. A civilian survivor had reported being taken prisoner and made to witness the slaughter of the trainees. According to the survivor the base had a few working ground assault vehicles. Those were probably in rebel hands. He hoped that the praetor's _limati'n _could hold off the attack from that vehicle. At least the defenders would not have to worry about fire from the towering cliff tops. Gupta's unit was taking care of that.

"The factory centurion!" the youth gasped as he picked up speed and plunged ahead of Tarang.

The bullets were thinning out. The Remans must be moving more cautiously. The moss and vine covered modules of the old factory lay just ahead. It had been an old munitions plant that had been consolidated into a more modern facility in another segment. The smell of industrial waste was still present despite the tenturn long closure. That waste, much to Tarang's delight, was flammable. Gupta collapsed and rolled beneath a fence line. He dropped a few _elt'n_ to a crumbling walkway. He immediately turned and hefted his rifle. A piece of masonry exploded behind and above him. Si'tel was trying to peer over the lip of the walkway.

"Into the basement with you!" he ordered the young Romulan.

He caught sight of a Reman who was in the process of aiming at him. Gupta fired in panic and ducked as more masonry exploded and rained down on him. He moved a little to the left and popped up again. This time he did not need the rifle's scope to see his enemies. He fired. A tall pale Reman clutched at his abdomen and fell to his knees. Gupta ducked down again.

"I want to stay here with you Tarack!" the youth insisted.

"I'll be right there!" he said. He knelt and grabbed a bottle full of lubricant. The bottle had a piece of cloth hanging from its neck.

Gupta lit the makeshift wick while thanking the memory of an innovative Fin and Subedar Carmody. Several of his soldiers did likewise. The bottles of flammable lubricant went flying toward the attackers. Tarang turned and sprinted for the basement entrance. He noticed that more than a few of his soldiers stared in awe at the results of the Molotov Cocktails. Romulans had never fought a guerrilla war among themselves. He roared at them to get moving.

Gupta was the last to enter the darkened basement passage. A few of the stouter Romulans helped him close and brace a rusted door. They turned and ran. He used his hand torch to see as he ran along. An explosive blast echoed behind him. The door was flying down the passageway toward him. He turned a corner just in time to avoid being cut into half by the door.

His chest was heaving when he was dazzled and blinded by sunlight. He was out! Gupta squinted through burning tearful eyes for the edge of the patio that he knew was here. He found it. His feet slipped and he rolled down the steep wooded hillside. Gupta slammed up hard against a tree. The old factory was almost a hundred and fifty _elt'n_ above him. The explosion was devastating. Tarang felt as if he'd taken a punch to his stomach. The air was sucked from his lungs.

"Are you alright Centurion Tarack?" Si'tel's young face floated before Gupta's.

"Yes, yes I am," he replied. He stood up. "Let's get down to the city."

They slid more than walked down the extreme incline. The trees were helpful as handholds. Gupta was heedless of pursuit. Whatever or whoever had been on the top of that mountain were dead. Gupta started seeing a street and the small ornate houses of a Romulan neighborhood. He slid a few _elt'n_ to the street. He wanted desperately to catch his breath but had no time. A few beaten looking civilians greeted them. An old Romulan female offered him a drink of cold water from a pitcher.

Gupta drank greedily. He stopped when he beheld a tall Romulan soldier replete with battle armor, walking toward him. Had these ragtag forces linked up with the soldiers in the city? Gupta didn't know what to do or say. The soldier removed his helmet. Gupta found himself gaping at Praetor Karzan. The old Romulan looked and acted like a Romulan half of his age. Pakesh trailed the Romulan leader. Gupta's old chief had taken up a sort of aide-de-camp role. Karzan was busy shouting orders.

A few Romulans were busy packing a disabled groundcar with oils and cleaning chemicals. The zipper sound erupted from the street below. It was answered by single shots from the defenders' older weapons. The zipper sounded again. An ornate brick pyramidal home exploded into dust. The defenders here were not faring well. The group finished with the car. An ugly gray, tracked vehicle popped up over a low hill below them. Gupta saw Kataan and a few older Romulans push the broken car. Kataan tossed a grenade into it as it rolled on its own. They all dived for cover.

The heavy duty machine gun fired. Fragments of pavement exploded all around Tarang. A massive explosion knocked the wind out of him for the second time today. Gupta rolled up. He spat dust out of his mouth. Karzan was already on his feet giving orders. The praetor was joined by another group of amateur soldiers. Gupta was relieved to see that one of them was T'Pol. He struggled to his feet.

T'Pol surprised him by kissing him deeply. "You do not look well," she commented after the kiss.

He wiped at his brow. His hand came away with dirt and ash and sweat. He looked at her. "You look lovely."

"There will be time for that later!" Karzan shouted. The admonishment was meant to be humorous yet Tarang could see that the old Romulan was angry and frustrated.

"We defeated the ones coming down the mountain praetor," Gupta informed him. He hoped that the news would improve the old leader's mood.

"We have to move toward the city center," Karzan said. "Those assault vehicles are from the Alezaar Training Base. There are more of them coming from the north western highway."

"I thought that there were only a few?" Gupta asked.

"Our witness might have been released by the Remans for misinformation," Karzan said. "We must make our way toward the center, while there is still time." The group of disheveled Romulans fell in behind the praetor. Karzan motioned for Gupta to come to his side. The old Romulan spoke to him in a soft voice meant only for Tarang to hear.

"We surprised them with our resistance here. But we cannot win without the air armies. We can slow them but I believe they will surround us in the center while the bulk of their forces go down river."

Down river, down river by foot might have allowed time for the Romulan air forces to deal with the rebels. But down river by vehicle would put the capital in danger in a few turns. As attractive as a Reman victory might seem to Gupta and the Star Fleet he understood that it would be a disaster. How many administrators and aristocrats would the Remans kill? Gupta believed that if the shell of Romulan society was ripped off chaos would ensue. The military would be free to rampage through space while the Romulan homeworld would crumble.

Gupta would have found a way to support the Remans but he knew that they would be nothing but temporary rulers. If the allies landed here, and they would surely have to land: it would become a bloodbath for the occupiers. This war had to end, as repugnant as it might be, with the present government in charge. Anything else would be a disaster for everyone.

Nalva City, Tankaara Segment, Romulus, the fifteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of beginning

Valdore leaned out, sighted along the launcher's electronic acquisition system, lined up his target and fired. The small guided missile was no bigger than a young M'Linga hawk. It was far more deadly than that particular bird of prey. The missile detonated just short of the gray armored vehicle. A second explosion followed, sending a high speed sabot into the carrier's soft interior. The armored car exploded. Another took its place. Valdore had no more missiles for that threat.

Artrax led his troops on a crisscrossing run to cover. All of the soldiers made it safely save for one whose body exploded when shells from the carrier's _tan'zel_ repeating rifle tore through him. Reman rebels fired from crouching runs from behind the cover of the armored carrier. Valdore heard the telltale zing of bullets flying past him. He discarded the launcher and sprinted behind a piece of decorative wall that had once concealed a small well manicured yard.

He found Artrax directing a group of civilians in laying down a pattern of counter fire. It had confounded Valdore that it had taken so long to convince the citizens that they were not here to arrest them for gun ownership. Artrax was doing a good job with the citizens but they were fighting a losing battle. Hunting rifles and antiquated military trophies were no match for the firepower that the rebels had acquired.

"My apologies my admiral I failed--"

"Rest easy centurion," Valdore told Artrax. "The empire can demand your life but it does not require you to spend it uselessly." He was surprised that the former uhlan had did as well as he had. The hill he had been defending was aflame. "We must pull back. There are civilians mounting a defense in the city center."

"Admiral Valdore…we will be surrounded," Artrax said.

"This city is powered by one of the older nuclear piles," Valdore explained. "If I cannot see any other way then we must destroy that."

"I grew up here…admiral," Artrax replied. He was clearly appalled by Valdore's plan.

"I understand." Valdore knew that few commanders would bother to explain a decision to a subordinate. "Our entire world is in danger centurion. You do understand that the Triple Alliance is still out there. While these rebels are tying our hands here, our real enemy is advancing. We need to stop this, even if it means our deaths."

"But an old reactor such as that admiral," Artrax said.

"Will not produce a large explosion," Valdore finished. "It can be made to contaminate this entire area so that nothing lives. I know that your parents live just outside of the city. I hope that they escape but remember what we are, what they are."

"We are Romulans admiral," Artrax said. He could hear the young soldier's reluctance but also his acceptance.

"Let's move!" he shouted. Valdore hadn't snapped commands like this since he had been a recruit.

The civilians and his soldiers turned and started an ordered retreat. Valdore could feel their anger: anger from the civilians at having to abandon their homes, anger from his troops because Romulan soldiers had their backs to an enemy. The group of almost seventy scrambled through narrow twisting alleyways. They had little time.

Several of his legionnaires ran with him. Valdore appreciated the loyalty but he did not appreciate the stupidity. The Remans would soon figure that he was someone of importance and needed to be killed. He ordered his escorts to fan out. Too late a blinding laser beam passed through one of them. The older uhlan looked puzzled for a brief time. The left upper quadrant of his torso fell to the ground. The soldier ran on for a few steps before collapsing.

Valdore felt the impact of the explosion before he heard it. His _limati'n_ had salvaged enough explosives and thruster fuel from the Harriers to blow up several of the homes. One of the older civilian volunteers was skilled at construction. He had showed Valdore's soldiers where to place charges to bring the buildings down into the street. Valdore turned to see a pall of dust climbing into the sky. The gunfire subsided.

The fighters boarded what few groundcars there were. Valdore hung on the outside of a modified ground coach. They needed speed to get to the center of Nalva. The wind blew through his hair as the driver sped up. He felt alive. Several defenders cheered as they passed by. These were Romulans who were near the end of their span. They had agreed to set up in an irregular _centi_ in order to ambush the rebels. Valdore doubted that any of them would live.

The admiral looked off to his right and the El'Nado River. The main section of Nalva sat the confluence of the river and a creek. Valdore planned on blowing up the bridge that straddled the creek. That would slow the Remans while he either devised a better scheme or detonated the reactor. He looked ahead when the driver slowed the former delivery coach. Armed civilians waited across the bridge. Valdore stuck his head into the driver's compartment.

"Stop halfway across driver," he told the old one who was driving the coach.

"Yes my admiral!" the civilian croaked. Valdore figured that the driver must have five tenturns on him. Yet the old one had killed two Remans in close quarter combat, using only an ancient sidearm with amazing speed and accuracy.

Valdore stepped off of the coach as it slowed to a crawl. He held out his hand in a gesture of parlay. The civilians looked at him in wonder. He walked over to the pickets. Valdore was surprised to see another soldier. This one was busy giving orders to the throng of civilians that surrounded him. Valdore saw that the uniform must have belonged to an older Romulan. The style was from forty tenturns ago. The pickets guarding the bridge parted to let him pass. The legionnaire removed his battle helmet. It was an older Romulan, Valdore observed. His back was to him but Valdore could plainly see the officer's head of thick gray hair.

"Who are you?" he demanded of the soldier.

Valdore took a step back as the soldier turned on him. "I am praetor of the Romulan Empire, Admiral Valdore."

Valdore barely saw the blur of motion. A bedraggled looking beggar came out of nowhere and tackled him. He could hear Artrax's warning shout as he hit the ground. Valdore's turns of hand to hand combat training helped him get out from beneath the attacker. He drew his service knife from his boot.

"Where's the cure you _v'roul_?" Valdore found himself confronting an angry Tarang Gupta. The former human lashed out with his foot and knocked the knife away. Valdore saw Artrax aiming his sidearm at Gupta.

"Stay!" the praetor ordered.

"Halt Centurion Artrax!" he shouted in turn. Valdore realized that none of his machinations mattered before all of these Romulan soldiers and citizens. If he failed to obey the lawful ruler of the empire quite likely Artrax or another from his own _centi_ would put a bullet in his brain. Artrax lowered his pistol.

Some of the citizens were restraining the human. Valdore noticed that that act was reluctant on their part. Valdore stood up slowly. It occurred to him to bow before Karzan. A lucky Reman sniper might see him deferring to a superior and take care of his problem. No, he thought, he needed to assess what had happened.

"It is good to see you again my praetor," he said.

Karzan looked hard at him. "My centurion has asked a question of you Admiral Valdore." Had the human told the praetor everything? Karzan gave him a knowing look. "I do not have the cure with me of course."

"Neither Tarack nor T'Pol have competed the task that you appointed for them," Karzan said. "That is good for you that they did not; good for your inner being. You would become just another actor, like the Tal Shiar, like Vrinak was." So Vrinak was no more, he mused. "I require you to administer the cure for the virus to Promise, admiral."

"I shall do so when we are at a place where that is possible my praetor," he answered formally. Apparently the human and Vulcan had secured the praetor's favor. Valdore had not foreseen that happening.

One of his uhlans ran across the bridge to join them. The young soldier stood agape when he saw the praetor and realized who he was. The soldier had the weight of a salvaged communications' unit from their Harrier slung across his back.

"Report, Uhlan U'Lamez!" he snapped.

U'Lamez stood staring at Karzan while doing as Valdore ordered: "Admiral Valdore, Major Denaton is calling. He has managed to make a close approach and break through the interference."

"If I may praetor," he said as he helped the uhlan remove his burden. He hit the unit's reply. Denaton's voice was barely discernible through the static. Valdore acknowledged the transmission and then listened.

"Shuttles taken for scheduled—" A short burst of static obscured the next. "Destroyed," Denaton's voice announced. "Possible sighting of a Triple Alliance ship at _ArTaza'x_," Denaton continued. The transmission was becoming clearer. "Few shuttles left to send down even an assault _limati'n._ I'll assemble a team but it leaves almost no shuttles to make major repairs to our ships."

"Has an assessment been made of what is going on?" he asked the major.

"The Remans have cut off the entire sector around you admiral," Denaton replied. "Most aircraft were attacked and destroyed across the planet. They were destroyed before they could become airborne. There have been attacks in all major cities. There is resistance from citizens but many have been slaughtered. Retinga City was burned completely."

Valdore put together what else he had heard. He remembered signing the orders for shuttle maintenance himself. He had been somewhat surprised that so many were due maintenance all at this time. Valdore had put it down to war time scheduling.

"Tell me of _ArTaza'x,_" he told his officer. The empire had conquered the mind aliens when Valdore had been a youth.

"The Remans in service with the Nineteenth Legion revolted admiral," Denaton answered. "Colonel Munalez survived an assassination attempt. He reports that the _aflel'n_ seem complacent and unaware of the revolt. But without Reman oversight he has withdrawn past a boundary so as not to taken by their mental powers. He reported that a ship that they had at first taken for one of ours attacked several of his ships. Later examination shows that the ship's power wave matched the matter annihilation generators of Triple Alliance ships. It will be many dawnings before Munalez receives an answer. Admiral…he has asked whether it is now prudent to bombard _ArTaza'x_."

"That world is full of natural resources admiral," Karzan said. "If you fear an alliance encroachment, it will matter little whether the planet's populace is there or not. It would be sound to assemble an attack group to augment the nineteenth. We may be able to obtain Reman help again."

"Negotiation?" he asked. Was the old fool actually considering such with these traitors?

"Admiral, I was drugged by Vrinak. But my mind is intact again; for a little longer. I maintained private access to information. I know what condition the economy is in. I know how this world stands. What is your suggestion; bombing Remus? Will the legions mine the radioactives that we need? If they do, then who will defeat the alliance?"

The praetor was right of course. Valdore had come bitterly to the same conclusion. He told Denaton to organize a strike force to go to _ArTaza'x_. The major could spare few shuttles. Valdore started to order those deployed here to protect the capital when the praetor intervened again.

"We cannot allow Romulus to burn admiral," Karzan said. "Use what air power you can muster to attack the worst of the ground incursions. It is up to us to fight here."

Gun fire erupted behind Valdore. He was growing to despise the tearing staccato sound of the _tan'zel_ rifle. The enriched slugs from the Reman held weapon tore through a hastily constructed line of ground vehicles. They also tore through the flesh of several luckless civilians. One of his soldiers shot a screaming citizen defender whose intestines were spilling to the ground. Valdore could hear the sound of the tracked vehicles on the street pavement. He outlined his plan to Karzan to destroy the city's reactor.

A filthy child ran across the street. He was heading from the direction of the river. The youth, much to Valdore's surprise ran straight for the human. The young male's clothes were torn and covered with dirt. He caught his breath and started speaking. Gupta told him to slow down.

"Centurion Tarack," the child started. Valdore bristled at the rank bestowed upon this human. "Boats, boats coming up the river! Some of them have fired at the _snag'n_!"

Karzan looked at Artrax. "You there, go to creek wall and check down river." The uhlan responded crisply and departed.

Valdore sprinted with the group for the protection of a wall. Slugs and a few laser beams were finding targets among the defenders. U'Lamez knelt beside him. Valdore was glad that communications were still available with Denaton.

"Take the home defense forces and scout _ArTaza'x_, major. If an alliance strike is imminent you are to stay and hold there. If Munalez is wrong, then turn about and come back. Leave only a few shuttles to provide air cover here. Defend the cities where the rebels are causing the most mischief and then consolidate to defend the capital."

"We'll take what we can admiral," Denaton answered. "Many of our vessels are badly damaged by sabotage. We could spare a few of those."

"No! Take every ship you can to _ArTaza'x_!" he exclaimed. "See if you can pull any fighters from spares to augment the Harriers." The speaker of the communications' unit issued forth with a loud burst of static. "The preservation of the empire comes before all else Denaton, Valdore out!"

Valdore suspected that the rebels had set off nuclear devices that had high emitted high volumes of radioactive particulates. At least they had done so beyond the atmosphere. Valdore reluctantly saw the wisdom in the praetor's words. This rebellion could have been far worse. It now seemed obvious that the Remans would negotiate: after they had pushed things to a point. He only hoped that that point was not past the edge of the abyss.

"What of the tactical situation admiral?" the praetor asked. "You will deprive Romulus of our space forces."

"I know the relative positions of the Triple Alliance ships praetor," he explained. Valdore went in as much detail as he dared with the battle raging around them. After the destruction of the shipyard their scouts had ascertained where Forrest had redeployed his ships. Valdore didn't know exactly where his enemy lay but he had a general idea. An attack on _ArTaza'x_ was possible. An attack here was not possible, at least for a quaturn.

Forrest would attack where he chose but space bending only allowed for so much. Valdore had long suspected that the humans had been building an advanced starship. He did believe that that ship, if it existed, was one of a kind. The Triple Alliance was not so unlike them in technology. It took time to field new systems in large numbers. He believed that the ships that the Triple Alliance had were what they would use against them. Any advanced ships would act, probably as scouts.

Valdore was also convinced that Forrest would make incremental strikes against the empire. He would move his forces, securing the worlds behind him until he had a superior position from which to attack Romulus. That was why it was so important that the ships around Venador be released to join the fight. The empire no longer had the forces to fight a long defensive battle. Valdore needed those forces to execute a decisive stroke against the alliance. He saw Gupta's barely concealed scowl when he mentioned that plan.

"I understand your motives admiral," Karzan said. "All of your motives," he added ominously. "Yet I shall defer to your tactical judgment. As far as my imminent removal, you need to consider that things have changed. As you no doubt surmised Vrinak is dead. But the Tal Shiar's hold on our society is very much alive. My death would not help you. We must come together as Romulans at this time. There will be time to cut one another's throats after we have won the war."

"Very well," he answered. Valdore explained his plan to detonate the old reactor. Karzan's face grew hard. Valdore could see his great age reflected in his pain.

Valdore turned to see a rebel armored carrier explode. Something like mortar fire was raining down onto their adversaries. It provided a temporary reprieve. The rebels were bearing down from the west. The praetor's civilian army was being broken. The tattered remnants of defenders started filtering into the city center. They joined the remainder of the city population that was too old or too young to fight.

Artrax came darting from the cover of a shelled out food store. He dived behind the sheltering wall. Valdore peeked up and started shooting at Remans with his sidearm. He had won many shooting competitions during his youth and had continued with sport shooting ever since. Valdore shot two Remans while he listened to his centurion's report.

"Criminal Guild boats my admiral!" Artrax rasped out. "Many of them have makeshift armored plating protecting them. There is a flotilla coming up river. They are taking on refugees!"

"We've been pushed back into Justice Triad my praetor!" a young citizen burst into the group to announce. The young male's right side had been mauled and was replaced with artificial limbs. He must be a veteran.

"Justice Triad, they've just cut us off from the reactor!" Both he and the praetor spoke nearly in unison. He stopped shooting. Knelt, ejected the clip and then put a fresh one in. He glanced at Artrax. "Organize the citizens who can't fight. We must take them to the river. The Remans will have to engage us all the way to Kalenara."

Artrax did as he was ordered. They started a slow retreat to the river. Valdore seen citizens and soldiers fall dead from sniper fire as they went as fast as they could along a road to a heavy freight offloading station. They paralleled the creek to where it joined the river. Valdore looked across the stream as houses were pulverized by mortar fire. He looked ahead and saw the small relief fleet. Puffs of smoke spouted up off of their tiny decks. Explosions tore through the houses.

Valdore heard screaming behind him. A line of Remans had broken their rear defense. The struggling citizens were being mowed down. He was shocked when Gupta leapt past him with the battered veteran Kataan. The two led a detail of citizens who started laying down fire against the marauding Remans. Against his better judgment he broke ranks to join the fighters.

He found himself kneeling behind an abandoned ore carrier with Gupta. The human was firing a captured machine pistol at the advancing Remans. The _snag'n _were slowing. They had stopped shooting the citizens and were trying to break this new defensive line.

"If there isn't a cure I'll kill you admiral," the human announced coldly as dirt flew up around them.

"I was wrong about you human. I should have killed you and your mate on Vulcan." Valdore popped up and shot a Reman who was in the act of tossing a grenade at them. The alien fell over dead. The grenade's explosion took care of his mates. Gupta was reloading when Valdore knelt back down. "It is my fault. The mature know to accept responsibility. I was a fool to unleash a weapon that I had no control over." The line of Remans thinned. Gupta and Valdore turned, fired, scrambled along and stopped again to supply covering fire.

They both cursed when an armored carrier appeared along the line of their retreat. They had fought their way to the meeting place of the river and the creek. The civilians were climbing slowly down a steep bank. They would never make the boats before the carrier arrived. The soldiers of his _limati_ were for the most part at the water's edge. Valdore signaled for them to tell those on the boats to start firing this way.

A fighter roared by overhead. The carrier exploded killing its crew and the Remans advancing behind it. Valdore thought that the situation was about to be reversed when he saw the final piece of the Reman's strategy. The spherical fighter was turning about when it exploded. An older _Falin_ fighter flew by. So, the rebels had not destroyed all of the aircraft on Romulus. The _Falin'n _were an older style of fighter aircraft. They had proven useful in wiping the humans off of their colonies during the beginning dawnings' of the war.

The graceful looking plane turned about. Valdore could see that its pilot was not adept at flight. The _Falin'n _were also excellent ground attack aircraft. Gupta started to shoot at the approaching aircraft.

"Pointless!" Valdore roared as he added his fire to that of the human's.

To his surprise the fighter exploded. Valdore was at a loss as to why until he saw the telltale exhaust trail made by a surface-to-air missile. Gupta slammed into him. The two rolled down the bank. Valdore slammed painfully into a rock. That stopped them and, he suspected broke some of his ribs. He pushed the human off of him. Valdore thought that the human had become enraged and lost his mind until he looked at the top of the bank. Flaming pieces of the downed aircraft were imbedded in the ground where they had stood. Gupta helped him to his feet.

"I would never spare an enemy," he told him as the two ran toward the river's edge.

"I'd let you die if you didn't have the cure admiral," Gupta replied. Massed Remans popped up on the top of the bank. The two of them sprinted down a steeper fold that cut off their adversaries' fire.

The praetor stood with the Vulcan and a tall thin Romulan bearing the tattoo of the guild on his wrist. They were helping the last of the refugees onto a boat. Valdore could plainly see that the Vulcan was lending extra support to Karzan. Was she influencing his mind? They needed to hurry.

Rebels charged down the bank from the north. Valdore wondered at how the Remans had assembled so many without the Tal Shiar's knowledge. Bullets cut through the air all around him. The makeshift armor covering the tramp river trawler erupted into sparks. Valdore slapped his last fresh clip into his pistol. A group of large, clearly suicidal Remans sprinted ahead of the rest. They were shooting as they charged. The bolts on their weapons slammed open as they exhausted their ammunition. The rebels pulled out curved blades. This was perfect.

The Remans would slaughter the praetor, Gupta and the Vulcan. Valdore sprang over the boat's side. He turned as if to shoot. The human's gun was empty. To Valdore's surprise, Gupta turned and shoved T'Pol away. She in turn seized Karzan. Gupta turned the gun around and swung its butt directly into the head of one of the Reman attackers. The tall thin criminal yelled, drew a pistol and started shooting. The group of eight Remans was reduced to two. One of those pulled a small sidearm and aimed it directly at the praetor. The human stepped into the line of fire. Valdore heard shots.

A heavy deck mounted gun had been hastily erected. It's chattering fire broke the rebel charge and slew those near the ramp. The criminal sprang past Valdore and took hold of the human as Gupta collapsed backwards. Blood pumped out of ragged holes in his chest. The boat jerked when its prop bit into the water, setting the little vessel into motion. Gupta was dragged into the boat and behind a piece of armor plating.

Valdore looked on as the praetor, the criminal and T'Pol gathered around the wounded Gupta. Mortar fire subsided as the armored carriers backed away. Valdore holstered his gun. He spun around and saw Artrax standing before him. He realized that the newly appointed officer had witnessed his inaction.

"My weapon jammed," Valdore told Artrax.

"Of…of course my admiral," Artrax said at last. He reported that a third of the surviving _centi _had been killed in the evacuation. The city dwellers hadn't faired much better. U'Lamez and his comm unit had been cut to pieces by weapons' fire. Valdore told Artrax to organize the surviving soldiers and aide the civilians. He turned back to watch Gupta's life bleed out onto the filthy deck.

Had he become so entwined in intrigue that he had not seen the correct course of action? The praetor lived. Valdore had based his plans on a mindless dolt, not a cognizant praetor who, though old, was still strong. He looked down at his gun. Why had he not acted to defend the leader of the empire? He looked at the dying mystery of a human on the deck. What had moved this human when Valdore had stood rooted? Amidst the crowded throng protected by the ship's armor he stood alone in thought.

Earth Asteroid Outpost Four, Dec 2158

Commander Bill Walters followed behind Lieutenant Royce Hansen. Commander Sharon Patelli followed behind Walters. The trio bent over and proceeded along slowly. The cavern had a low ceiling. Walters could smell water ahead. He felt Patelli make a playful grab for his rear. She giggled.

"Everything okay back there?" Hansen asked.

Walters told him that everything was fine. He held out his hand torch added it to the light of Hansen's. Bill marveled when he considered that these chunks of rocks would be turned into bases. He understood that Admiral Forrest was in the final stages of planning a major attack. That was why the taskforces were out here.

"Are you looking forward to staying here?" Sharon asked Hansen. A light source was evident ahead of them. The rocky passageway got larger. Walters pulled himself up painfully.

"Cripes! Are you kidding?" Hansen answered as they stepped out into a larger chamber. A dark, still body of water lay before them. Walters shined his torch out over it. "We're going to build these things and then leave. I'm an outdoorsman myself. I can't imagine living in a rock like this for more than a year."

"Looks like a hundred meters to the other side," Patelli remarked.

"It's deceptive in the dark," Hansen answered. "When the day cycle rolls around you'd see. It is sixty meters to the other side. The environmental folks are going to put plants and grass here. It'll help the air cyclers and give the poor slobs stationed here something to do."

"You mean swimming?" he asked.

Hansen turned and grinned slyly at them. Walters wondered why the thirty-something Hansen didn't do something about the early run of gray that colored his thick mat of curly hair. The engineer replied that that was what he indeed meant.

"This is the compound's water supply and reactor coolant," Hansen explained. "It's nice and toasty and clean. It gets filtered before we drink it, so don't you two worry about peeing in the pool." He winked at them under the faux twilight of the environmental lamps.

"Thanks again for bringing out real steaks," Hansen said. He pulled out a metal thermos. "This is the local hooch. It ain't good and it ain't good for ya! The night crew will probably be showing up here in another three hours or so." He winked at them. "I'll leave you two be. 'Night," he said as he turned and departed.

"Amazing what a few frozen New York strips will get," Patelli remarked.

Privacy was at a premium and the couple knew that they dare not meet aboard any of their respective ships. A relationship made for high drama and the crews usually made it a point to hang around so that they could learn and then pass on tidbits. Walters wanted to be alone with Sharon; probably not for the reason that she assumed. The couple had ran into the amicable Hansen who was more than willing to facilitate them when he learned that the carriers had been stocked just weeks ago.

Bill turned to see the pale, naked form of Patelli. She was kicking off her panties and heading for the water's edge. He was about to say something, but decided it was best to go along with her. Walters looked around as if every crewman in the Star Fleet might be watching. He pulled off his jersey, boots and duty slacks. Bill discarded his undergarments and headed for the water.

"Hansen wasn't kidding!" Sharon exclaimed. She lunged forward and cut into the water, making a clean swath.

Walters followed with gusto. He ran headlong into the water and then dived when it was almost up to his thighs. He nearly breathed water in surprise when the warmth enveloped him. Bill swam beneath the surface while thinking that Hansen had not exaggerated one bit. He came up near Sharon. She was into the water up to her mouth.

"Hansen said about three meters deep," she remarked. She swam over to him. Sharon wrapped her arms and legs around him.

"You've been quiet since we got here Mister Walters," she remarked. "Cat got your tongue or maybe I should do that."

He started to sweat in the warm water. She kissed him passionately. His body responded when his mind did not want to. Bill wondered if the Vulcans would be more considerate of teaching their mental techniques to others. They swam and then waded toward the shore. Hansen's people had lined the shore with soft sand. The two were soon rolling around in the sand. Walters wished that it would be otherwise.

Sometime later they waded back out and cleaned the sand off of them. Bill watched Sharon's shapely body from the water as she got out and laid a towel out. He got out, dried off and then lay naked beside her. She handed him the thermos. He took a sip of something that he was sure that his father must have used to strip away old varnish. He handed it back. Patelli drank heartily.

"It's weird," she said quietly. "If there was no more star drive here we would be: out inside of an asteroid, light years from our home, laying here naked on a beach. It is like we are the only people around, just us." Patelli looked at him. "Am I being weird?"

The same feeling took hold of him. "Not really," he answered. "We just take this technology for granted. Without warp drive we would be tens of thousands of years from earth."

Sharon squeezed his hand. "From home," she added.

There it was. Walters gulped, thankful for the twilight. "Sharon, what do you plan on doing after the war?"

A long uncomfortable silence passed. That end seemed to be in sight at long last. These asteroids would be used for the final push until troops were landed on Romulus. How long the ground war would last he had no idea. He could not imagine that it would be long with the Birdies' space power stripped away. She felt her toes rub along his calf.

"I've heard that moon shuttle pilots make a lot," she answered. "Maybe I can find one and chase his screaming kids all day."

"You're up for captain," he retorted. "Are you going to give all of that up?"

"So are about a hundred other commanders Bill," Sharon answered. "I've seen the cosmos. There are a bunch of incredible things out here. And then too, there are Romulans and things that can kill in a thousand horrible ways. Christ, you still wake up screaming those Marines' names."

"Trauma is a part of life. There is trauma from the day that some doc slaps our bare asses."

"That is your Irish friend talking: O'Brien." Patelli's voice carried an uncharacteristically bitter tone. "Ask his wife how she feels being a navy widow. Oh hell, I know he is not dead but the regular SN cruise time was up to two years. Two years without a husband, maybe she puts a good face on it but no way I'd want that."

"I want to be an engineer," he said.

"Like your friend O'Brien?" she asked. "Bill, cash out your credits and go to college on earth. I'll teach or take a laboratory job and support you. You don't have to become some grizzled space engineer."

"I want to be out there!" He rolled away from her and sat up. "Look Sharon, all my life I've felt disconnected. I didn't belong in Kansas and I didn't really think I'd be a shuttle pilot. I just went with the flow until I joined the Marines. That is where I felt at home."

"Home is a wife and a family," Patelli answered hotly; "not some damned wardroom full of cigar smoking chiefs and officers talking about their victories in this war!" She sat up next to him. Her tunic was lying within arms' reach. She threw it loosely over her shoulders.

"This war is not over," she started in a softer tone of voice. Sharon reached out and caressed his shoulder. "Use the time to think about your future, not about being an engineer. Think about all of those middle aged retired navy men and women knocking around, who really don't fit in. Their fleet family is gone and they don't have anyone else. I really love you Bill. I was in your shoes once. I thought I'd be some gung-ho captain, but that wasn't me. Think about your future. I know you have differences with your father but look at what your mom and dad have together."

Voices echoed down the chamber from whence they had come. Walters guessed that they were not the only ones to use the swimming hole. Patelli stood up, dusted sand off her backside and started to throw her uniform on. Bill did likewise.

"Right now I'm not sure I'd be happy on earth," he told her. "It's not credits or fame it's a feeling of something bigger."

She was right. The war was still on. It would be over soon. Walters would have a struggle getting into the Star Fleet Academy. He would have to face a loss of rank and prestige. He didn't think that would bother him. Bill had always believed that he was just here to do a job. If the job called for him to be a commander then he would be a commander. But it was that job that held him enthralled. He couldn't imagine sitting around in some office on earth with twenty other engineers. She touched his face and leaned in to kiss him deeply.

"There are things bigger than space travel," Patelli told him. "You'll only have one of me in your lifetime!" She added this last with a grin on her lips. She slapped his stomach hard. "Don't think because you are going through this crisis that you can hop into bed with some fellow star explorer. Remember I'm Sicilian and I have connections." She touched him between his legs and squeezed. "This still has my name on it!"

"Yes Don Patelli!" he responded. He laughed but he felt empty inside.

Two more couples entered the chamber. It was obvious that they were here for play. They were engineering personnel from the outpost. There uniforms were adorned with the breast insignia of the engineering corp. They were smiling and laughing while Walters felt like there was a pall over him and Sharon.


	47. Chapter 47

Tarang Gupta's Uncle Salil pumped water into a ladle using an ancient pump

Tarang Gupta's Uncle Salil pumped water into a ladle using an ancient pump. He drank the clear liquid down with gusto. He repeated the action except that he offered water to Gupta. Gupta was not thirsty. He felt that he was not anything. Tarang held out a brown hand and looked at it. He wondered that it was not transparent. External sensations told him that he was as light as the air around him. He gasped when he caught the reflection from the water.

His ears were pleasantly curved. Everything about his face was as it had been before he had left for Vulcan. Salil looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. It was as if to ask; what did you expect? Gupta drank the water. He looked around. This was his uncle's village on the outskirts of Mumbai. Gupta hadn't been to Salil's home since his uncle's death.

Salil looked at him expectantly. Gupta took up an old but sturdy hoe and followed his uncle to his vegetable garden. The hot Indian sun beat down on them. Gupta realized that he was wearing a dhoti and shirt rather than the loose fitting vest like shirt and baggy trousers favored by the Romulan underclass. Sandals had somehow replaced the boots on his feet.

"It has been hot and dry but the weeds haven't gotten that message," Salil told him. "Are you here to help or just to watch me?"

"Uncle, you've been….gone for--"

"Why can't you just say dead? You make it sound like I ran off with Chotta's wife for a week." His uncle smiled. "That sounds like something I should do. She is, after all here too."

"Where is here?" he asked his uncle. Gupta hadn't felt like this since his mind meld with Syrran. The last thing he remembered was confronting two charging vampire like Remans. Someone had then punched him in his chest and knocked him down.

"You already said it, or didn't say it. See what I mean about saying gone instead of dead. You are gone dear Tarang. It seems like you are early, but you were always accident prone. Did you follow your father into business? I think that was more practical than chasing aliens."

Gupta dug at a stubborn root. If this was dead it seemed very uncomfortable. Sweat soon soaked his shirt. The root came loose. Salil sang while he worked. His uncle's appearance was of an older Indian, but a few decades younger than Salil had appeared after his death. Gupta asked him about it.

"No one listened to me until after I was fifty! I chose this age because people listen to me now. If I had gotten to you to warn you then you wouldn't be here! Look at you! Dead!"

"Perhaps it is just as well," he mumbled.

"You seem to have done well," his uncle commented. The older man stopped, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, put one in his mouth and lit it. He inhaled deeply. "These things can kill you," he said and laughed.

"I've mucked everything up," Gupta lamented. "All of these alien cultures and civilizations: I thought that I could just grasp them and change things. How arrogant I was! I didn't bother to try and understand them. Romulans seem gentle at one turn and violent at the next. They are a puzzle."

"What rubbish!" his uncle exclaimed. "They are all Hindus. They just don't know it. Look at us: we smiled and nodded for the Christians and the Muslims. It didn't take any genius to see that both of those groups had made themselves so rigid that they would explode. Talk of arrogant; both of those had the audacity to say that they knew the mind of god! At least they had the good sense to have their inquisitions and jihads few hundred years apart of each other. But we Indians weathered it all. Do you know why?"

"No," he answered.

"Because we seized upon the spiritual nature of man while the others did not. These Romulans of yours, they don't have any more answers than did the Muslims. If you want a solution then look inside yourself! The answer is right there and it is human."

Gupta reflected that his time of solving problems had ended. The entire situation seemed moot. He was about to tell Salil that when he sensed someone else. A svelte figure was walking toward them. Gupta could not at first see who the person was for sun and the intense heat shimmer that went up before them. He shaded his eyes with his hand. T'Pol embraced him and kissed him.

She broke the kiss. "You must come back Tarang." T'Pol took firm hold of his hand. Something held him back. There was something easy about being dead.

"You're not from around here?" Salil asked T'Pol. She stared at the old human.

"This is my Uncle," Gupta said. "He's been…he is…"

"Dead," Salil finished. "You are a pretty young lady."

"I am no lady," T'Pol declared with typical Vulcan candor.

"Well, your personal habits are your own," Salil said. The old man cocked his head at the Vulcan. "My nephew needs a reason to go back."

"I suppose that I need to fix this situation with the Romulans," Gupta mused. He didn't mean it. It was comfortable here. The problems of the Romulan Empire and of earth seemed far and away.

"You need to come back Tarang," T'Pol repeated, "for me. I love you. It is not logical. I think that I spent too long suppressing that emotion." She took both of his hands in hers. "I do not wish to be apart from you."

He thought of the first time that he had touched her. Gupta remembered the boat ride they had shared in San Francisco Bay. T'Pol had seemed pretty and tiny and yet he knew that she had a strength. Gupta did love her, more than his own life, more than this death. He tasted her lips.

The El'Nado River, Romulus, the earth winter of 2158

"The idiot lives!" a familiar voice proclaimed.

Gupta's eyes fluttered open. He found himself staring into Tisza's face. He was in his old quarters on _Night Wind_. The Romulan female looked into his eyes while taking his pulse. He turned his head to see Pakesh sitting on room's the small desk. He smiled at Gupta. Tarang took a ragged breath.

"Where is T'Pol?" he asked. He started to remember what had just happened. "We were in _India_. No, I mean we were dead. I was dead."

Pakesh got up and touched his shoulder gently. "Why don't you shutup and relax," he admonished Gupta. The tone was gentle. "Promise put you in some kind of Vulcan meditative state. It allowed your body to heal itself. You really shouldn't try to catch bullets like that." Gupta looked down at his chest. It was bandaged.

"They have been removed," Tisza told him, meaning the bullets. She looked across at Pakesh. "You should thank your surgeon Tarack."

Pakesh grinned wickedly. "Souvenirs," he declared as showed Gupta two flattened, deformed slugs. The cabin door opened. T'Pol walked in and looked at him. Her demeanor was cool and unemotional. "Don't just stand there Promise! There is nothing wrong with passion. A kiss won't turn you into one of us!"

She looked at Pakesh. Gupta thought that she would reserve herself as she had done in the past. She stepped past his former chieftain and bent over Gupta. He felt her warm mental touch as she kissed him.

"As your healer I'd suggest that you not take to _g'nalng_ one another for a few more dawnings," Pakesh warned.

Gupta was surprised when T'Pol pulled her face away. Tears ran freely down her face. She must not have meditated in some time. The others excused themselves to leave him and T'Pol alone. He reached up and touched her face.

"I love you too," he said at last.

"I love you as well Tarack," she said. She looked puzzled. He told her of his meeting with his uncle.

"I was not there," she said. "I have spent time with you since your injuries but I have no knowledge of _India_. You were in a deep healing state. Your mind must have created those images for you."

"Of course," he agreed. He did not believe it. Gupta had seen his uncle. "What has happened?" he asked as he considered his experience.

T'Pol held his hand as she caught him up on what had passed since he had been incapacitated. They had met Haldur and Tisza by accident. _Night Wind _was not the vessel that had rescued them. Pakesh had spied Haldur at a planning session organized by Admiral Valdore. The admiral had taken over command of the citizen soldiers at the praetor's behest. Pakesh had transferred himself, Gupta, and T'Pol to his former ship. Haldur and Tisza had welcomed them back. It had helped that the praetor had designated _Night Wind_ as his personal transport.

"Did Elcan…" Gupta started.

"He is in hiding below," T'Pol said. "He is under Praetor Karzan's protection."

She told of how Haldur, Tisza and Elcan had tried to make a go of things. The monitors had been becoming increasingly brutal. They had decided to buy their citizenship after a small and legitimate freight run. They had arrived at a city where a veteran had gone mad. This time there were no government healers on hand to seize the body. Little had they realized that the Reman uprising had taken the government's attention. Elcan had discovered Galamide probes in the deceased ex-soldier's brain.

Then the Remans had come in force. Elcan had declined to join them, insisting that the rebellion would be ultimately damning for his race. Tisza and Haldur had sailed to an old military depot and used their criminal talents to break in. Several more guild members joined them as well as many of the legitimate river travelers. _Night Wind _had led a small force of boats to a city that the rebels were in the process of raiding. The combination of stolen mortars and deck mounted machine guns had saved the village. The grateful villagers had then helped to armor the river boats. The makeshift fleet had then sailed to Nalva based on intelligence that Elcan had deciphered.

"We have been fighting ever since," T'Pol continued. "You have been healing for over half of a tenth."

"What of the air armies?" he asked.

"The air forces that Valdore had left to him were surprised by aircraft that the Remans had held in reserve," T'Pol explained. "Both sides appear to have destroyed one another's aircraft. This has become a ground war. The Imperial Legions have departed to counter a _Star Fleet_ incursion. It may be a quartenth before they return."

T'Pol continued. The monitors had suffered the worst. Few of them lived. What military that was left on this world was at Kalenara. Retired and injured veterans along with children were holding the line elsewhere. Communications were sporadic. The senate was trapped in Kalenara. They had declared that they would not surrender. The rebellion was far more widespread than it had first been thought. The major cities and industrial centers were paralyzed.

"We have been fighting slowly upriver for many turns," she told him. "Praetor Karzan and the admiral believe that only an external force can break the siege of Kalenara. They have been assembling more citizens to join the fight as we advance. The Remans are steadfast however."

"They've bet everything on this," he said. Gupta struggled to sit up. He knew that he had been prone for a long while. T'Pol helped him.

"A few healers are scattered throughout this group," she told him. "One saw you two turns ago. You may sit up, but you should not try walking very far for another five turns. They wish to observe you for infection and ensure that the wounds are closed." T'Pol squeezed his hand. He had little to offer her. Gupta had not obtained a vaccine and they seemed farther from their goal than ever. She sensed his feelings. Perhaps she even read his thoughts. "There was never really a high probability of success. Valdore is under orders from the praetor to cure me as soon as possible."

"The officer who wanted to assassinate his leader," Gupta said. He accepted a glass of water from T'Pol and drank. "How much can we trust him?"

"These Romulans have a sense of honor, skewered though it may be," T'Pol replied. "My concern is that we may have unwittingly allowed Valdore control over the military. I do not know if he can deal the alliance a defeat but the situation has prevented even that possibility; up until now."

"I wanted a chance for us to live," he said. "I thought that I could help out our races in the process. The problem is that I sought a Romulan solution. It is time for a _human_ solution."

"I find that statement…somewhat narrow minded," she answered.

"I have it on good authority," he said and then smiled. His uncle's face floated before him. "I don't have that solution yet, but we need to stop playing Valdore's game." His chest hurt. He felt a burning beneath the bandages. "We have the praetor's ear; at least I believe that we do."

"Do you plan on exploiting that?" she asked. He could feel her doubt. Gupta was not that type of person, someone who willfully used others.

"No," he answered. "I swore my loyalty to the praetor. The very best of my race keep their promises. Let's start by showing Karzan the aliens that his race has gone to war with. In a sense we were as much a mystery to him as they were to us."

"Karzan never authorized this war," T'Pol said. "Their _people_ are beaten. I believe that he seeks a way out that preserves the empire."

He remembered his father's mercantile meanderings. The key to making a deal was to offer something that the customer wanted. His father had repeated that many times. Gupta had thought about it before being shot: he and T'Pol were the bridge to this society. They were the experts on Romulan history, customs and culture. They had something to offer both the Romulans and their people.

"It's up to us to offer that out," Gupta said.

Space Station One, earth orbit, Dec 2158

Commander Frank McCoy felt uncomfortable. The red tunic carried too many stripes to suit him. He had never sought rank. The navy had been like a family to him. McCoy had been satisfied to play the navy role of steadfast chief. He had never been a glory seeker. Part of the reason was that he knew that there was a lot of work associated with glory. He wondered that Erica Soames had shielded so much of this work from her staff. So much that seemed mundane to him.

Today he was here to see android crewmen. As chief of intelligence it was his task to review new developments. The eccentric scientist Adrik Soong was working on intelligent, functional, humanoid appearing machines. He had discovered that Soong liked the limelight. Frank thought that he was here so that the man could have a publicity coup. He decided that he would spend enough time here to be polite. An old friend of his had retired and opened a café up here. McCoy would visit that after he was through at Soong's lab.

He headed away from the docking arm. He was almost overcome by déjà vu. He had fought Kanya in one of these. She and her fellow augments had tried to sabotage earth's military communications just prior to a Birdie attack on the system. Frank had electrocuted her; a move which would have killed an ordinary woman. He reflected that that was a hell of way to meet one's future wife. Soong's lab was close to the station's central core. He soon found himself at the designated place. Frank buzzed for admittance.

The door opened. Frank wanted to take a step back from the sight of the person who was waiting on the other side of the door. McCoy beheld a very exotic, sexual, green skinned young lady. He shook his head. If green body makeup was a societal trend McCoy was sure that he would have heard something about it. He hadn't. Upon second glance he realized that the green woman's clothing was completely transparent. Frank became aroused and instantly felt guilty. He shook his head.

"I am an Orion," the green woman remarked, as if that was supposed to explain anything. He gulped and tried to conceal a growing interest in her. Damnit, this didn't make sense. He loved Kanya and she was certainly an attractive woman.

"Miasa has that effect," a medium built man announced. McCoy recognized the man from his numerous holo appearances. Just as mysteriously as the overwhelming attraction had started, it ended. Soong stood beside the woman and put his arm around her. "She makes for a good ice breaker at parties. You must be McCoy."

"Commander, yes, McCoy," Frank croaked.

"Okay Commander Yes," Soong replied. "I'll show you what I've developed."

For the next hour Frank was shown a variety of combat androids. Frank's tedium was soon replaced with wonder. The animated machines could perform many intricate and surprisingly heavy duty tasks. McCoy had always assumed that save for maintenance bots; most of these devices couldn't stand much wear and tear. Frank found out how wrong he was. He watched as two androids faced off in a fencing match. Their moves were fast and against a human opponent the swordplay might have proved lethal. Frank saw what he thought was a flaw.

"Mind if I go up against one of these?" he asked Soong.

"Let me guess; you one first place with some academy fencing team?" Soong asked.

"Actually I watched an old restored Tyrone Power holovid," McCoy retorted. "I never went to no academy Mister Soong." Frank didn't mind letting a little of his native dialect slip. If Soong was trying the sell the navy a bill of goods, acting stupid was one sure way to find that out.

"That sounds obvious," Soong replied unapologetically.

Frank waited while Miasa commanded one of the androids to stand by a wall. She took its foil and gave it to Frank. Soong and Miasa cleared away. Frank assumed a theatrical stance such as he had seen the long dead Mister Power do. He listened while Soong gave a verbal command, setting the machine into motion. It started to snap in a pose similar to McCoy's. Frank sidestepped his metal opponent.

The movement was fast. Frank was no athlete but he stayed in shape. He also was no fencer; he had not lied about that. But he suspected that what he had just done was no regulation move. McCoy pivoted slightly and brought his foot down hard on the android's left leg. If the machine was a human, McCoy's foot would collapse his knee from behind. Like a human the machine did start to keel over. The android went down to one of its mechanical knees. It was not programmed to fight from there. McCoy stepped back and stabbed it several times where a heart had been inscribed on its breast plate. The android's glowing eyes went dark.

"Touché," Soong said. He looked as if he had swallowed something unpleasant. "That's the weakness. I need funding for a positronic brain. Neural nets have the same limitations as anything we've made since Starling and Gates. These things can't think and as you've just seen they can't overcome original thinking."

Frank handed the foil to Soong. "How long before you come up with one of those? Because I have to tell you; the Romulans will trip up your devices before they know what hit them."

"Depends on the funding," Soong answered. He hung his head. "Look I'm not some war profiteer trying to bilk the government." Soong looked at the handheld that was hanging from Frank's belt. "I'll give you my private access McCoy. I've used every credit I have to find some answers."

McCoy was interested. "If…you built one of these things what if it wanted its own life? I mean, you are talking about a self aware machine. What does the taxpayer get out of it?" He knew what he sounded like but that came with the job.

From the time McCoy had walked in he had caught onto Soong's ingratiating manner. That attitude sloughed away as the scientist became more animated and excited as he explained his dream.

"Imagine a whole new race, and we will have created it! I'm not on some god kick McCoy. I'm talking about a wiser version of ourselves. I'm talking about leaving a living legacy for men. We leave buildings, temples, space stations and garbage behind but what does it all mean? What about a whole new race, made in our image? A race that could live forever," Soong declared. Frank thought of the small sample of nanobot created artificial skin that Soong had shown him. It had felt like real skin.

"What if this race turned against us?" Frank asked. He remembered Asimov's laws. Frank had never been a fan of the twentieth century writer but he had gotten into a drunken discussion with Alvin Crosby over this same topic. A machine was a machine. A hammer could build a house. It could also stave in the back of someone's head.

"Then perhaps you deserve what happens to your race," Miasa said. "Adrik is not good with words; especially when he becomes excited. If his machines turn against their creators then think about it McCoy; it will be because they've found something repugnant about you men. Do you kill every stinging insect because you were once stung, McCoy?"

"I see your point," Frank said. He looked hard at the fencing metal mannequins. That was what they were at this point despite what they could be in another fifty years. Soong seemed to glean his thought.

"Here it comes," the scientist declared in a mournful tone.

"We are looking for results Mister Soong," Frank said, "immediate results. I see what you mean and it's exploration. Not stellar exploration, but crossing a new frontier in computing and cybernetics. You need to talk to someone besides Star Fleet; someone who wants to make a long term investment in the future."

The truth was that that was not the navy, not during this war. What this new Star Fleet would do, McCoy did not know. Oh, he had read the statements and goals. But he knew how those things changed. The old United Earth Stellar Navy had been commissioned with lofty goals. By the time of the war they had been plying trade routes carrying freight to and from the colonies.

"The new worlds and new civilizations turned into new cash cows," Frank lamented. He smiled. "I'm not supposed to say that. I'm Chief of Naval Intelligence. It's just that mebbe we wouldn't have fought the Birdies if we had sent explorers out and ran into them before all this. Then again maybe we would."

He wrapped up things and bid Soong and his exotic companion a good day. Frank McCoy headed for his private shuttle, his mind in full gear. Life was changing. He remembered his childhood and his youth. It had all seemed so simple. What kind of world would the next generation inherit?

They would probably ride Erickson's transporter. McCoy had found the idea frightening at first. But he had been through it and could boast that he was the first human subject. He felt okay. Starships would go farther and faster. Frank had read of a young genius named Crusher who was speaking about warp eight capable ships. Maybe not for another twenty years but they were in sight. The next Conqueror to push off the assembly arm would have partial shielding, just like the Vulcans. If Soong's vision came to fruition men would exist with intelligent self aware androids. The machines would look and act human. Frank was in his mid forties. He had the lion's share of his life ahead of him. What would the world, no the universe, be like after another forty four years?

His handheld beeped, breaking his revelry. Frank sighed as he envisioned the subject of the call. The Romulans seemed to be quiet for now. That bothered Frank but with the time and distances involved he knew that he had to wait for answers. Maybe this was one of those he thought. The message was plain text. Frank smiled when he saw that the sender was Captain Donald Townsend. His pleasure turned to sorrow when he read the text of the message.

Wichita Falls, Texas, earth, Dec 2158

It had come suddenly for Micah Brack. It was not the first time but the fact that he had lost count did not blunt the pain. He stared down at the body of Margaret Sadler. It was all so senseless. Sadler had gone toe-to-toe with the Romulans and returned. Now she lay dead. She had been thrown by a horse. Even in this century someone lying helpless with a broken neck was doomed. Her mother had ridden out and discovered Margaret's body when Sadler had gone overdue. If only he had been there, he thought bitterly.

He was alone with the body. The funeral director had allowed him some time alone while the elderly undertaker had gone to console Carly Sadler. Brack had been a parent and knew the pain of losing children. He had outlived them all. He knew what Carly was feeling. The old should go first. What on earth was he here for? He touched Margaret's cold cheek.

Her beauty and nobility were in full bloom. Death had not robbed her of those things. He bent and kissed her cold lips while swearing never again. Brack should know better than to become intimate with ephemerals. Hadn't a whole lifetime of taught him anything? He looked at her again and cursed his long life. Sadler had had so much before her. She had been a remarkable woman. He sensed rather than heard the presence behind him.

"Hey Micah." Frank McCoy's voice was soft.

"Hullo Frank," he replied. He turned and faced McCoy. The dour faced McCoy looked every centimeter an officer. Some people disdained authority but that did not make them bad at exercising it. Thorpe had made a good choice. Frank, like many men stood helpless. "You don't have to hug me if—"

McCoy did just that. It was brief and even for someone as old as Micah it felt comforting. McCoy stepped back. He left a hand on Brack's shoulder. Brack marveled that this short lifer could sense his feelings and then it occurred to him that Micah had gotten close to both Margaret and Frank. Closer than he had been to anybody this past century or so.

"Captain Townsend told me," McCoy said. He turned and looked at Sadler's body. "She was a tough lady. I'm sorry."

"She was one of a kind," Brack said. "After awhile I could see that in people. A uniqueness, that makes some people stand out over others. I suppose that she will be my last."

"You can't spend the rest of your life alone Micah," Frank told him. "I don't know the answer for your problem." McCoy turned away from him. "Hell, it seems like men don't have enough time and then you come along with too much time."

"This has been too much for me," Brack said. Sadler's death had indeed hit him worse than the others. He had of course considered the consequences when he had met her. Micah had steeled himself for her aging and eventual death. He had thought that he could love her and celebrate her life. Now there would be none of that. "I outlive them all."

"You'd think that we would have found a long lived race by—"

"What is it Frank?"

McCoy looked at him, looked through him. "I was just thinking of how many things have changed and the changes that will come. You once said that you wouldn't accept alien companionship. What about another form of human; someone who would be your equal in every way?" he asked Brack.

"I've sought another immortal for centuries Frank," Brack answered. There had been none like him, no more Methuselahs. "Whatever happened to me was unique."

Frank put his hand back on his shoulder. He was escorting Brack out into the light. Micah followed his friend. They stepped out onto the porch into the cool Texas sun. Brack recalled this part of the country when there had been nothing for hundreds of miles. The two men were silent for sometime. Finally McCoy broke the silence. He told Frank of a development in technology that he had seen today. Micah listened, first out of politeness and then with a growing interest.

El'Nado River, Romulus, the fifteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of death

Admiral Valdore had trained for a life consisting of commanding vessels in space. He had adapted that to this fixed, two-dimensional river warfare. They had slowly fought their way up towards Kalenara. The cost had been high. The Remans were intent on breaking the siege and forcing the empire to concede. The legions had yet to return. Valdore was left with only the old, crippled and young as his soldiers.

A bombardment from space could have broken the Reman hold but that now seemed impossible to achieve. He himself had witnessed several new and brief suns in the Romulan sky. Those ships that weren't spaceworthy had surely stayed behind to make repairs. Somehow the Remans had destroyed those. Their rebellion was well planned and worthy of their masters. He contemplated all of this while he stood on the prow of the river boat that was his ship.

_El'Nado's Mistress_ had been an ore barge until the Remans had rebelled. Its huge deck had adapted readily to mortar and gun emplacements. The Criminal Guild had also managed to procure a mass accelerator gun for the barge. That made the _Mistress_ one of the most powerful ships in the river fleet. But the rebels had learned quickly.

The fleet had to use caution. The Remans had put makeshift mines in the El'Nado. They had also floated masses of debris rendering some parts of the river impassable until crews cleared away the flotsam. Those had been places of ambush which did not make the relief force's job any easier. They were drawing near to one of those places now. Valdore heard footsteps behind him.

He pivoted around and returned the grave Artrax's salute. The young uhlan had grown up quickly. He was the equal in command ability to any of his other centurions. If the centurion lived he would see that Artrax received an appointment to Norcela. He gave Valdore a report on their progress.

"Another delay," Valdore said.

"The attacks have been growing less in intensity admiral," Artrax said.

"I am all the more suspicious because of that," Valdore said. He slammed a gloved fist onto a rail. "We are even denied surveillance satellites! We are fighting a battle such as we have not fought since the races were sundered."

"We are less than a quartrent from Kalenara at this rate, admiral," Artrax said. "Surely the senate can hold out that long."

"They should," he replied.

He doubted that. A broken message had come out of the capital from the old land stations. The Remans had demanded not only a withdrawal of Romulan troops but were now declaring that no more radioactives would be mined until clean up was done on Remus. It was obvious that to Valdore that his opponents had felt that they had succeeded beyond their original expectations. The senate had, according to the report, admitted Reman negotiators to the capital. They politicians, in a vacuum of information, might actually accede to the Remans.

"More blockage," Valdore declared. "I do not like this valley. They know that we are heading for Kalenara. I expect a major attack here Artrax."

"I've ordered the ships dispersed as you wish, admiral" Artrax said. "The staff is ready for your orders."

"I'll be down soon enough Artrax," he answered.

He dismissed the centurion while girding himself for the planning session. Gupta would be there. The human had narrowly survived after being shot. Valdore had never feared anything since his childhood—until now. The human was a constant reminder to him of how he had nearly betrayed the empire. Integrity and honor had meant something in the empire.

The problem was those qualities still meant something to him. For once Valdore was glad that his father had gone beyond early. He would not have liked this new Romulus. Vanadar Ale'trx would not have liked the Romulan that his son Valdore had become. They had strayed. An empire weaved in shadows could not stand up to the light of reality. The Remans had shown them that.

The praetor's party approached. Their small boat bumped against the _Mistresses'_ hull. Karzan had gained weight and looked resplendent in a golden breast plate, cape and battle helmet. His advisor, Pakesh followed the praetor closely. Valdore went to meet them. He spied Gupta and the Vulcan female standing behind Karzan. The human looked out of place in a centurion's uniform. The praetor had not accepted a military guard. In a stinging rebuke of Valdore, Karzan had told him that he preferred those that he could trust. Valdore bowed to Karzan.

"Another trap," the old leader declared. "We will lose many soldiers here."

"I fear that is so my praetor," Valdore replied. "Our land forces have fanned out. We are safe from enemy artillery. Yet I feel the springing of a trap in this place. I have ordered our technicians to double their efforts to install tracking devices for our anti aircraft guns."

"The technology of our empire was dismembered in less than two dawnings," Karzan said. "I must ensure that that does not happen in the future. What of our negotiators?"

"None have returned," he answered. "The Remans have no need of negotiation. They think that they can win under their own terms."

Valdore despised the idea of negotiation. But he realized the praetor's need to balance rhetoric against the harsh realities of the situation. The Romulans needed the mines open and the Remans were willing to do that. Valdore looked up at the great bulk of Remus. They wanted to stay there. Somehow this had to be resolved. Karzan had been right; the legionnaires would have to mine in the Remans' place. But total autonomy was out of the question. How long before free, armed Remans would turn their anger against their ancient conquerors?

"They are holding all of the cards," Karzan said; "for now."

Valdore wondered what the aphorism meant. He finally recalled it from his study of humanity. How much had the praetor learned from Gupta. How much false information was the human giving to the praetor? He invited the praetor and his entourage below deck. Valdore was unsettled. This human was a curse.

They were ready to enter the wheelhouse when two boats of the river fleet blew up. The pilot house was riddled with shrapnel. Several more boats exploded while others commenced mortar and artillery barrages at nothing. Valdore cursed himself when his intimations of disaster came to fruition. He realized what he had been missing: they were attacking from under the water.

Valdore pulled out his sidearm as three tall Remans scrambled up out of the water and over the railing. He shot two of those but missed the third. That rebel had managed to level his automatic rifle at them and started firing. They all dived for cover behind a piece of armor.

Valdore shouted at the boat's captain to begin a retreat. They risked losing their advantage right here and now. He saw that several more of his boats were being boarded. He felt the _Mistresses' _props bite into the water. The great barge started slowly backing away. The anchor was coming up. He heard Remans howling. It was a battle cry born of desperation and victory. This underwater attack had hurt their enemies. Valdore chewed over the bitter taste of that.

Another boat exploded. Its two flaming halves rocketed into the air briefly and then fell back into the water. Somehow one of the boat's crew had survived. Whoever it had been was engulfed in flame. The nameless Romulan ran headlong to the water and dived in. He didn't know what happened next as bullets chewed into the wheelhouse's armor. The thief Pakesh dragged a fighting praetor into the protection of the boat's interior.

Gupta rolled up beside him and started firing back at the Remans. Valdore sprang up and added his fire to that of the human's. Artillery shells tore up the land on either side of the river. Valdore got a sinking feeling that his forces were receiving the worst of this. Few of the river boats could counterattack until they drove off their underwater adversaries. The slide of his pistol locked back.

Gupta fired several more rounds before he too ran out of ammunition. The human looked at him and scowled. Three Reman attackers charged down the deck toward them. Valdore pulled the traditional infantry short sword from his scabbard. The human did likewise. The hand weapons belonged to another era he thought. But they had become useful in the often close quarter fighting that this war had become.

The Remans were similarly armed. They had discarded their automatic rifles. Chance had favored him in at least one thing. Valdore intercepted the blade of one of his would be executioners. He pivoted away from the third. Gupta was holding off his attacker and had even scored a blow. Valdore cursed using the slang term for slave. One of his opponents grew enraged and charged forward; right onto the shaft of the short stabbing sword. The thrill of battle, the lust for blood overtook Valdore. He narrowly missed losing his head to his other opponent. Gupta's blade had deflected the intended death blow.

The human's attacker lay on the deck clutching at his throat as his bluish lifeblood spilled out onto the deck. Another Reman jumped into the fray, charging Gupta. It occurred to Valdore, even through his rage, that their enemy knew that this was the command ship. They had, doubtless heard that the praetor himself was leading the fight. He fought like a demon. The head of the Reman who had been fighting him rolled to the deck. Valdore would not stand idly by while his leader was being threatened—not again.

More Remans were boarding the barge. Valdore would stand here and die to defend Karzan and that now seemed likely. Some of the new boarders stumbled and fell. Valdore saw sparks erupt around the Remans. Artrax was leading soldiers who were stationed on smaller boats. They were starting to reverse the situation.

A great press of Remans came against them. Valdore was jammed up beside the human. He waited for the final feel of a blade on his throat. The Remans seized his arms and started dragging him. Valdore kicked out futilely. He felt himself being hauled over the edge of the _Mistresses'_ railing. The water of the El'Nado River was cold. Did they plan on drowning him? He thought that he saw T'Pol in the water but his vision was blurred. The Remans were pulling him along.

Romulan soldiers were required to traverse a small distance in total vacuum as part of their training. Valdore thought of that as he was pulled through the water. His chest burned. He wanted to breathe. He needed to breathe. Darkness was overtaking him. Spots danced before his eyes.

Star Fleet light cruiser Daedelus, at Earth Asteroid Outpost Four, Jan 2159,

"I was hoping for some exotic planet where the girls were green and willing to do whatever one wanted," Commander Phil Devlin remarked.

Scans of their destination were returning the information that they were headed for a rock in space. Captain Michael Cromwell had expected that, but he was disappointed ass well. He had hoped that the crew would have a short respite on an M-class world before the next stage.

"Are you having problems in that area Hauptmann Devlin?" Commander Trudy Schultheiss asked. The doctor had chosen to be on the bridge for the rendezvous. "Do you need some tawdry woman to act out your fantasies with?"

"No!" his first officer retorted sharply. Devlin's face turned the shade of a shiny, ripe, red apple.

"Now, now, doctor," he admonished Schultheiss. A smile was on his lips. "The personal foibles of our first officer are not for public consumption! Commander Devlin is a capable officer."

As far as he knew Devlin was one of the few crewmen who had not had a shipboard romance. Cromwell himself had been lacking in the department until he had met the doctor. The captain part of his soul told him that such relationships were wrong, fraught with too many conflicts. His humanity told him that those things were necessary. They weren't machines. Even Chief Custis had come out of his shell. He had been seen with Lieutenant Kay Stansfield at the nightly holovid.

"How many ships chief?" he asked his sensor technician.

"Seventy two, captain," Custis answered. "Primarily SN ships but I'm reading a mix of Andorian, Tellarite and even two Denobulans."

Cromwell shook his head. That meant that the Star Fleet had that many ships for an expeditionary force and enough left over to provide a defense of the homeworlds. Forrest had intimated as much to him at their last meeting. That also meant that another large taskforce, just as big, was in operation. Cromwell fancied himself an explorer. But the soldier in him wanted to know what the admiral's game was.

"Incoming transmission from Excelsior, captain," his communications' officer announced. "Scrambled voice over video," he added.

"Put him on Ensign Maxwell," Cromwell replied.

The tactical display changed to an image of Admiral Maxwell Forrest. Cromwell was a little envious of the spaciousness of the Valley Forge's bridge. He was also surprised to see that Forrest had adopted the same flamboyant rank arrangement of lightning bolts around his collar as Admiral Buchanan wore.

"Good to see you back Cromwell," Forrest told him. "I hope that you have some good news."

"I think that you'll be pleased with our discovery admiral," Cromwell answered.

"Rendezvous with Charger, captain," Forrest said. "We'll meet there at 1800."

Cromwell nodded. The admiral's image faded. Michael went about the business of docking with the Conqueror class ship. When that was complete he turned command over to Devlin and proceeded to the airlock. Schultheiss followed. He was anxious to hear about the next phase of the war. He was more anxious to see his friend Jonathan Archer. Cromwell and Schultheiss were soon at the lock. The hatches slid open.

A Tellarite chief petty officer was standing off to Archer's left. At the beckoning of Charger's captain the alien sounded a mournful whistle. Cromwell had known that the new Star Fleet was adopting many of the old earth wet navy customs. This one seemed appropriate. Cromwell and Schultheiss responded with the necessary protocol.

"It's about time you got back. What were you doing; vacationing on a pleasure planet?" Archer asked.

"Of course, can't you tell by my pasty white tan?" Cromwell joked in return.

The two men shook hands. Cromwell introduced Jon to his surgeon. Cromwell had a million questions about the war while Archer seemed to have an equal number about their journey. By mutual agreement the two decided that it was best to table those things until the strike briefing. They fell into a discussion of the future beyond this war.

"I've taken care of your ship Jon," Cromwell said. Michael had been giving serious thought to Trudy's suggestion that he could be the commandant of the Star Fleet Academy. He wasn't being pompous in thinking that someone needed to shape the minds of the new cadets and crewmen; someone who didn't want to meet new races and shoot them up.

Archer laughed. "There are plans for twenty-five new Daedelus class ships in the works." Cromwell heard a note of sadness in Archer's voice. "Have you heard of the United Earth Space Probe Agency?"

"It is part of the president's proposal for this new Star Fleet's organization." Actually, Cromwell heartily supported the idea. "They would replace the UESN agency that was doing that."

"President Thorpe wants me to head up this agency," Archer said.

"I take it that being a bureaucrat isn't to your liking captain?" Schultheiss asked.

"It wasn't what I had in mind, no," Archer answered.

"Face it Jon, you've designed the current generation of exploratory cruiser and fielded ideas for the next generation. You've painted yourself into a corner." Cromwell was sympathetic towards the man but he had just told him the truth. "Perhaps you can bungle their budget and then be busted back to explorer."

"I think this whole thing is about money anyway," Archer said. He led them through Charger's generous passageways. Cromwell was envious of the space.

"What do you mean?" Schultheiss asked.

"President Thorpe has told me that the allies are near to busting their budgets," Archer explained. "If this thing drags on much longer then there is going to be trouble. This space probe agency is a clever way to consolidate the cost overruns under one roof. The allies will jump at a way to cleanly pay for this war."

Cromwell had come to the same conclusion. Andor, Vulcan and Tellar would allocate their ship building funds to the Star Fleet. Each planetary nation would save two thirds over the cost of maintaining separate fleets. Their officers and enlisted people would serve on the Star Fleet ships thus reaping the benefits of exploration. It hadn't escaped the normally apolitical Cromwell that Thorpe was using monetary bait to build and then solidify his federation. Why not join a federation, operate on a much smaller planetary budget and still maintain overall sovereignty?

"I served as a budget officer for a year when I was a lieutenant," Cromwell said. "It was a short assignment," he explained. "The surgeon on the old Republic put me planetside for a year. But this isn't some moldy war story. My point is that I was just a lackey of a fine budget control officer." Cromwell searched his memory: "Ensign Laurencia Anders; that was her name."

"I don't see the connection," Archer said.

"Captain Laurencia Chong, she married not long after I left; even invited me to the ceremony. She currently works at fleet headquarters," he continued. "You could install her as your number two. She is brilliant with credits and a spreadsheet. Give her a year and she will be running your agency. That leaves you free to take a command."

"I'll give it some thought," Archer said.

He led the couple to one of Charger's mess halls. Cromwell's nose instantly picked up the smell of food, real food. Strictly speaking resequenced food was real but a resequenced shepherd's pie could not take the place of one made from fresh meat and vegetables.

"The freighters are working overtime transporting parts, food and ammunition," Archer said. "This rock isn't the greatest place to take a leave at but it's a good staging area. Admiral Forrest hopes to set up an entire network of these asteroids for supply."

"What about the Birdies hitting the convoys?" he asked. Cromwell knew from the grays that the Romulan Empire was stretched. Still, he found it hard to believe that they were not sending out forays to slow the allied advance.

"We've upped the fighter escorts," Archer said. "It's not a pretty proposition for the Minotaur crews, but its been working."

Cromwell remembered how small the interior of the fighters was. He had never been on one. Buchanan, when he had been a captain had told his then first officer that the fighters had the same interior space as an old B-90 bomber. Buchanan knew that Cromwell had toured one of the cramped, old World War III bombers. He couldn't imagine being stuck in such a thing for weeks.

"The Second Star Fleet will proceed through the eddy," Admiral Maxwell Forrest declared.

He had received Cromwell's report. It was their only intelligence on the Romulan homeworld. It spooked Max when he thought of aliens who could look into another's mind. The grays were apparently powerful enough to fool their Romulan occupiers. Forrest thought that it was a good thing that they were pacifists. A chill went through him when he considered that their might be species out there with mental powers who were not peaceful.

He looked out over the assembled officers and enlisted men. Forrest stood at the bottom of a small packed auditorium. He understood that the large screen behind had last shown the old holovid _Young Frankenstein_. Forrest had taken Erica to that same show, many months earlier. They had both laughed at the antique humor. Her death had come as a blow to him even though he had broken things off. He waited for questions.

Commodore Zimmermann stood up. "Are we still going to wait for eighteen and twenty-five, admiral?"

"Those taskforces should be here in a month," Forrest answered. "That will allow time for the first fleet to warp out and start harrying in Romulan space." A holographic display went up behind him. Dozens of light years were reduced to centimeters. "I hope that the Birds will see that incursion as the vanguard of an invasion." The subspace disturbance that Cromwell had charted was illuminated. "This eddy is a godsend. The second fleet will go through and strike out at a Romulan core world."

"We could attack Romulus," Frank Buchanan declared. The admiral sat by himself as he was puffing away on one of his cigars and few liked the odor.

"We could," Forrest agreed. If not for the president's prohibitions, that is exactly what Max would have done: an all out strike on Romulus that would have included leaving troops on their outer worlds. "But we won't," he added.

Forrest entered a command into the podium's control panel. "Second will instead make a direct assault against the Birdie base at Cheron," he explained.

Forrest was not surprised to hear a wave of startled gasps that were turning into anger. Zimmermann seemed to be the sacrificial lamb for the group. The tall, thin commodore asked about the choice of target worlds. Forrest was not the only one who believed that a major attack should be directed at Romulus.

"They've had an offensive advantage throughout this war, sir," Zimmermann protested. "Let's see how they would like having our foot on their necks for a change."

"I understand everyone's concern, commodore," Forrest replied. "An all out attack on Romulus is thought to be foolhardy at this time. For one thing we don't know what happened after our last attack. They locked up the approaches to that sector so tight that we can't even get a surveillance torpedo in. An attack on Cheron will destroy what we've established as being one of their major outposts. That will solidify our position in their space. We'll be able to strike out at Romulus or wherever at will."

"They might be more likely to negotiate with us breathing down their necks," Captain Archer added. Max agreed reluctantly. That was uncomfortably close to the plan he had.

"What about these ZR's that Captain Cromwell contacted, admiral," Captain Walter Jellico asked. "Maybe they will ally with us."

"Captain," Forrest said to Cromwell. It seemed better that the man who had made the discovery explain.

"The grays are pacifists," Cromwell started. "They told me that they are ascending. What that means, I do not know. I got the impression that they do not want to be involved in what Klaus labeled as ephemeral affairs."

"Klaus?" Zimmermann asked.

"It seemed better than 'hey you'," Cromwell answered. "Anyway the Romulans have at least two taskforces tied up there. Without even joining the alliance or firing a shot the grays are doing us a favor."

"If they turn into a problem, remember that we have First Fleet there too," Forrest added.

Scans of local space had suggested that the Romulans held very few colonies. According to Syrran their ancestors were conquerors rather than farmers or builders. Perhaps the Romulans prized conquest over the peaceful establishment of colonies on uninhabited planets. Intelligence estimates were that the Birds had just two colonies. These worlds were covered with farmlands but seemed to lack any industrial capability.

Forrest knew that the Romulans were descendents of ancient Vulcans. Yet he knew little more than that. What kind of society they had evolved on their own nobody knew. According to Syrran those Vulcans had been warlike and patriarchal. Their adoption of a praetor suggested to Max that that hadn't changed. They had some answers but not enough.

Forrest talked in general about the deployment to Romulan space. The final details would be completed when Stiles and Oulette got here. Forrest asked for a final round of questions and when none were asked he ended the briefing. He thought about his meeting with Stiles.

She had sabotaged the computer network using Trafalgar's codes. Max had been deeply disappointed but not surprised. Stiles' hatred for the Romulans was well known. Forrest had no love for the proto-Vulcans himself. But he maintained a professional attitude. Stiles had crossed the line. He still needed her for the fight but had elicited her promise to resign after the war. The Stellar Navy had been a place of honor. The new Star Fleet, if it survived, would continue that tradition.

The planet Remus, the earth winter of 2159

"We've been spared for a reason," Admiral Valdore told Tarang Gupta. "I also find it strange that you know one of our captors. It was foolish of me to send you forth."

"Do you think that me and T'Pol engineered this entire situation admiral?" She had not been captured as far as Gupta knew.

The Remans had taken him and the admiral. Artrax had led a counterattack but that had come too late to save Gupta and Valdore. After being pulled ashore and nearly drowned the two had been blindfolded and thrown into a ground vehicle. They had journeyed thus for several dawnings, receiving just enough food and water to sustain them. Finally they were taken aboard a spacecraft. Gupta didn't know all of the classes of Romulan spaceships. He did know that whatever they had journeyed to Remus in had had no artificial gravity web. They had finally had their blindfolds removed after landing.

Gupta knew that the side that the Remans inhabited was cloaked in perpetual darkness. He had been amazed and a little terrified of the hellish landscape. Dark brown sandy plains were broken by tall, black slate and granite rock formations. Life was there though: bioluminescent plants and animals. Gupta was reminded of creatures that lived in the deep parts of earth's oceans. Gupta and Valdore were then taken to a Romulan military surface facility.

The human and the Romulan had smelled the stench of death and decay even before being escorted inside. The inside of the majority of the buildings were covered in blood. Most of the corpses were gone. Brinza, their escort, had explained that they had been dropped into the recycling system to provide fertilizer for underground farms. Gupta could tell, even through Valdore's calm demeanor that this fact upset him. Then they had gone deeper into the planet, into the Remans' world. That had been many dawnings ago.

Valdore's reply was a gaze full of anger and bitterness. "How could the Tal Shiar have let this happen?"

"You're a noble," Gupta stated rather than asked Valdore. "I've journeyed on your world. The citizens are beaten down. The Tal Shiar and monitors spend more time rousting decent citizens than they do looking for real dangers. All the while the Remans were planning."

Gupta had asked himself the same question. But on reflection the answer had been before him all along. His culture had had a similar underclass: Dalits or untouchables as western humans referred to them. Those Indians had been mortuary workers. They had handled sewage. Any job looked down upon had been performed by Dalits. The same fate had befallen the Remans. And like the Dalits of old India the Remans here had become nearly invisible. Social invisibility had allowed them to build a shadow resistance. Social invisibility had granted them access to sensitive military and government installations.

Reman servants, laborers and cleaners were given less regard than were devices. They had lived that way for thousand of turns. Elcan had confided to Gupta and the praetor that he believed the seeds of the rebellion had been planted over fifty turns ago; fifty turns of planning and preparation. So confident that they had broken the Remans' will with the Galamide program, the Tal Shiar had turned to internal conquest of their own race.

"I supported autonomy for them when I was in the senate," Valdore countered.

"You did," Gupta argued, "but that isn't what happened. The Tal Shiar used the legions to force them to mine more ore. They ordered Reman children into the mines. They put inexperienced dock workers at the shipyard. In my human opinion admiral, you would be fighting this rebellion even if you hadn't attacked my race. Maybe it would have happened later, but it would have happened."

Gupta took a drink of brackish tasting water. He recalled Pakesh telling him about Remus. He wondered how much radiation his body was absorbing. Gupta picked at what was left of their second of two meals they were granted at every dawning. Neither he nor Valdore had chosen to eat the flesh that the Remans had prepared for them. There was a question of its origin. They did eat the vegetables.

One was a gray tubular looking affair that smelled like rotten radishes. Gupta imagined that it tasted the same. Another was a piquant tasting fruit or vegetable covered by a tough green skin. It tasted to Tarang like a mix between a tomato and a lemon. The situation worked out well as Valdore seemed to have a taste for the radish thing while Gupta preferred the sour food.

"It is too late," Valdore lamented.

The door of their foul smelling, musty cell swung open. Gupta had been told that it used to be a trash recycling chamber until lately. Brinza walked in with two armed escorts. Valdore and Gupta both sat on the floor and looked at their captors. Tarang could feel the mental touch again. It was brief and not at all intense.

"It is too late Admiral Valdore," Brinza announced. "But perhaps it is not too late to discuss terms."

"The empire will not yield to you this dawning nor ever," Valdore declared defiantly.

"An arrogant fool," Brinza told Valdore. Gupta silently agreed. "Yet we do not want your acquiescence. We know that in a military contest that you would win. Your legions have only to use rock penetrating nuclear weapons to murder my race. You would lose the ore supplies and much slave labor but you could recover from that."

"Autonomy is now out of the question," Valdore replied. "You have guaranteed that."

"Get up admiral," Brinza commanded. "You too Gupta! You are to be taken before the elders—both of you."

Gupta rose to his feet. "We would grant you autonomy Brinza." He said as Valdore stood up. The Romulan officer sneered at him.

"You can speak to the elders Gupta," Brinza replied. They were escorted through several tunnels.

Gupta knew that escape from here was impossible. This conflicting maze of tunnels and chambers was overwhelming. They might be a hundred _elil'n_ from freedom, or they could be one thousand away. They walked in silence with their Reman guards. Gupta and Valdore stepped out into a large chamber.

The darkness melted away any sense of perspective. Gupta had a feeling that they were in a very large chamber. He sensed minds playing over his. His eyes gradually adjusted to the near darkness. He and Valdore and their escorts stood at the bottom of a great circular hall. Remans sat in a gallery above them looking down at the group.

"Would your races grant us their protection Gupta?" a female voice demanded. "Or would they tire of it and abandon us to the vengeance of the conquerors? Can you speak for your humans Gupta?"

To his surprise Brinza beat him to an answer. "If this Gupta was praetor to his race then I would have faith in them G'Narzn. He can no more speak for his race than one of us can speak for all the clans." Gupta must have won a friend.

"We have but to wait until the legions return," Valdore declared.

"Your bluff is transparent admiral," the Reman called G'Narzn said. Valdore's face wrinkled in pain. He too had been subjected to mental agony as a punishment. "Go ahead, murder my race; destroy the mines. The Triple Alliance victory that you so fear will come to fruition," she added.

"Then what is that you want?" Valdore countered. His face had cleared. The Remans must have been satisfied that he had learned his lesson. The admiral looked at Brinza. "This one speaks of terms. If you have those, then surely you've presented them to the senate."

More Remans entered the cavernous hall. They were pushing a gurney. Gupta saw a nude body on the wheeled cart. He wanted to look away as the body was wheeled before them. The top of the dead Romulan's skull had been removed. The corpse's face was twisted into a rictus of madness. Gupta was no expert but it looked like he body had been autopsied. The procedure was not complete. Besides missing the skullcap the cadaver's torso was laid open, exposing the internal organs. Brinza reached into the late Romulan's skull and fished around. He retrieved a small bundle of micro wiring and components. The Reman handed these to Valdore.

"I believe that these are yours, admiral," Brinza said.

"What do you mean?" Valdore asked, refusing to touch the delicate electronics.

"This body used to belong to one of your legionnaires," Brinza explained. "Who else could have installed the filaments except a service healer?"

"The Galamide program is run through internal security," Valdore insisted. "The military has nothing to do with these."

"This is one of your soldiers," Brinza argued. He pointed to where the body had been savaged by burns. "Probably a power technician," the Reman said. He held out the delicate fibers for Valdore. "Here, see what your Tal Shiar was doing, admiral." Brinza dropped the circuitry into Valdore's open palm.

Valdore had been told the same thing that Gupta had learned about the returning veterans. It was plain to Tarang that until the evidence was before him Valdore had refused to believe it. He looked at the micro fibers with distaste. Valdore squeezed his hand closed, grinding the delicate circuitry into pieces.

"The situation is this admiral," G'Narzn explained. "Sinphius has stepped in and taken Vrinak's position. He has imprisoned the senate under the ruse of protecting them. He is awaiting the legions' return so that he can sweep us away and--"

"And claim absolute power," Valdore interjected. "Why should he not wait until the legions' return?"

G'Narzn stood up. She looked immensely old to Tarang. "Our terms are thus: we will take over the military outposts on the surface. We have obtained nuclear warheads and placed them throughout the mines. If you land another invasion force we'll detonate those. We would rather die than submit to what went on before. The blasts will rip Remus apart. The effects to Romulus will be fatal."

"The Imperial Treasury shall pay us fair recompense for what we mine. You will, under Reman guard send a small group of Romulan workers to build medical facilities. You shall also provide us shielding against the radiation that has been released and pay for the cleanup."

"You would cause our defeat by bankrupting us!" the admiral spat.

"No," Tarang disagreed. "The treasury pays the Remans a pittance. Most of the profits go into the hands of government. The armaments' industries receive little to none."

"You know nothing--"

"No admiral, you're wrong. I know what the praetor told me. Before Vrinak started drugging him, his arbiters were looking into--"

"The praetor?" G'Narzn asked. The Reman was clearly astonished.

Gupta immediately felt the stab into his mind. He felt as if his head might explode. He sank to his knees. Something warm ran from his nose. He bit into the coppery taste of blood. He barely saw Valdore reeling. The admiral was being subjected to the same treatment. Just as fast as it had started it ended. Tarang wiped his nose and mouth. His hand came away covered in green. He stood up shakily.

"You had their leader Brinza!" G'Narzn spat.

"The old one might have died under examination G'Narzn." Brinza stepped forward. "And, how is that I was supposed to be on the lookout for one that we considered as likely to be dead or changed to a Galamide?"

"So the rumors that the river fleet is being led by the praetor are true," another elder stated. "We had assumed that this was just a phantom, created by Admiral Valdore to recruit citizen fighters against us. Brinza is correct: how could he have been expected to guess that the praetor of the empire was companions with a group of vagabonds?"

"My thanks, Aztani," Brinza said. He turned to look up at G'Narzn. "We cannot go back for him. It is now impossible to raid their fleet again. We've stalemated them for awhile but we will never surprise them in the same way, not the war masters."

"Very well," G'Narzn agreed. She turned her attention back onto Valdore and Gupta. "The final term is that you shall manumit my race and we shall send volunteers, not to be mindless machines but to fight with the legions."

"You hate us and yet you would fight with us?" Valdore asked. Gupta could see his skepticism. He was doubtful himself.

"This is our home Admiral Valdore," Brinza said. "As distasteful as you find it we love our cool caves and warrens, the view of the luminescent plants on the great plains, the sound of water trickling down an underground cavern. This is what it means to be the race of _V'ish'tula._ We do not wish to leave here anymore than you would leave Romulus, where the sun scalds our eyes. If we segregate ourselves completely then in time you will find a way to conquer us again. We shall keep our home while ingratiating ourselves into your race, your culture. In time you will need us as equals and not just slaves."

"I see," Valdore said.

"You want us to deliver the terms," Tarang said.

"I am not going to—" Valdore started but was cut off with a mental stab. Gupta felt G'Narzn's mind press into his.

"This admiral recruited you,_ hewmaan_," G'Narzn said, "that much we just discovered. Would that Brinza had performed a deeper scan when he had captured you the first time, Gupta," G'Narzn continued. "It seems that it was fortuitous that our fighters captured you two."

"Admiral Valdore," G'Narzn turned her attention to the Romulan. "Even you must see that if Sinphius gains control over the legions then the senate is doomed. You are doomed. You must get into Kalenara, free your government leaders and deliver our conditions. We despise you _Rihannsu _yet we cannot stand by while Gupta's race conquers yours. This is our home and we do not wish to live under the heel of another victor." She turned back to Tarang. "You are an honorable being Gupta. I agree with Brinza about you. But you are small among your race. If your words don't prevail then our future is in question. It is not that we don't trust you: it is that we cannot predict the future."

"The devil you know," Gupta quoted. He used English. A language he had not spoken in months. It sounded strange to his ears. He felt a brief intrusion into his mind.

"Indeed Gupta, the conquerors are that," G'Narzn said.

"I assume that Sinphius is leading the defense forces around the capital," Valdore said. "We can probably get in there but it is just as likely that Sinphius will murder me on sight."

"That is why I called your capture fortuitous," G'Narzn said. "This _hewmaan_ is quite resourceful. If the two of you work together then you may achieve the goal I've set for you."

A crushing pain hit him. Gupta seized his head. Once again he fell to his knees. Suddenly he knew where to find the cure for T'Pol's illness. It was in his mind as if he had known all along and just recalled the answer. The pain left. Tarang reflected that if the entire Reman race had these mental abilities then they would have made short work of the Romulans. Valdore had told him that the power was in less than two percent of the Reman population.

"A reward for you Gupta," G'Narzn said. The cure is in the capital at the Imperial Healers' Bureau. "The admiral even now was plotting how to hold that over you, despite his promise to Karzan. You lie Valdore. Did you not already murder a piece of your soul with your refusal to save the praetor?"

Gupta looked at the admiral who looked away from him. He had heard that Valdore's gun had jammed on that dawning. It was unthinkable that a Romulan soldier would do such a thing. The Tal Shiar was one thing. The military was quite another. Those Romulans had a sense of duty unlike anything he had ever seen. Valdore said nothing for awhile. Finally he lifted his head and agreed to do as the Remans had bid.

Between Brinza and G'Narzn they told the two how they would return them to Romulus. They would be deposited by Kalenara provided that they weren't shot down before that. From there they were on their own. The meeting was over. Their escorts returned them to their cell. They would leave the next dawning. Valdore went into his corner and sat quietly.

Gupta did likewise. He wrapped a dirty, stinking blanket about him and lay down. Keshev crawled up onto a rock beside Tarang's head. The insect, the size of a large terran rat, had become Gupta's pet. He threw a scrap of meat before Keshev. The creature took it up in his small legs and started to nibble on it. The insect gave off a comforting warbling sound. Gupta started to doze.

"I wanted to kill you," Valdore's voice came out of the darkness. "I wanted to kill you to expunge what I had done." A long silence passed. "That dawning, you a _hewmaan_, were more of a Romulan than I was. I hate you and your _people_. I hate this war. We are not going to have Reunification. We never were. We have become cheapened by this war. We are losing our way."

Gupta sighed inwardly. "You can recover your way. This war was a mistake. You Romulans are a proud and noble race, admiral. I don't think it's your destiny to rule over my race but that is just a disagreement. I'll help you do this. I'll discharge my vows to the praetor. But I shall not allow you to win admiral."

Valdore's laughter came out of the darkness. "The praetor was right: there is a Romulan quality about you Gupta. Only one of my race would promise the impossible while believing that he could deliver it."

El'Nado River, Romulus, the Vulcan time of reflection,

T'Pol shuddered. She centered herself and managed to regain control. The Romulan healer grabbed her right ear and squeezed. He was old, almost as old as the praetor. But he was still competent. That was evidenced by the number of war wounded that he had mended.

"I do not see the point of--"

"Be quiet!" the healer snapped. She sat naked atop a battered wooden table. He seemed to be looking away as he squeezed harder on her ear. Finally he stopped.

"Go ahead and dress," he told her.

She stepped onto the cold floor in her bare feet and proceeded to dress. The healer's room had been a wardroom aboard the _El'Nado's Mistress_. It had taken the change to hospital rather well. T'Pol reasoned that at one time the vessel's captain might also act as healer. The room was set up with many purposes in mind.

"Do you know why I've been ill?" she asked.

"Curse the _snag'n_!" the healer exclaimed. "If I had my instruments I could show you. But to answer your question: there is nothing wrong with you."

"I am unsettled. I have experienced back and abominable pain--"

He looked at her over thick glasses. The Romulans had not perfected ocular medications as her race had. T'Pol understood the look as one requiring her to be silent. The healer looked down at a chart that he had been writing on. He stopped and looked up at her.

"Very good," he said. "You young, you come for answers but won't remain quiet to hear them. You are healthy for a female in her first _centavi_. The back and stomach pains are natural as your body prepares for the child. Is this your first pregnancy?"

"I cannot be…I can regulate my cycles…how could this…"

He arched thick brows at her. "I wasn't there at the time, but I'm quite sure that it was in the usual manner."

She was Vulcan. Somehow her control had slipped. T'Pol was quiet while she thought of how little she had meditated lately. Tarang and she had discussed the possibility early on that she might need to let some emotion show to maintain the masquerade here. That was still important because the only Romulans who knew what she was were the admiral, the praetor and Pakesh. It was also this world. T'Pol knew that it seemed irresponsible to blame her surroundings for her crumbling mental control.

Yet T'Pol was seeing things that few Vulcans had. It was one thing to sit in a learning hall and condemn ancient Vulcans for their barbarity. It was quite another to be on a world where the culture was vaguely like her own until one dug beneath the surface. Many Romulan customs, ceremonies and activities were somewhat like those of her world--but only somewhat like. Like a strange dream where the familiar suddenly becomes monstrous. A distant part of her still refused to acknowledge that there was a relationship between the two races; this, even while she found reasons to respect her distant relatives.

"I understand that the father is missing after the _snag'n_ attack at the river bend," the healer said.

It was a sign of how far her control had gone. T'Pol had tried not thinking of the fate of Gupta. It was not logical. Death was a part of the cycle of life. Vulcans experienced grief, but like their other emotions they reasoned through them. They meditated to deal with the brunt of the emotional turmoil. Yet she was having problems. The thought of Gupta, dead somewhere, caused her an almost physical pain. Throughout all of this they had had each other.

"He is alive," she declared. Was that his mind that she felt from time to time? Or was it an echo of what was?

"Of course he is," the healer answered. He smiled grimly. "Sacrifice is the duty of every citizen. The empire comes before all. That does not blunt the pain of the loss." The healer's mood seemed to darken. "So many children will be raised without a father. But, hopefully your mate will come back to you."

"I hope so as well," she agreed. T'Pol got up and prepared to leave. The future was unclear. Her mother would have told her that it always was. Now she had other issues to consider.

"Be sure to drink some _pela_ root extract," the healer told her back. "It keeps things moving!"

She did not find that thought pleasant. T'Pol closed the door behind her and walked up to the main deck. The steps were covered in paint but that had not saved them in their battle against rust. T'Pol grew warm and her face flushed. She stepped onto the main deck and let the cool air waft over her face. It took all of her mental discipline to recover.

"I hope that Tarack lives," a voice proclaimed, "but if he doesn't then know that he died with honor." Karzan looked much younger than his turnings. The old Romulan walked with her to the boat's railing.

"Excuse me praetor, but I see little in honor when one is dead," she told him.

"We have much to learn from one another; the two sundered species," Karzan said. "Honor is about what we are when we are alive. It is the kind of shadow you cast over the future. We Romulans pride ourselves on service to the empire and honorable conduct."

"Vulcans value integrity," she said. "Yet that lends no comfort at this point."

"Many were lost in that battle," Karzan said. "No one could have foreseen our enemy coming out of the water as they did."

"Our forces have lost ground," she said.

"We shall overcome this rebellion, Promise," he said. T'Pol heard the Romulan self assuredness in his voice. He turned suddenly upon her. "That is why I've sought you out." The old Romulan looked at her, looked through her. He seemed hesitant. Finally he continued: "The ground war is stalled. A large assault force is being put together but it will be sometime. Meanwhile those fools in the senate are vulnerable."

T'Pol's logic led her to the conclusion. "You plan on sending a small team into the capital."

"I would like for you to be a part of that," Karzan said. "It is unheard of to ask a female to engage in combat yet I need those with special abilities. I need your mental discipline to deal with any Remans I might encounter."

"You praetor?" she asked. Disbelief was in her tone. T'Pol felt ashamed that she had allowed emotion to creep into her voice and then shame because she had allowed that emotion to control her. It must be her condition.

"Yes me, Promise," he answered. "Are you alright?" he asked her. She wasn't. A tide of nausea swept over her. She contained it.

"I believe that I'm suffering from pollen in the air," she lied. She did not want to tell him the truth. The lie was like a blow to her. She had disdained so much of her Vulcan heritage since coming here.

"You've seen the healer," he said. "I asked him about your condition. He believes that the virus is sheathed."

"You've inquired about my medical condition?" she asked. Privacy was valued by Vulcans.

"I do not ask you to go lightly. We Romulans value service over self—or the condition of others. No matter how we feel about those others. You and Gup—Tarack have been like my children. I asked about your condition because a great heart should not die thus. Yet your expertise is needed for this scheme of mine. I also believe that the cure for you could be at the Healer's Bureau." He seized her arm gently. "I would protect you like you were my own. But in the end that would not save the empire or your life."

Karzan looked out over the muddy brown water. "I go because the empire is under my stewardship. Duty dictates that I repair the damage caused by my weakness. No one else should be called upon to correct my mistakes. Also the senate will be skeptical if a Vulcan leads a team claiming to have a message from a leader they do not believe is alive anymore." He smiled playfully. "My malfeasance has allowed me one last adventure, Promise."

"I will do as you ask praetor," she said at last. T'Pol wanted to say no. She missed Tarang.

T'Pol pictured his reactions when he learned about their child. He would be bewildered and happy in that way that only seemed possible for humans. She pushed that image aside. It was fantasy. Logic dictated that she prepare for the very real possibility that Gupta was dead.

"You miss him," Karzan said. "I do too. But we each have our duties to attend to. We leave in a dawning."

"I shall be ready praetor," she answered. It occurred to her that the old Romulan might consult the healer again. "I have seen the healer. He has found that I am normal. You will of course check."

Karzan smiled. It offended T'Pol that she had to lie to the old leader. There were reasons that Vulcans had adopted the codes that they had. Her mother had told her that emotional turmoil accompanied pregnancy. That must account for these changes that she was experiencing.

"I trust you." That left a sting. T'Pol wanted to be alone to meditate and center.

She begged his leave. Karzan granted it so that he could confer with Artrax. The serious young Romulan soldier had gone from uhlan to major. It helped that he was one of the few real soldiers that had survived. But beyond that, the youth had a grasp of tactics and strategy. The praetor's army flocked to the young Romulan's leadership. Right now this world needed that.


	48. Chapter 48

Salintac: Capital city of the Tellarite Union, Tellar, the earth year of Feb 2159

Salintac: Capital city of the Tellarite Union, Tellar, the earth year of Feb 2159

Augustus Kirk yawned. Tellarites tended to eat and drink to excesses over every minor event. The arrival of the terran diplomatic party was seen as no small event. Kirk rolled his tongue around his mouth. Whatever was growing there tasted nasty. He rolled out of bed to answer the pounding at the door of his suite. Kirk threw a robe on and carefully sidestepped his suite's mud pit. He definitely planned on having one installed at his home. Now he had only to convince Debra to go along with that.

"Okay, okay!" he exclaimed as he threw open the door.

He found himself staring at the svelte figure of Ambassador Kelly O'Donnell. Kirk remembered seeing holos of O'Donnell before the war. The then portly ambassador was built much like those aliens that he was ambassador to. He had told Kirk that he quit drinking after his daughter was reported missing. Lieutenant Brea O'Donnell had been discovered months later with the other survivors of the Borei. They were starved and near dead. They had been discovered just in time. O'Donnell had decided to maintain and improve his good shape at the behest of his daughter. Kirk thought that he looked lost in the large Tellarite formal robe.

"You look like hell, Kirk," O'Donnell proclaimed. "That is what drinking does to you."

"I didn't have that much," Kirk protested. "Zarn was telling me something about his mate and pouring out some kind of brandy. I don't remember much but we seemed to have come to an agreement."

O'Donnell flipped back his ponytail. "Their congress is calm. Almost like a riot at the World Council chamber for us but that is saying a lot for them." Kirk invited O'Donnell in. "I'm not sure if they intend to accept President Thorpe's tentative agreement or not."

"Have a mud bath if you want," Augustus said as he gestured at the indoor pit. "I'm going to head for the shower."

Kirk discarded the robe and headed around a corner into a shower room. One thing he had to hand the Tellarites: they had brought bathing to an art form. He turned a few knobs, not unlike a human shower and then the water came at him from several directions. The temperature seemed to be just below scalding but it felt invigorating.

"Shahar Shran will speak to their congress in two hours," O'Donnell yelled from around the corner.

Kirk soaped himself up and used the time to clear his head and think. The fact that Shran was speaking before the Tellarite governing body was a good sign. Creel Zarn had told him that the congress hadn't seemed interested in hearing from the 'great ice head leader', as they called Shran. Kirk had reminded Zarn that if a cool head could keep an open mind then so could the hot headed Tellarites. The sly insult had taken hold Kirk supposed.

"Two hours?" Kirk started to wash faster.

"Don't worry," a voice reassured him. "The Tellarites aren't known for being punctual. You humans have a term," Shran mused: "fashionably late."

"Is everyone going to show up for my shower?" Kirk asked. "Is nothing sacred?"

Kirk had figured that Shran would make the perfunctory speech and then the entourage would move on. Vulcan was their next destination. Kirk would represent earth at Soval's installation as prefect. The Tellarite ambassador would represent his world, if they chose to go. He let the water rinse him clean.

"Diplomacy happens in the strangest of places, Kirk," O'Donnell told him. Kirk shut the water off and turned on the air dryers. He was soon dry. He put on his robe and walked into the main room. Creel Zarn stood with O'Donnell and Shran.

"Since my privacy is gone then why the interruption?" he asked. "O'Donnell said that your congress looks like it isn't going to accept the first drafts of the federation protocols."

Creel gave the Tellarite equivalent of a scowl to O'Donnell: "I think that when he lost that weight that a good part of it was his head. And all along I had thought it was empty. But look Kirk, this fool wasn't around for our discussion. You terrans can't hold your drink. After you passed out I went and rousted some of the key representatives in my government."

Kirk poured coffee for himself and his guests. The beverage had taken hold among Tellarites. He wondered what he could have said that was so convincing; especially when he had been in a drunken stupor for a large portion of the night. He recalled speaking at large on the economics of farming.

"We'll let the naysayers make speeches," Creel explained. "We'll let them speak about how an independent Tellar will carry the burden of shipbuilding expenses for matter anti matter ships, how they will raise taxes and pay the war debt. Then our side will speak of shared expenses, the mitigation of the debt and the reduction of tariffs when the four powers are one."

"Your plan is to let greed run its course?" Kirk asked. He had been successful in his life but had a disdain for what many still regarded as a vice.

"Why not?" Creel asked. "A great leader of yours, Gordon Gekko, once said that greed is good."

"Gekko, wasn't he a twentieth century president?" Shran asked. "I believe it was the USSR."

"Probably about the same back then," Kirk answered. "I see your point Zarn. I was thinking about our discussion last night. I just wonder if a foundation based on greed will survive."

"It's the bait to entice the throwbacks on each world into accepting federation membership," Shran interjected. "Your own people are moving away from money Kirk. On Andor, here and Vulcan technology has allowed every citizen to prosper. Christophur's federation will be a place that will allow the pioneers, the creators and inventors to flourish. But we need something to lure the rest."

"The prospect of unlimited resources, no shortages," Zarn added.

"Except for common sense," Kirk grumbled. The near victory of the Sons' of Terra was an indication that man might have fulfilled all of his needs, but his intellect was still lacking.

"It is the same on all of the core worlds," Shran said. "Even the Vulcans were being provincial when it came to the federation."

"President Thorpe changed their minds," O'Donnell said.

Kirk felt odd. He knew that all of them shared the secret about the Romulans except for O'Donnell. Kirk believed that O'Donnell's opinion came from his ardent support for the president. The ambassador had been a local campaign manager for Thorpe since the late forties. O'Donnell had authored a book about the president that had bombed upon publication. That had been before the war. Sales had improved drastically as of late.

"He sure did," Kirk agreed. Blackmail had a way of doing that. His experiences with Soval had taught him how much Vulcans abhorred shame. Having violent cousins running around the universe probably wouldn't affect humans; some part of Kirk expected that. It was of great concern to Vulcans, however.

"So you are saying you have the votes for the initial protocols?" Shran asked Zarn, changing the subject in a very blunt way.

"Kirk should dress, although that matters little with we Tellarites," Zarn answered. "You can watch the show but the vote will go as we want." He watched as the Tellarite shot a glance at O'Donnell. "You know our speech, slow and stupid though you are Kelly. Why don't you go ahead and prepare our observation box."

Kirk had thought that the primary Tellarite government house looked something akin to an operatic theater back on his earth. He had come to understand that politics was just one more form of theatre to these aliens. It was a place to hurl insults and sometimes worse. Somehow through the anarchy the Tellarite representatives passed laws and managed to govern themselves fairly.

"Your aide could do that Zarn," O'Donnell answered hesitantly. He smelled a fix.

He walked over to the Irishman. "I wanted to talk to our friend Zarn here about the farming trade. I'm due on Serendipity after the vote." Kirk still had the interests of his region to think about. He had indeed spoken briefly about allowing earth friendly companies to set up grain storage areas on Tellar. It was not, strictly speaking, a lie. "Besides, President Thorpe has suggested that we each get involved more in the local affairs of our allies."

The lies were shallow and barely assuaged the Irishman. But in the end O'Donnell did as he had been asked. He departed after assuring Zarn that he would make the necessary arrangements. Kirk took a little time to shave and finish dressing. He had toyed with the idea of a beard but since gray had long since won the battle for his facial hair he had chosen not to do that. He stepped back into the suite's main room. Shran and Zarn were seated across from one another and were uncharacteristically not bickering.

"So how hard a sell was this?" Kirk asked.

Zarn eyed him. The Tellarite really was a shrewd politician. "This whole thing will fall apart like a _l'in'x_ worm's nest if it discovered just who we are fighting. You said you had little information about the military campaign Kirk. Can you at least say what you think the chances of doing what your president proposes really are?"

Augustus' personal bet was slim to none. "The military is keeping the dispatches to a low but I'm sure that there is a fleet operating in Birdie space."

"There are two fleets," Zarn said.

"The Sovereignty has committed the bulk of the Great Blue Fleet to this Kirk. It is the generals' and admirals' consensus that the Romulan forces are badly depleted. Whether that is true or there is some trap of theirs we shall see." Shran's antennae were straight up as he spoke.

"The Vulcan Soval," Zarn started, "it is said that he came up with the idea of dealing the pirates a near death blow. How can we even know if we've done that?"

"They'll cry uncle," Kirk said.

"What does that mean?" Zarn asked. The Tellarite was skilled in English but did not know every human aphorism.

"It means that they will have been hit so hard that they will offer a truce," Shran answered.

"I understand that a force under Admiral Forrest deployed two warp driven nuclear weapons at their world," Zarn said. "What happened?"

"We don't know," Shran answered. "The Romulans have littered the approaches to their system with sensor and radar pickets. But we know that they haven't offered a truce or even deigned to open communications." The Andorian's antennae bent forward as he looked Kirk's way.

"Exactly how are they to speak to us Kirk?" Shran asked; "if they were to want to negotiate?"

The Andorian had hit at the crux of the issue. Kirk had told the president that someone had to go there, to Romulus. So far no one had come forward who could do that. If and when the time came would the Romulans merely open communications with an allied ship? Or would they send a transmission to earth? Both methods seemed fraught with dangers to Kirk; the most paramount being exposure. An intermediary working from Romulus could smooth the way for the faceless truce desired by the president.

"We…we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he answered.

Zarn looked at him. "That's what I was afraid of," the Tellarite leader declared. "If our respective races discover this cover up it is likely that we are all going to prison. Tell me icehead, how are prison conditions on your world?"

"Probably about the same as yours, just cooler," Shran answered. "I assume you've been working on sending someone to Romulus Kirk?"

"You've read my mind Shahar Shran," Kirk answered. Maybe there was something to Andorians being able to use their antennae for telepathy—no, Augustus squelched that thought. It was obvious that someone had to go. It was also a potential suicide mission. The ancient Vulcans had been a kind of go-to-hell type fighter. What if the Romulans were thinking of resisting to an ultimate end?

"I'm also thinking that you don't know who to send," Shran said. Kirk nodded at him.

"It should be someone that already knows the secret, someone versed in languages," Zarn said. The Tellarite's mood was unusually speculative.

Kirk got an uncomfortable feeling. He would send a synopsis of this conversation to the president. He was closer to eighty than seventy. The Klingon Empire hadn't killed him. Would a trip to Romulus do the trick? He didn't want to go but he filled the bill. Perhaps he wouldn't be the one though. The president would have the final word.

"That narrows the list of candidates," he told Shran and Zarn.

Near Kalenara, Romulus, the earth winter of 2159

The patrol would surely smell him. Tarang Gupta was filthy and had not seen a bath in several dawnings. He imagined that his companion did not smell any better. Valdore was nestled beneath some brush as the Reman patrol slowly passed by. The rebels were taking no chances this close to the city that they so coveted. Gupta barely breathed as the Remans walked by. He waited for some time after the last of them had gone.

"Wake up human," Valdore hissed. Gupta jumped. He hadn't heard the admiral sneaking up.

"I wasn't sleeping!" he shot back. "Are you sure that they've gone?"

"Of course!" Valdore answered. Gupta groaned when he heard the Romulan cocksureness. "I told you human: we Romulans haven't turned military training into a vacation."

"Yes, yes," he interrupted. "You've already told me that you were dropped naked out of an aircraft and left to fend in the wilderness as part of your training. No doubt the Remans sent me as a joke since you have everything under control."

Far from it, they had found most approaches to the city firmly under Reman control. They had been out here for several dawnings. The Remans had dropped them two dawnings' walk from the capital. Any closer had risked lethal antiaircraft fire. Since then they had wondered furtively; narrowly avoiding Reman patrols and booby traps.

"Do not scoff at my training Gupta," Valdore answered in a menacing tone.

"Oh, I know that you received intensive training. But since then I think you've become a royal snob." Living with Valdore had become tiresome for Gupta. "You might have won this war if you hadn't been so busy plotting to cut each other's throats."

"You spend a few quatrents here and think you know my race. You know nothing."

Gupta was silent as the two of them scurried from cover and started a slow sliding climb down a steep bank. They were close to the city's secondary waste treatment facility. The Romulans had built an underground sewage system much like man had built in his cities. The two of them hoped that they could sneak into the capital through that. In the meantime the animosity between the two had grown.

"And you obviously know nothing of mine," Gupta retorted. "Despite a sneak attack and having had the advantage you still can't defeat us."

The two of them had descended the hill into a thick stand of small trees. A reek from the west pointed to the position of the treatment plant. Gupta had read that these places were once common on earth. Mankind had used the new technology of resequencing to break down the organic wastes and reuse them more efficiently. Large holding tanks and open air pools were a thing of earth's past. Tarang wondered how on earth such backward people could have gotten so far against them. Gupta pushed branches away slowly; stopping at every one of them that cracked and broke.

"We still have the advantage human," Valdore said. Their argument was heated despite being barely above a whisper. "Once Sinphius is out of the way I'll use the legions in our space to smash your forces."

Gupta could barely see the outline of the city through the thick tree cover. Some of the domes and pools of the waste plant were visible. A steep hill led to a pool that lay outside of the fenced area. A culvert was visible. He hoped that they could sneak into the plant in that. Gunfire erupted some distance away. Neither of them was startled. Firefights were normal.

"What kind of clever scheme do you have admiral; sneaking around and poisoning Sinphius' mate?" The notion that Valdore was going to use T'Pol's life despite his promise to the praetor rankled Gupta.

"I've heard enough from you human," Valdore answered sharply. His voice was no longer a hushed whisper.

"And I've had enough of you…pompous windbag," Gupta spat.

Not quite the same meaning as that used on earth, the insult nonetheless caused a reaction. Gupta grunted after Valdore tackled him cleanly in his midsection. He rolled away from the Romulan and rose up in time to see Valdore enter a martial arts stance. Gupta lacked that intensive training but Subedar Carmody had told his class that most martial arts consisted of just using one's mind effectively. He knew that Valdore would lash out with his right arm and try to sweep his leg.

Tarang came in high, deflected the Romulan's fist and then connected his left fist solidly with the admiral's jaw. Valdore's head snapped back. Gupta caught his leg and pushed him back. Somehow the older Romulan spun away and landed a blow on the side of Tarang's head. Gupta stumbled but used his momentum to come back against the admiral. He lashed out and hit Valdore again. The Romulan swung hard at him. There was no more of a pretense at stylized combat. Valdore was angry and Gupta could tell.

Gupta came back and hit the Romulan solidly in the pit of his stomach. The physiology being different it didn't hurt as much as it would have a human. But it still winded the Romulan. That gave Gupta a brief respite. Very brief as Valdore reared up and hit him squarely in his head. Tarang stumbled backwards. The gun shots got louder. Gupta gathered steam and lunged at Valdore. He issued a primal scream as he collided with the admiral.

The two of them plunged out of the trees and rolled down the bank. Th wind was knocked out of Gupta when he landed hard onto permacrete surface. Despite that he swung his fist and connected with Valdore. The Romulan's head jerked back. He swung at and returned Gupta's punch. Chunks of permacrete stung Tarang's face. He dimly realized that they were being shot at.

"Someone is shooting you fool!" the admiral roared.

"We're being shot at!" Gupta yelled at the same time.

They both looked around for cover. They had landed onto the top of another pipe. Neither of them had seen it from the top of the hill. Gupta spied a group of Remans near a building at the plant. They were blazing away at the two combatants. Gupta looked desperately for an escape. There was none! He looked at the admiral and caught a brief look of acceptance over their fate. Then the culvert collapsed beneath them. Gupta hit icy cold water.

He bobbed to the surface coughing. Gupta had tried unsuccessfully to breathe water. Their attackers had lost sight of them for an instant. The sparks kicked up by flying bullets told him that the Remans had reacquired them. Tarang followed Valdore as the two bobbed back below the surface. Then the bottom fell out of the permacrete section sending Gupta and Valdore both down a long sluice. They landed in an inky black pool and were immediately sucked beneath the cold water.

Gupta realized that he was being pulled along by a strong current. He contemplated drowning for the second time in a span of dawnings. His chest burned with agony. Maybe he could try water. The total darkness was illuminated. Gupta shot to the surface and took a deep breath. Valdore, looking thoroughly miserable was gasping in the water beside him. They both surveyed their surroundings.

They were in a large cylindrical chamber. The water churned all around them. A ladder climbed the metal wall to whatever was at the top of this storage tank. Gupta swam toward it. Valdore followed slowly. Tarang latched an arm and his feet into some rungs. He turned to see Valdore sink into the pool. The admiral's struggles were growing less and less. Between the fight and the near drowning the older Romulan must be in a bad way Gupta thought.

He cursed the Romulan, using his native Hindu tongue for the first time in many quatrents. Let him die. Valdore's head came up one more time. His nose and mouth did not come out of the water. Tarang watched as he sputtered and choked. Valdore slipped beneath the surface. Bubbles marked his location. These gradually grew less. Without conscious thought Gupta reached into the water. He didn't think that it was deeper than the average Romulan's height. Gupta panicked briefly when he felt nothing but water.

He seized onto something that could only be a head full of hair. Gupta grabbed and pulled. He drew Valdore's head up, let it go and quickly caught the drowning Romulan beneath an arm. Valdore coughed explosively and took a hacking breath. Gupta dragged his arm to a rung and made the officer take hold. Valdore started to pull himself up on his own. Just in time as the black water was pumped away. If it had happened any sooner neither of them would have escaped.

"Are you going to let a human best you?" he chided the admiral.

"You should have killed me!" Valdore spat out between coughs. He looked down to see that the Romulan was climbing up after him.

"I need you, your name and authority to complete this!" Gupta climbed up slowly. He also was not in the best of shape. He had also just told an untruth. Gupta could not just let his adversary die like that. He cursed himself for what he thought was a human sense of fair play and honor. Gupta had reached the top. He scrambled slowly over the lip of the pipe.

"I know where we are," he said as Valdore climbed out and stood next to him.

He had familiarized himself with the capital while he had been a guest of Alvega Gesaam. The hellish tanks, water intakes and whirlpools had made no sense to Gupta until now. The Romulans had used part of the water from the waste treatment plant to route to one of the city's main fusion reactors. If his memory was good then Tarang guessed that they were in a subterranean section of the treatment plant. He informed the admiral about his speculation.

"I recall reading about that," Valdore said. "There should be a maintenance tube and car to the power plant."

"This was classified by the Tal Shiar so it's unlikely that the Remans know that this is down here," Gupta said.

"And how did you learn of it human?" Valdore's voice was rife with suspicion.

"I was—am an intelligence officer admiral," Gupta answered. "Give me some credit." He reflected that if not for the Romulan's inherit arrogance they just might've defeated Gupta's people.

"You are a fool," Valdore told him. There was a long silence. "But I thank you for my life human."

"And you are a still a pompous windbag, admiral," Gupta answered. "You're welcome."

They scouted the underground command center. An empty and largely automated control tower dominated one corner of the cavernous cooling station. Gupta had agreed with the admiral about the maintenance car. But after awhile he began to question if the tube system had indeed been built, or if it was more Romulan bluster for the masses. They were discussing alternate means of getting into the capital when they came upon the tube.

"Seems fairly simple to operate," Gupta announced after they finished examining the vehicle.

"We can hide ourselves in the stowage area," Valdore said. "I'm sure that our forces control the power plant."

"And Sinphius commands those forces," Gupta completed his thought. "What do you plan on doing when we get there? Even if you announce yourself, Sinphius will probably demand that you be brought before him for proof of who you are."

"Some of my old commanders are at the Legion Center," Valdore said. "I would wager that they are also defending the city. They know me and will aide me in dealing with the Hand. There is an access port behind this locker." Valdore proceeded to remove a heavy access panel revealing a narrow crawlspace. "It leads to the external magnetic field coil. We should be able to get out through that."

"I never knew that you understood engineering," Gupta said. It was obvious that the Romulan had a grasp of things mechanical.

"I was a power room technician on my first cruise," Valdore said. "Did you think that I, a pompous windbag had always gotten the best of everything?" Valdore stood up after making a check of the crawlspace and made his way to the tubecar's control board.

"Now that you mention it admiral…yes, I did," he answered.

He watched as Valdore started an automated sequence. Gupta reached out and steadied himself when the car accelerated away on a magnetic cushion. The tube was illuminated, showing the car's great speed. The two infiltrators scrambled for the maintenance crawlspace.

"My father wanted me to work for everything that I had, Gupta," Valdore said. "That is the way of our culture. Not this bastardization that the Tal Shiar is making of us."

Tarang chuckled softly as he crawled in the tube. "My father expected the same from me. He wanted me to follow him into retail."

"You do not seem like a merchant Gupta," Valdore said as he sealed the panel up. They could feel the car decelerating.

"Actually I did pretty good at it," he declared proudly. "I was a purveyor of terran fruits and vegetables as part of my cover on Vulcan." He smiled as he recalled his Pan-Pac operation.

"I wanted my son to be a healer," Valdore said. The Romulan's voice was uncharacteristically soft. The car was slowing to a halt.

"An odd choice for a military officer," Gupta said. "I would have thought that you--"

"Conquests can be made on many fronts human." There was another long pause. "Dalen wanted our son to remain close. So many females of my race are alone. We die, their sons die. It is our way. It granted my mate what she wanted."

"That was…kind of you," Gupta said at last. The car was stopped. Gupta listened for anything.

"It mattered little," Valdore answered. "Dalen went beyond almost two turnings ago. Autarian flu, it is rare and sometimes fatal. About the same time that Gathor was killed by your Commodore Stiles. At least she went before he died. She would have found no glory in his death."

"I'm so…" he started and then stopped. Death and service to the state was a virtue for these people. Yet he knew that Romulans felt love, pity, and grief.

"I understand the sentiment human," Valdore whispered.

Voices sounded in the cabin. The two fell silent. The accents and language declared the intruders as Romulans. Gupta wondered how long it would take them to search the car and leave; provided that they didn't look too hard. He watched as Valdore wriggled deeper into the access. He realized that the Romulan was working with something. Not long after that he told Gupta to follow as he scurried out of the crawlspace.

The voices faded away as Tarang crawled out onto the other side of the tube's arrival platform. He doubted that anyone could see them on this side. Valdore led the way to an entrance to a maintenance corridor. They climbed some stairs to another corridor. One side of that was covered by thick mesh. The floor below was visible through that. Gupta watched two soldiers and two older Romulans in old, tattered uniforms reenter the car. They were obviously surprised and suspicious of it. Valdore gestured for him to hurry.

They wound through the working corridors of the plant. Valdore led him to a locker room that had been meant for the power room technicians. No one was around. They had both surmised that the plant was in a standby mode. Gupta searched a few lockers before he found some drab looking civilian clothes. He changed into those while Valdore did the same with some clothing that he had discovered. They started to sneak out when a loud voice intruded on them.

"You two! There is work to do! This is no time for laziness!" the voice hollered. It belonged to the smaller half of a duo of two soldiers.

Gupta shuffled along, picking up his pace. These were younger Romulans and he guessed real soldiers. Valdore stood mute. It occurred to him that the admiral existed in a social and military strata where he gave orders rather than taking them. Gupta plucked at Valdore's sleeve.

"Come along, Ar'zim," he told Valdore. The admiral stirred and started along. "My friend is not with it today," Gupta explained, applying a human aphorism in Romulan.

"Exactly what is it that your companion is with?" one of the soldiers scoffed.

"Forget it Mah'lin," the larger one said. "These two have been exposed to the rays and it has fried their brains. We need laborers to rebuild the southern redoubt. You two shirkers get your asses moving!"

"Yes sir," Gupta mumbled. He had learned how to milk his role as a _mon'zel_.

They followed the two soldiers up to the surface. A field hospital had been hastily thrown up near a quadrant of the power plant. A healer, covered in a bloody apron stood near the entrance. Tarang thought that the physician looked like she had not slept in a quartrent. The Romulan doctor's face turned hard when two litters were brought up. One wounded Romulan could not stop screaming and clutching at where his right leg used to be. The other was holding his hands over a tear in his abdomen.

Gupta and Valdore joined a group of laborers and commenced working. Gupta had the tasks of stacking shattered pieces of block onto a makeshift wall. When his fingers started bleeding he stopped to tear off part of his clothes to make something to protect his hands. An old Romulan handed him a pair of work gloves. Gupta thanked the oldster and then did a double take.

"Talen!" he exclaimed. It was the old laborer from his time at repairing the wall of the Imperial Residence.

"_Juggler_!" the old Romulan replied. "There was a lot of commotion after you left. But I think you got away just in time. It is like some tale of the ancients!"

Gupta smiled. The old Romulan had been kind to him. Talen soon saw that Gupta was given the task of mixing mortar. Apparently he had impressed Talen. Gupta asked if his 'friend' could help. Talen eyed Valdore.

"You look like a very young officer candidate that I remember Ar'zim," Talen said as he looked the admiral up and down. "But that was many turnings ago and everyone looks the same these dawnings. Sometimes my mate looks like a surly engineer that used to torment me. I am getting old. But not too old to fight these _snag'n_!"

Talen assigned them a section of wall and then proceeded on to help someone else. Gupta was surprised to see Valdore throw himself into the tasks. The soldiers walked by and reminded everyone that another attack was in the offing. Gupta got the sense that this position wouldn't hold much longer.

"If they do attack we'll move then," Valdore said. "I can see that we aren't going to get far. The entire population has been mobilized."

"How do we get about then?" Gupta asked.

"I'll examine things as we go, but I think that I have a solution," Valdore said.

"In other words: you'll make this up as we go along?" Gupta asked. His skepticism was obvious.

"Exactly," Valdore answered, much to Tarang's surprise.

Near Kalenara, Romulus, the Vulcan time of reflection

"I do not approve of this mode of travel," T'Pol told the praetor. "It is quite dangerous."

Karzan smiled at her as he finished tightening the bolts on a support arm. "I learned to fly these when I was a youth." Karzan looked around to see that they were not overheard. "I'm surprised that our Vulcan brothers—and sisters are not more open minded. Or is it that you are just concerned about my age?"

"You should not be flying a glider," she answered. "We are open minded. But that does not mean that we are insane."

T'Pol stepped back and looked at the glider. The aircraft had been rescued from crates in a military depot. The Remans had destroyed most of the powered aircraft. They had spared these. T'Pol reasoned that the Remans probably thought that the light gliders were more of a hazard to the operator than they would be to them. If that was true then she approved of their logic.

"These are undetectable by radar, if any still exists," Karzan said.

He climbed into the cockpit of the one he was going to fly and powered up the glider's few instruments. T'Pol cast a wary eye at the flyer's small battery. Contained in a case not much bigger than a travel bag the battery was supposed to operate the ship's indicators and most importantly fire the two rocket canisters that would send the glider aloft.

"Praetor, you have been invigorated by this experience," T'Pol started.

Karzan took her shoulder gently. "I have. But I am aware of my age Promise. The tactical situation is this: we might take a quartrent to get into the city. We can get in faster this way."

"And accomplish what?" T'Pol asked.

"I shall compel the senate to negotiate. It is our only recourse. We must put aside our differences and save the empire. How close is this Star Fleet?"

"I have no knowledge of that praetor," she answered. "Have you considered that if your empire had not pursued this war that there would be no Star Fleet?"

"Too many times Promise," he said. Three soldiers and a civilian joined them. There would be three in each glider. "What is done is done." Karzan turned on the civilian. The Romulan was a little younger than Karzan. He had been a flight instructor in gliders until that training had been terminated. "I shall take off first and fly a circle until you join me. We'll use the night vision glasses to navigate with. We'll reconnoiter but I'd like to make for the eastern end of the capital. The Legion Center is there. If anyone would be coordinating a defense it would be them."

"What of Sinphius?" she asked the elder Romulan.

"He is no military commander," Karzan answered. "It has been awhile but I vaguely remember him. He had a rather morbid curiosity about young females and seemed mainly to draw his power from Vrinak. I remember thinking that he was ruthless, an admirable quality. But his ruthlessness wasn't complemented with intellect. No, he is dangerous, make no mistake about that. But he will defer the fight to others up to a point."

"The light grows less," Karzan said. "Let us to it."

Reluctantly T'Pol joined Karzan and their uhlan in pushing the glider out onto a straight strip of road. The old instructor Maltor and his two soldiers followed. Night descended onto this part of Romulus as T'Pol took another cautious look at the glider. Logic and education told her that the framework was strong. These gliders had carried many young Romulans aloft and returned them safely. Karzan had experience with them. Still something plagued her thought processes.

She climbed into the rear section of the glider's delicate fuselage. The words of T'Les came unbidden to her mind. T'Pol remembered when she was a child. Her mother had been frustrated about something at the university. T'Pol had been too young to understand it all but she had seen and felt the flash of emotion from her mother. T'Les had explained that it was an emotional reaction common during the birth cycle. Perhaps that is what was plaguing her now. The heavy cloth straps buckled over her with little effort.

Karzan announced that he was ready. The small disposable rocket motors hissed loudly. T'Pol felt herself being pushed back into the canvass seat. There was no sense of motion until they passed by a hastily set up encampment. T'Pol saw a brief image of several Romulans standing around a fire. Then the glider was airborne and climbing. Karzan pushed the deck angle to what she thought seemed impossibly steep.

She looked out a small glass port. The normally brightly illuminated city was dark. Here and there, there existed small pockets of electric lighting. Fires both controlled and not burned in various places. T'Pol remembered Tarang's description of the degradation and cannibalism of ancient Vulcan. This was reminiscent of that. The flashes of weapons fire, both chemical and laser added to the scene below. They were circling. T'Pol was surprised: she seemed to be losing her sense of time.

She became aware that the glider had straightened out. The fires and lights grew more numerous as they got closer to the capital. As nobody had anticipated the underwater attack made by the Remans, the rebels must not be looking to the skies T'Pol thought. The flight was quiet. The glider spiraled toward the ground. After awhile T'Pol was able to make out the shape of buildings reaching skyward. The messages from her inner ear conflicted with those of her eyes.

Normally Vulcans could control such things. T'Pol was growing increasing ill as Karzan tightly maneuvered the glider. There was a loud pop. Part of the floor became a gaping hole. The soldier turned to warn her that there was shooting. It was the last thing he would say as a blinding flash filled the front of the cockpit. The young soldier slumped forward; the smell of scorched flesh filled the cabin. T'Pol threw up. She leaned forward exerting all of her control.

The glider hit hard. She threw up again. Karzan actually let out a cry of glee as the glider rolled through the darkness. The right wing dropped and dug into the ground. The glider spun violently and then rocked to a stop. The nausea subsided. T'Pol collected herself, got up and went forward. Karzan was examining the soldier. The laser had burned clearly through his midsection.

"Someone has sharp eyes my praetor," Maltor declared. The old instructor was standing next to the glider. "One of them almost shot off one of my wings."

"The Remans' night vision is superb. I'm surprised that more of them didn't see us and shoot but we had the element of surprise." Karzan spoke as he removed his restraints and got out of the glider. "Now to get our bearings," he added.

"Who are you?" a harsh voice demanded.

T'Pol spun around to see a group of soldiers; weapons held at the ready approaching them. She found nothing unusual until she saw their decorative, ornate uniforms. Each of them wore the gray clad battle helmets of ground troops but their armor was golden and polished to a high degree. She saw that they were older. They had stern faces all save for one.

The old soldier gazed at Karzan with growing recognition. He turned and whispered to his nearest mate. T'Pol watched him slowly lower his rifle. The Romulan that he had spoken to did likewise. A wave of amazement went through the old Romulans.

"My praetor," the first one that had recognized Karzan declared. He started to drop to his knees as all of them did.

"That is not necessary," Karzan declared. He extended his hand over them. "Besides at your ages you may not get up again!" T'Pol was amazed yet again to see the doddering old Romulan transformed. This was a vital commander and not a frail elderly figurehead. "What is the situation?"

The soldiers looked at one another. Finally, one of them, silently elected as the group's speaker, stepped forth to answer Karzan's questions. The others added information as was necessary. Sinphius was in the senate chambers. The city center was still heavily fortified. The soldiers, veterans and volunteers had been tasked to defend the outer sections as long as possible.

"We will hold the line my praetor," the soldier, a Colonel Matok explained. "We have adequate supplies but we run out of soldiers. The Remans are desperate and fight like they are mad. They have started to strap explosives to their bodies."

"Form a defensive line, but expect to be pushed back Matok," Karzan ordered. T'Pol watched Karzan take a deep breath before he continued. "They have tried communicating?"

"They have my praetor," Matok answered. "It is the Hand's orders that we do not answer their transmissions. He has instructed us that it is possible that they have retrieved some of the Galamides that we used in the ground battle against the Triple Alliance."

"According to what I discovered from my personal database those unfortunates were destroyed after that campaign," Karzan said. "Still there could be something to that. But even if they had fouler codes you have to have weapons or systems that they can disable. The rebels went directly for our technology, a stroke worthy of one of us." T'Pol watched his old face grow hard.

"All of you hear my words," Karzan started in a loud voice. "Know that we are not beaten. But know also that the Remans are a part of us." He pointed to several Romulans that had a v-shaped ridge above the bridge of their noses. "Many of you have Reman genes running through your makeup. That was necessary to save our race when our ancestors landed here. They have mined our ore, taken care of our children and done the things that we felt were beneath us. They have become a part of us. I will call upon the senate to negotiate with the rebels." T'Pol could see that loyal though they might be, the praetor's words were not taken easily by these old soldiers. "I shall not surrender. We will conquer. But it is time for us to look at the Remans as a part of the empire. The real enemy is upon us. While a few have used the war to build their power they have done so by risking the empire's existence."

"What of Reunification my praetor?" Matok asked.

"Rather than trying to meet our ancient brothers in friendship, the war was planned instead to conquer them," he answered. T'Pol heard hushed cries of exclamation ripple through the soldiers. "I did not have a hand in planning that. I allowed a grave error to occur through the weakness of age. If none of you wish to follow me then that is understandable. I cannot correct the past. I can only try and save the empire for the future."

"Then there is no chance that our brothers will join us praetor?" an officer called from the back of the group.

Instead of answering, Karzan turned and looked at her. T'Pol sensed what he expected of her. The praetor introduced her and told them that she was Vulcan. It was illogical for one to act as speaker for their entire race. Yet that very thing was expected of her. T'Pol stepped forward. The old soldiers looked at her as if she were some kind of childhood fantasy that had come alive before their eyes. T'Pol felt sad. She permitted the emotion, when she thought that she never would have been able to make such an analogy before being among humans. Before meeting Tarang, she thought.

"We Vulcans had forgotten you. We did that purposefully. Many believed that your ancestors had perished in deep space and that was a good thing." she started. There was another ripple through the group. This one was full of anger. "You must understand that those left behind had to survive amidst a war ravaged planet. As Vulcan healed, those ancients wanted to forget."

"Over the span of time we accepted the ways of Surak. We knew nothing of you. When first I came here I thought this world…your race…was an obscenity." She could feel the anger as a force given form. "I have learned differently. My mate said that you are a great and noble race. I have come to believe the same thing. We Vulcans need you. Surak spoke of infinite diversity in infinite combinations and of the Vulcan need to embrace that. Logic suggests that you are a part of that diversity."

"I believe my race needs yours. But you came as conquerors. Vulcans will never accept that. In time perhaps that will change. But as Praetor Karzan has said: because of the rash actions of a few among you, that time now lies somewhere in a future that none can foresee."

"The Tal Shiar," Matok declared in a quiet but bitter voice. "And Sinphius holds the senate in his hands."

"We must break that hold," Karzan said. "The Tal Shiar's talons reach deep into our society. We may not be able to change that but we can change their focus to serve the empire instead of serving those seeking power."

"I will follow you praetor!" Matok exclaimed in a loud, strong voice. The others grunted their assent and added their voices.

Karzan seemed pleased. He fell to planning with Matok and his lieutenants. A small rearguard would stay to defend against the Remans. It was unlikely that they would survive. The soldiers holding the city center were mostly Tal Shiar. That meant that the praetor and his forces might be murdered before they got to the senate. They would soon have a fight behind and in front of them.

"It may be that we go to our deaths Promise," he told her in a quiet aside.

"I shall fight with you praetor," she said.

T'Pol had a doubt that she would do that. Fear was something that every Vulcan had mastered. Yet now she was afraid. But her fear was not for her own life. She thought of the life inside her. A part of her cried out that that must be protected. A soldier brought her body armor and some weapons. She took a breath and prepared herself.

Second Star Fleet, Star Fleet cruiser Beagle, entering Romulan space, Feb, 2159

"Decompression on decks three and eighteen captain!" the engineer reported to Captain Jean Baptiste Jospin.

Commodore Jocelyn Stiles listened with half an ear. She had her command back. Cromwell might be a little too idealistic but his data on the eddy had been spot on. Those damaged sections had been evacuated prior to the Star Fleet's and her ship's entry. Beagle bucked and rocked as it neared the end of the subspace anomaly. The straps on Stiles' seat bit into her shoulder and midsection. But the shaking was subsiding.

"Send damage teams into those sections right way captain!" she barked.

Jospin was already on it. They were at the vanguard of the fleet, entering Romulan space. Stiles intended to be prepared. She knew how lucky she was to have jockeyed this position. Admiral Forrest had been reluctant to grant her the lead. But her tactical abilities were not in dispute, just her moral decisions. Stiles asked for a scan.

"I'm starting to read normal space commodore," Chief Dalia Morris reported.

"Missile room is standing by!" Lieutenant Cruz announced. The Tellarite had whipped the crews into tip top shape during the outbound leg.

"Sir!" the sensor chief exclaimed. "The eddy is obscuring subspace sensors but I ran a subspace radar sweep. For a few seconds I picked up metallic returns. The mass detector showed about three hundred thousand tons per return before it snowed out. I'm guessing sir but I'd say that whatever I read is at least four AU's out. The return is like a warp trace but it's like trying to see a small school of fish through murky water."

"Guns load Cachalots!" Stiles bellowed. "Jospin, get with the chief and find out what we are dealing with! Comm, when will the link be back with twenty-five?"

"They are fifty seconds behind us sir," Ensign Thomas Bell responded.

Stiles knew that they couldn't communicate through the eddy. "How many returns chief?" she asked. She understood Morris' reluctance. That she had gotten a reading at all was a one in a thousand break.

Morris lifted her head from the hood, shook it and pressed her face back down on it. "I reviewed the record before the scrub. I think at least seventy returns sir."

"A couple of Birdie taskforces," Jospin conjectured.

Stiles had made sure that he curbed his drinking. Her assistance of her XO hadn't helped her with the admiral. Forrest had become suspicious and the only thing that had saved her was that Major Malcolm Reed had gone missing. Stiles knew how tenuous this command was. The captain was a good officer and ally when he was sober. She would not permit his weakness to destroy her. Jean knew that he was on a short leash.

"Too many of them to be these ZR's that Cromwell briefed us about," Stiles said. She was speaking more to herself than to the bridge crew. "Cruz, is it practical to lay a minefield in space?"

The Tellarite continued programming firing sequences into his keypad while staring up and thinking. "Not really, unless it was really big, then a ship a just move around it," Cruz answered. "If it did block some channel in space then the minelayers would have to find a way to instantly replace a mine taken out by a sweeper. If the pirates can instantly…" Cruz visibly fumbled for words, "instantly replicate a mine then we are in trouble." Cruz thumped his control panel.

"I'm sounding like a pointie!" he exclaimed. "The answer is unlikely. It's too far out of the possible exit vectors commodore."

"We are at the edge of the eddy sir," Lieutenant Martin Ward announced.

"Chief Morris—"

"Subspace literally piles up like a wave crashing onto a shore at the end of one of these, commodore," Morris answered, interrupting Stiles. "I'll have positive sensors about four seconds after we exit. That is the time the navcomp will need to reorient itself. I can't go any faster sir."

"I'm running solutions based on what the chief fed me," Cruz added.

"Comms with our chicks sir!" Bell announced, meaning the other ships of eighteen.

"Zip our data to them!" Stiles ordered. "Give me a voice over vid to Charger!"

Archer's battleship had been assigned to her taskforce. Stiles appreciated the man's desire to explore but she had thought in light of that that someone else should command the Conqueror class ship. But she had to admit that Jonathan Archer had acquitted himself well during the war. The screen cleared showing an image of Jonathan Archer. He was seated like a king in Charger's elevated command chair.

"I'm looking at your data now Commodore Stiles," Archer began. "If it's Birdies then we are badly outgunned here. We ought to wait until Grizzly Ouellette shows up with twenty-five."

"We've got maybe twenty seconds captain," Stiles said. She motioned for Bell to send this conversation over the net. "The other thing is that if these are Birdies, they probably haven't read us. We'd have about ten seconds to reorient and do a recognition check on them." She paused for just a second: "And then we warp to five thousand klicks out and ahead of them: point blank range."

Rather than the argument she expected Archer ordered his navigator to run the calculations. The rest of the ship captains responded in the affirmative. Stiles ordered the distortion of the eddy replaced with a tactical display. The letters 'SIM' appeared in the lower left hand corner of the screen; a reminder that the picture was a guess, not based on real or current data. Stiles hoped otherwise.

The Birdies would detect them but not until eighteen was at their throats. If Morris' lucky observation was the real thing then Stiles had just hit the mother load. She remembered her David, blasted in the ruin of Salem One, her father killed in the bombing of Panama City. Eighteen exited the eddy. The recognition scan came back.

Imperial Cruiser Riitraxa, Seventeenth Imperial Legion, near _ArTaza'x, _the fifteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of beginning

Denaton paced the command center. He enjoyed holding the reins of command yet he missed Valdore. The admiral was an anachronism, belonging to a Romulus of the past, or perhaps a Romulus that had only existed only in romance. Whatever, he trusted the admiral. Trust was becoming a rarity in the empire during these dawnings. He stooped to examine the passage. Imperial researchers had been unable to discern much about the space bending phenomena. They had discovered that they existed and that was all.

One researcher had suggested that subspace had been broken apart many millions of turnings ago and was repairing itself. Denaton remembered that the scientist had fallen out of favor when he had suggested that the breakup was caused by the space bending fields. Still, the areas were becoming few. As if they had formed at about the same time throughout this section of the galaxy.

"It exists in many dimensions at once Tezla," he told the centurion who was minding the observation device. "Behold, our machines give us eyes that can see such greatness!"

"It is fortuitous that these passages exist major," Tezla replied.

Perhaps the admiral had more influence on him than he was willing to admit. "Spoken like a graduate of Norcela." He clapped the centurion on the shoulder. "But do not let tactical import blind you to the wonders of what the stars offer. Remember, many of us are born of the stars. Our ancestors gave birth on the long voyage from Vulcan."

He examined the centurion's instruments again. "The gravity meter shows a strange indication."

"I believe that it is the collapse of the passage, major," Tezla said.

That could be it Denaton thought. Still he was disturbed. Denaton started to turn away to send a message to the rest of the legion when the image on Tezla's screen changed. Solid returns formed and then disappeared. The disappearance was endemic of a ship bending space. Ten such images had been visible.

"Battle alert!" he roared. The images returned.

"Triple Alliance vessels major!" the centurion exclaimed.

"Return to space!" Denaton commanded. He ordered his last command to be sent out to all of his ships.

"Space bending weapons inbound!" Tezla roared.

"Emergency stations!" he ordered. Denaton switched on the shipboard communication. "Weapon crews, start power up sequences for the primary weapon, load missiles."

"Collapsing the space bending field major!" the engineer informed him.

Denaton seized a handhold when the images for two of the inbounds ended near Riitraxa. The cruiser shook and power transmission conduits exploded. He stared in shock and horror as a quarter of the legion disappeared. Curse the alliance and their space bending missiles! His forces still seriously outnumbered the humans and their allies. They were reentering space.

Denaton briefly considered his order of battle until he realized what a dreadful error he had just made. The legion would bend back into space well within weapons' range. Whoever was commanding the alliance force had maneuvered to get that close. That would have spelled their doom if Denaton's ships had time to acquire targets and power their primary weapon.

"Engineer, override the recycle time! Make ready to bend space as soon as possible!"

"What course major?" his pilot asked.

"Any course that takes us away from here!" Denaton replied hotly.

It was humiliating, the order to retreat. He could see it reflected in the eyes' of the bridge crew. Denaton was thrown to the deck by a concussion that rippled through the gravity field. He was angry. Denaton would stay and fight to the end except that someone had to warn the admiral that a large alliance attack force was in the empire's space. This single alliance taskforce was not alone.

"Launch equations complete major!" Uhlan Caz'za reported.

"Space bending field ready major!" the engineer's voice bellowed out of the bridge communication grill. "If we bend sir, then we must not return to normal space until we reach a starport."

"Fire missiles!" he shouted as he regained his footing. "Pilot, calculate a precise course for home."

"Plotted and ready major," the centurion reported. The spirit of Valdore's training lived on. Denaton knew that on many ships the pilot would wait until he was ordered to perform before doing anything.

Denaton floated off the deck. The gravity field must be damaged. Fire erupted out of the central control hub. The major's stomach lurched when weight returned and his feet were back on the deck. Tezla was spraying the console next to him with a suppressant. An uhlan rolled on the deck screaming. His gloves were burnt and melted into the flesh of his hands and arms. Denaton looked past him to witness the destruction of more of his legion. Less than half of them survived.

The screen showed the arrival of more alliance ships, just as he had conjectured. He ordered Riitraxa into bent space. Denaton began to wonder if they would survive. More conduits exploded. The lights flickered and went dark. The bridge was briefly lit by the shower of erupting sparks. Emergency lighting replaced that.

"We are away major!" Caz'za announced.

Denaton returned to the scanner. The screen was blank. He recycled the device's power and waited until an image formed. Of the forces that had deployed to _ArTaza'x, _of the force that he had taken from Colonel Munalez, there were only five ships to return to Romulus. A space bending alliance missile reduced that number to four. Riitraxa drew away from the range of that particular weapon.

The readings for the legion's survivors were not good. The engineer had been right: they had bent far sooner than was prudent or safe. Denaton doubted that all of his ships would make the voyage to Romulus. This was his failure.

What were the chances that an alliance taskforce would come through the disturbance just as his legion was passing by? Denaton had weighed the consequences of going this way. The shortest route skirted the phenomena. His final decision was based on their immediate need to return to Romulus. Communications had ceased from there. He listened absently while the damage crews reported their progress. Riitraxa would survive. Denaton wished that he had not.

Star Fleet cruiser Beagle, in Romulan space, Feb 2159

Jocelyn Stiles got up and paced the bridge while managing to stay out of the way of the engineers. She paused by where Doctor Crossmeyer was treating Chief Morris. The older woman had a serious burn on her face. Stiles reflected that it could have been worse. The chief could have been blinded. Cruz had taken her place at the auxiliary subspace sensor alcove. Stiles guessed that there would be no need for missiles for awhile.

"One near miss," Captain Jospin said. His hands were trembling. Stiles looked away from that. It was the need for drink and not from fear.

"Commodore the rest of the fleet is regrouped and reporting in," Ensign Bell reported. "Admiral Oulette is on voice over vid scrambled."

"Put him on," Stiles replied. She moved over next to her command chair.

The viewscreen changed to show a snowy image of the big French Canadian admiral. "Good shooting commodore," he told her as he signed something on a clipboard. "Pass along my compliments to your crews. Of course it helped that I assigned you the point."

"We got lucky sir," she answered. "It was a gift from god to have them crossing as we exited the eddy." That was her mother's faith speaking, she knew.

Eighteen had stopped them and destroyed almost twenty percent of the Romulan force. By the time that the enemy had turned to, Taskforce 25 had arrived. Simultaneously Truman and Bataan had performed what Stiles thought had to be history's quickest alert fighter launch. Ten Minotaurs had swarmed through space along with the fleet. That had spelled doom for the Romulans.

"I'll agree there," Oulette said. He smiled grimly. "Although I don't know if god would approve of all this carnage."

"Of course she would," Stiles answered with a tight lipped grin.

The admiral chuckled. "They are on to us. Of course we knew that that would happen, just not this soon. We'll proceed toward the link up point. When the Romulans encounter the first fleet that will put them off balance." He twirled his moustache. "Report on your repairs. When everything is complete we'll deploy fighter patrols and proceed as ordered, any questions?"

"None sir," she answered. "We'll be under way as soon as we can." He nodded and broke the link.

"Commodore if I might be excused to help the engineering teams?" Jospin asked.

Stiles doubted that he had obeyed her orders concerning his problem. She also doubted that he wanted off the bridge to help the teams. More than likely he wanted to excuse himself for a drink. He was visibly nervous and looked bad. It was more than the battle that was affecting his condition. Her mother would talk about tough love. Jocelyn wasn't sure what that meant but she had an idea.

"Negative," she responded. "I want to check the sections and tour the missile room. You take charge here and see that the repairs are finished. Meet me in the mess after we are underway."

His face was a study in misery. "Aye aye commodore," he answered at last. Stiles turned and left. She would have to be hard on him so that he could conquer his demons.

Kalenara, Romulus, the earth winter of 2159

A laser beam drilled into the block of the building that Tarang Gupta and Admiral Valdore were sprinting past. The old stonework cracked and exploded in a shower of molten rock. Valdore warned him to stay low. Tracer rounds worked their way towards the two. The block was being riddled with bullets. Tarang saw no escape. He felt the wind knocked out of him.

Valdore had pushed him into a large recessed opening. Tarang pushed through the building's big double doors. How Valdore knew that this door was unlocked, Tarang did not know. Most of the civilians in the city were behind locked and barricaded doors. Gupta went left, through the outer breezeway and then into the main structure. The entrance to most Romulan buildings and homes used the same architecture as did Vulcan builders.

"The rebels were in a battle with the city defenders," Valdore said. He was breathing hard through his words. "We just walked into it. We should be safe here for a brief time."

Here, was a large domed structure. Gupta had thought that it was a Justice Hall when he had first seen the large empty space. Then he looked at the ceiling, the only source of dim light. Romulan raptors stooped over a lush green land. The great birds stared down, in a protective role, upon different scenes of Romulan life. A strong young father showed his male child how to hunt. Romulan women planted crops in small plots. Children chased through the trees and brush. He noticed another image.

Several Romulans, young and old, were going down a corridor. The corridor split into two directions. A powerful Romulan, stripped to the waist stood at the intersection. He was shepherding the Romulans into each of the corridors. Gupta came to understand from the imagery presented that most Romulans were going to the green land. A few Romulans went the other way. They passed through a gray area only to emerge with metal collars around their necks. Their hands were cuffed and chained. Another bare-chested Romulan stood before another entrance. This one was grim and deadly looking whereas the other one had showed a strong but kind countenance. He had a long chain in his hands.

"_Vorta-vor_ and _vorta-tx_," Valdore explained. "The path of service and the path of self indulgence," he continued. "We believe that a paradise exists for those who serve their society. No matter your station in life, if you work hard to preserve our race then you will have a final rest."

"I can't get any rest if you don't shutup!" a female voice declared.

Gupta stepped back. He had not bothered looking at the floor. He was surprised that these many individuals could stay so quiet. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw several groups and lone Romulans huddled beneath blankets. An explosion sounded outside. A Romulan child of seven or so cried out in fear. His mother comforted him.

"They won't come here for us Ah'nox," the female reassured the child.

A slight Romulan wearing a robe approached them. "There is no combat here. Even the _snag'n_ have agreed--"

"We are escaping from a battle," Gupta said. He assumed that Valdore wouldn't admit to running for his life. "We merely want sanctuary."

"You two look healthy," the old female complained. "Why aren't you out there killing the _snag'n_?"

Gupta started to defer to the older Valdore and then stopped when an answer occurred to him: "My companion is a _mon'zel_. I am his caretaker."

"I am not!" Valdore started.

"Now, now, I know that the fighting has frightened you. It is okay," he told the admiral. Valdore scowled at him.

Valdore seemed about to protest and then thought better of it. The small Romulan in the robes seemed skeptical of them but welcomed them nonetheless. He explained that the combatants had loosely agreed not to attack the temples. That made them a place of safety for those who couldn't defend themselves. The temple master escorted them to a private corner of the sanctuary.

"You two are able bodied. The female was right about that." He eyed the two of them. He spoke as he gave Valdore and Gupta some meat and bread.

"Who brings you the food master?" Gupta asked. He wanted to deflect the conversation until he had more information. It seemed a reasonable question. They had both noticed that everyone in the city was on short rations.

"We of the faith can move about freely," he answered. "I am Master Entak, in case you are interested in knowing." Entak looked at the dwindling supply of food. "Speaking of that I need to go out and get some more. A quartermaster from one of detached legions has been generous."

Gupta shot Valdore a conspiratorial glance. Valdore returned it. They needed a way to get into the senate. Right now they might as well be back on Remus for all the progress that they had made. They had luckily made it into the city but making into the government offices section looked to be near impossible. Perhaps they might go in as purveyors of faith.

"It must be dangerous for you master," Valdore said.

"We Romulans are strong. Yet we must help those who cannot help themselves. These who have wondered here can recover their strength to fight. They are not as beggars or invalids who must be eliminated. But they need time to recover." Entak looked at the female with the small child. His words were a reminder to Gupta of just how harsh and extreme this society was.

"Her mate returned from war. Much of his body was ruined yet he fought the _snag'n_. He was killed in an ambush. Chelli cannot be expected to fight. She must have a place to foster her son so that he can grow into a soldier."

"Do you need help bringing the rations back here master?" Valdore asked.

"My last acolyte is recovering from a gunshot wound," Entak said. "I could use the help but how do I know that you won't just take the food?"

Gupta exposed his wrists. Valdore, puzzled at first, must have thought about it for he did the same. Gupta assured Entak that they were not criminals while he showed him the lack of the damning tattoo. The master chuckled softly.

"I think that you are both lying," Entak said. "And I'd trust you more if you had the tattoo. Some in the guild have been helping us get food and medicine." He got very close to Gupta and looked him up and down. "How do I know that you aren't some state functionary trying to steal food? This place is for those who need help. You two plainly do not."

Gupta had been in too many fixes since Admiral Soames had sent him off world. He could see that they were in one now. Entak could put them out of here. Bedraggled as they were the refugees in the temple could rise up against him and Valdore and make short work of them. And Tarang had to admit that having temple master robes might go a long way towards helping them. He looked at Valdore. The admiral seemed to have no solutions.

"We do need help!" Gupta blurted. "I did lie master. Forgive me." He glanced at Valdore and lowered his voice. "This is Admiral Valdore of the Imperial Fleet. He is on an important mission to help the senate."

"Silence, Gupta!" the admiral blurted.

"What kind of a name is _Guuptaa_?" Entak asked. His wizened face seemed to see through Tarang. "At least you are telling a truth."

"I thought that you looked familiar admiral," Entak said. "You do not look well but neither does _Guuptaa_. And you both smell bad."

"I apologize, master," Gupta said. "If it pleases you, you may call me Tarack. We really do need your help. It is imperative that we get through the city."

"So you just need robes?" Entak asked, guessing their plan. "You never planned to help me?"

Gupta assumed that they would not. He was surprised when he saw Valdore looking around at the dispirited refugees. He was even more shocked when Valdore turned back to Entak and swore to help him before they continued. The master was clearly skeptical yet he led them to the back of the temple and showed them extra robes. He left them alone to change.

"I suppose that we'll go along the main boulevard into the city admiral?" Gupta asked. He fully expected that Valdore would break his word.

"After we do as Entak has asked," Valdore answered. The Romulan saw his reaction. "You are an enemy and a useful tool for me. These are of my race. At the end of everything I believe in v_orta-vor_ and _vorta-tx_. Think it childish if you wish. Does not your Hinduism allow for other religions?"

"It does," Gupta agreed. He was not surprised that Valdore had studied his religion. Though their conversations had been brief Tarang had discovered that the admiral knew much about earth. "It is just that I thought that, since we could be killed you'd think it prudent to go straight to the senate."

"You think more like one of us lately Gupta," Valdore said. "I am not Sinphius or his ilk. We shall help these unfortunates and…if we live, kill Sinphius and deliver the Reman message."

A little while later they were skirting the edge of a firefight heading toward where Entak had said that his friendly quartermaster was stationed. They had been stopped and questioned by a Reman and then an imperial patrol. Entak's seal of the faithful had gotten them through. They stopped to examine their hastily drawn map.

"If this is true then it looks like we are too late for supplies," Valdore said.

The location was aflame. Gupta started to believe that the firefight involved the former imperial occupants. They cast about uncertainly until they spied an armored coach trundling up a street. Valdore led the way into the shattered remains of an old residence. They watched and waited while the attacked the rebels with laser and automatic rifle fire. Gray clad Tal Shiar troops exited the coach as the battle subsided. Gupta counted seven of them.

He felt Valdore's hand on his shoulder. "One of them is approaching here. I don't think that he seen us." Valdore's voice was barely audible. "When he passes use that neck pinch to disable him. I have a plan."

Gupta looked wildly at him. "I've mated with a Vulcan, but I'm not one admiral."

Valdore's face screwed up in frustration. The soldier was walking cautiously. Valdore reached out and pulled him into the ruins. He gave Gupta a demanding look as he struggled with the soldier. Tarang cursed softly, withdrew his dagger and stabbed the struggling soldier. He despised being forced to commit the murder. Valdore had left him no choice and the admiral knew it. He plunged the knife in one last time, felt the sickening warm gush of the soldier's blood. Valdore shoved the dead Tal Shiar soldier to the ground.

"Quickly! Change into his uniform!" the admiral snapped.

"Me?" he replied. He didn't like it but did as Valdore had commanded.

He put the helmet on last. There was incessant chatter demanding the location of Angmar. Gupta rolled his eyes, scratched a finger over the helmet mic and replied. Between the distortion from his rough finger and his garbled answer whoever was concerned about him seemed satisfied.

"Return to the _pliln_!" the voice demanded. "We've wiped up the last of the _snag'n_."

"Now what?" he asked.

Valdore put his hands behind him. "I am your prisoner."

"Admiral…in your studies of earth did you ever watch any of our holovids?" he asked.

"I watched an amalgam of several. The only ones that I viewed from beginning to end were _Twelve Angry Men _and _Zulu. _Why do you ask?"

Gupta hadn't heard of either and wondered about the admiral's choice. But that wasn't why he had asked the question. "That ploy was never very successful."

"That was fiction." Valdore cocked the one pistol that the Remans had allowed them. He hid it beneath his vest. "If we get the armored coach then we can find food for Master Entak and then get into the city center." He poked a finger into Gupta's chest. "These uniforms bear Sinphius' command crest. These are his soldiers."

"You plan to murder them all." It was a statement and not a question.

"Spare me your human morality, Gupta," Valdore hissed. "You've committed murder several times. I'm sure that you applied some moral guideline to it but even you can recognize a rationalization." Gupta rose to the argument but Valdore cut him short. "Time grows short! Comfort yourself in knowing that most Tal Shiar recruits are those so heinous that not even the Criminal Guild will accept them. Wipe the blood away! Remember, I am a noble, if they ask. One of us will have to try to get the Tal Shiar soldier in the turret."

Valdore stepped out into the open. Gupta had no choice but to step out behind him, rifle leveled at the Romulan admiral. A voice called to him. He called back that he had taken a prisoner. Tarang was careful to keep his voice garbled. He concluded with a loud, but fake coughing attack.

"You should watch the females that you roust, Angmar!" one out of the group, gathered outside of the coach announced. "You probably got more than a slip of tongue!" The laughter was cruel and was joined into by the others.

"Who is this prisoner? I hope that it is another female," a different voice added. "We can get something out of this patrol instead of being shot at by the _snag'n_."

"A noble," Gupta spat out.

"You sound strange Angmar," the first voice replied. He could make out facial features on the group. They could probably see his as well.

They continued walking. Valdore fired and leapt aside. Gupta fired his weapon. At first he fired from the hip. He raised the rifle to sight it and ducked low before anyone could return the fire. Valdore warned him to run toward the carrier. The admiral was already near the drop down rear hatch. Gupta barely missed being cut in half by the gun mounted in the coach's turret. Valdore stepped out of the coach's interior and started up a ladder to the turret. Gupta climbed up using tie-down points that were mounted into the carrier's skin.

He could hear the turret's hydraulics as the operator turned it about, looking for targets. The main gun turned away from him. He caught a glint of smaller barrels on the turret's side. Gupta shouted a warning to Valdore. He no sooner yelled than the smaller guns fired laser pulses toward where Valdore had just been. Tarang sprang up and mounted the top of the turret.

The hatch flew open. Gupta held the automatic rifle out; barrel pointed inside the turret and started firing. He heard a gurgling scream that ended in a moan. The rifle's ammunition was spent. Valdore crawled up beside him. He grabbed the back of Gupta's collar when Tarang started to look in the darkened enclosure.

Valdore had a small metal pan. Gupta watched as he carefully put it out over the turret's opening. Gupta recognized it as part of the field gear that a legionnaire carried. The pan was partially reflective. Gupta saw the image of a gray clad soldier reflected in the pan's surface. Green blood, pouring out of numerous openings, pumped in rhythm with the dying soldier's heart. He was reaching unsuccessfully for something on the turret's floor. Valdore wormed down into the turret and told Gupta to pull.

They pulled the soldier up and out onto the coach's turret. Gupta could see that he was dead. Valdore pushed the body away. It rolled once, hit the top of the troop compartment, rolled again and hit the street with a dull thud. Valdore ordered him into the driver's compartment. Gupta scrambled in. His arm slipped out from under him when he put it in a patch of blood. He cried out when it hit painfully against a metal box.

Gupta settled into the commander's seat. Valdore slithered down beside him, closing the hatch after him. Neither of them had driven anything like this. Between Gupta's experience with Vulcan vehicles and the admiral's military background they got the coach sealed up and underway.

"What about—"

"These vermin were taking rations from the front line defenders," Valdore said. "This coach is packed with foodstuffs. We will leave it at the temple and then proceed into the center. The wireless operator was careless." Valdore showed Gupta a Romulan data cube. "This is the code cipher. We'll be able to use it to our advantage."

Gupta drove on while he thought of the dead Romulans. This had not been a firefight. Valdore had set things up to lure them into a massacre. Were the Tal Shiar troops really the dregs of this society? He thought about the driver. Gupta had rained high velocity death down onto him. Valdore slapped him in the shoulder.

"Look where you are going!" the Romulan warned him. Gupta corrected the coach's course away from a bombed out building. "You performed well back there human. Perhaps the praetor's belief in you is warranted."

Gupta was speechless. He didn't want to accept thanks for being a murderer. By this alien society's standard he was a good soldier. By the standards of his, he was an amoral opportunistic killer. He sensed that the Vulcans, embodied by Syrran, would regard him as a savage. Gupta just hoped that he would survive to see T'Pol one last time.

Kalenara, the Vulcan time of Reflection,

The small army had swelled in size. T'Pol had marched beside the praetor the entire way. The Romulan leader had assembled a sizable force since his return to the capital. They had battled through rebel holdings and had also negotiated with imperial forces. Many had been unwilling to accept Karzan: a leader they had long thought was dead.

T'Pol had changed. She had had to kill. At first T'Pol had reasoned that it was to protect her child. But that had been a part of the mental deterioration that she was suffering because she was not meditating as she should. The unpleasant truth had been that she had volunteered to fight beside the imperial forces. Had she remained passive then she would not have had to take a life.

She vividly remembered the Reman, gun empty, rushing at her with a long sword. T'Pol had shot the attacker with the weapon that Matok had given her. Humans called that type a shotgun. It had effectively taken the Reman's head off. Forgetting those things that happened was illogical. Yet she had an illogical wish that she could forget that event.

"Praetor! The commander of the legion surrounding the city center is coming out to speak!" Centurion Z'nelax declared. Like Artrax, Z'nelax had been an uhlan when the rebellion had started. He was one of those who had flown to the city with the praetor.

T'Pol watched as a full _centi_ came forward, guns at the ready. Karzan had fought to the very defensive lines that surrounded the capital complex. The Remans had formed lines of artillery emplacements there. But as Karzan had predicted, the rebels had focused their efforts toward the center. Their entire strategy had been one of isolating and laying siege to the imperial forces. They were totally unprepared for an independent force smashing through from the rear. T'Pol had not Karzan's military training but she suspected that the element of surprise would soon wear off.

The _cent'n _commander came forth. T'Pol could see his wariness. The officer removed his helmet. The colonel was dirty and had an uncharacteristic growth of beard. The officer looked Karzan over before speaking. Even T'Pol could see his disbelief directed at the individual with whom he was speaking to.

"You look like Praetor Karzan," the colonel said. "But it is said that some Remans can perform mental trickery. But I do not believe that you are rebels. This is a time where an ambitious group might bring forth an impostor to seize power."

"I am not an impostor colonel," Karzan replied. "And is it not the custom to identify oneself?"

"I am Colonel V'Geia Desamba," he answered. "I commanded the capital's supply legion until this debacle."

"A supply officer," T'Pol remarked.

"All are capable of fighting." Desamba said while casting a baleful eye at her. "I take the posts that the empire assigns to me. I do not question those orders."

"It did not help you that your father fell out of favor with Vrinak," Karzan remarked. Desamba's look confirmed the praetor's assertion for her. "That's right: I remember your father. I remember you. General Desamba brought you to court many turnings ago. You did not understand the triad of life and death. Your d_'legra_ had just died and your father rightfully admonished you for showing grief." There was dawning realization on the colonel's face. "Life and death are a foundation for the spirit warrior. Remember, I showed you the triad from the _Book of Tarl_."

"I…I remember it well," the colonel answered. The adoption of two names meant that Desamba could count his ancestors among those of high lineage. "My praetor, the lesson was not learned until many turnings after that. I cried for several dawnings after you showed me that. I had learned to conceal it."

"Reading the book, and living it are two different things colonel," Karzan said. "It seems that you have done fine."

More soldiers were approaching. These were gray clad Tal Shiar operatives. T'Pol could see that the soldiers of Desamba's _centi_ were openly hostile towards these new arrivals. She could also tell that the Romulans that had been holding the city center were branching out to secure this sector. An armored coach trundled up the street.

"Good on breaking out!" a gray helmeted sub lieutenant told Desamba. T'Pol was surprised by the slip of military protocol. "Sinphius will be pleased." The soldier looked at Karzan. "Who is this old _m'taallx_?"

"This is our praetor, fool!" Desamba spat. It was obvious to T'Pol that there was friction between the regular troops and the Tal Shiar. A well guarded individual stepped out of the back of the coach. "He is our leader!"

"Sinphius is our commander!" the sub lieutenant replied. "You'd do well to remember that. Romulus is casting out the old ways."

"Indeed, I am," the Romulan from the coach announced.

T'Pol beheld a tall long haired Romulan. His uniform was bejeweled and looked regal. But that was all. T'Pol thought, whereas Karzan carried himself with the bearing of a leader, this new arrival tried looking the part only. His entourage was clearly afraid of him but T'Pol, new to raw emotions, felt a level of contempt from them.

"So, the rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated praetor," Sinphius said. "And the rumors of you leading an army are true."

"Taken from a human author, Sinphius," Karzan said. "Surely one as quick witted as yourself can think of something better."

"I can give truth to the rumors you old fool," Sinphius said. His soldiers had fanned out and covered Desamba's _centi_.

"What you do here is treason, nothing less," Karzan told Sinphius.

"You nobles, sitting in court and judging others, you have the right idea. But that function should be given to the strong and cunning. I told Vrinak that he was stupid to keep you alive. But we needed a living praetor. Thanks to the war and now the rebellion we no longer need your services."

T'Pol saw another armored coach coming from the opposite direction. Sinphius' soldiers started to systematically disarm Karzan and Desamba's troops. A leering Tal Shiar soldier took her gun and touched her inappropriately. She reached out, grabbed between his neck and shoulder and squeezed. The soldier collapsed into a boneless heap. The others took advantage of the scene.

Z'nelax swung hard at the nearest Tal Shiar enforcer. The soldier was off balance long enough for Z'nelax to pull out his knife and stab the shaken soldier where his armor did not protect him. They went down in a heap. Desamba grabbed one of Sinphius' personal guards, seized his neck, and after a short struggle, twisted until there was a loud wet snap. T'Pol stepped before a Tal soldier who was threatening Karzan. She weaved a delicate dance as her martial arts instructor had taught her. The soldier, suddenly weaponless, slammed hard onto the ground.

Karzan stabbed his short sword into the face of another Tal Shiar soldier. The soldier spun away, green blood spurting from his gloved hands where they were covered his face. The praetor grabbed her and pulled her to cover. The second coach had opened fire with pinpoint laser burst. T'Pol ran past a soldier. She thought that he was collapsing and then realized that he had been cut in two. They dived for cover. That had been one of Sinphius' soldiers.

T'Pol peeked up cautiously. The coach's main weapon was firing. It was seeking out and killing gray clad Tal Shiar troops. Karzan's imperials were prevailing. Colonel Desamba and his _centi_ had retrieved their guns. The Tal Shiar unit was dispatched quickly. A figure darted away from the coach and ran after Sinphius. It was Tarang! T'Pol allowed the emotion, the relief, to cascade over her, if only for a brief time.

The Tal Shiar survivors mistakenly tried to surrender. They were given no quarter. T'Pol tried to screen out the image of them kneeling, their throats cut. She ran to Gupta who was wrestling with Sinphius. Karzan, with loyal troops, surrounded the two. They pulled Gupta away from the Tal Shiar operative. Valdore slid down the coach's side.

"The dead return on this dawning," Karzan declared in a loud voice.

"The Remans captured us my praetor," Valdore explained as he bowed before the older Romulan.

T'Pol broke past some soldiers and threw her arms around Tarang. She let the emotion go again. He hugged her in return. They kissed. The act was not Vulcan and it showed a lack of control but she cared little for any of that. She did love the human. There was a tap on her shoulder.

"There will be time for that later Promise," Karzan said. She turned and acknowledged the old Romulan, but clung to Tarang. She allowed her mind to touch his.

"What news admiral?" Karzan asked.

"The Remans have given us conditions my praetor," he answered.

She listened while Valdore related what had happened to him and Tarang. Gupta added information as Valdore laid out the Reman demands. He told them of the nuclear weapons in the mines. He informed them that the Remans were open to talking.

"I agree," Karzan said. "We must end this and turn our attention to the main enemy."

T'Pol felt the flush of Tarang's mind. He had discovered her condition. The two shared a look. He was confused but happy. She wanted to share in that but something had puzzled her since the discovery of her violent ancestors. Sinphius was on his knees, alive, guards on either side of him. T'Pol stepped away from Gupta. She looked down at the former Hand.

"You and Vrinak planned this war," T'Pol said. "Was it ever really about Reunification?"

Sinphius looked up. Blood ran down from his mouth. "Who are you and what do care?" He laughed defiantly. "Unify with our brothers? They have become walking calculation devices. I hope that we never contaminate ourselves with that pacifist dribble."

"Then why?" Karzan asked.

Sinphius turned his laughter upon Karzan. "To usher out fools such as you, to make sure that iron handed rulers were installed instead of weaklings, to make sure that the romantic idlers were removed from our military!" T'Pol realized that this last was directed at Valdore.

"You were never meant to win," Gupta told Valdore and Karzan.

"One of you has a brain cell left," Sinphius commented wryly. "The war allowed us to insert ourselves into society in a way that can't be undone. Kill me. You know that Tal Shiar operatives are everywhere now. You may blunt our power but you can't stop us. Whatever you do you will have to accept us in the power structure."

"There are others," T'Pol said. It was the natural conclusion for his remarks.

"Even of you do defeat us here, which is unlikely, we have found the third family," Sinphius dabbed at his mouth as if he were cleaning away a crumb of food. "We will show them the lessons of power. The serpent's mouth closes. Ours will be the final victory."

A shot rang out. Sinphius' snarling, defiant expression did not change despite the addition of a hole in the back of his skull. The body slumped forward. Valdore stood, pistol smoking, over the corpse.

"My apologies my praetor," Valdore said. "I felt that we had heard everything that this _v'roul_ had to say."

"I agree admiral," Karzan said. "I must address the senate." He looked through the admiral. "Can we win Admiral Valdore?"

"The situation is grim," Valdore answered. "We have a slim chance. I must take command of the forces around _Venador_."

Karzan stepped away and started planning with Valdore. The admiral spoke intensely to a soldier who listened and then quickly trotted away. Gupta put an arm around her and guided her to quiet place beside a hastily erected defense. They kissed for a long time and fell to touching fingers. Their minds entwined.

"How did it…"

"The healer assured me that it was in the normal fashion," she answered. She could feel his emotional turmoil.

Vulcans had learned to repress that. Humans dealt with it, sometimes with negative results. Romulans took their emotions to extremes. T'Pol guessed that they would have to find a mid ground. Perhaps the answer did not lie in a purge of emotions. What kind of a life would their child have she wondered?

The dawning wore away into evening. Much later the _centi_ was on the move. The way to the senate was clear. Valdore and he had been given codes by the Remans. They used those now to sue for a truce. T'Pol walked hand in hand with Gupta. She would not have done that before this. They boarded an armored coach with the praetor and his soldiers.

"I'll have to be wary of assassination attempts," Karzan said. "All of we fools and romantics will be targets."

Valdore joined them in the coach. "Perhaps not my praetor," he started. "Senator Vrax and I have spoken of setting of a committee to retain power. The Tal Shiar has destroyed much of the old power structure. This committee will allow for the continuation of our empire."

"I see," Karzan said. "Many more and some new participants will be given seats on this committee?"

"It seems the only way my praetor," Valdore answered. "Things have changed. Sinphius was right. The Tal Shiar will retain some power and in sense it must. The senate will retain some power as it must and so will your office, praetor."

T'Pol watched Karzan. For a brief time she thought that his age was overtaking his mental prowess. He had looked youthful and vibrant for his great age. But all of that vanished. Finally he gave the admiral his assent.

"I used private channels and came to much the same conclusion admiral," he said. His face grew strong again. "Change is the way of things. Yet for one as old as I it is a hard thing to accept. We will need the cooperation of all segments of our society to win. I'll speak to the leaders on behalf of this continuing committee. I theorize that it will be needed for some time, perhaps even beyond our lifetimes."

"Hopefully, Vrax lives my praetor," Valdore said.

"He has noble blood. He might make a good successor for this office," Karzan said. "It will not be long before I go beyond."

Valdore was silent. They got ready to go to the senate chambers. T'Pol looked at the praetor and could not repress a brief pang of remorse and sadness at the thought of his passing. He was an enemy but a noble one. Valdore turned to her and Gupta. He fished into a pocket of his uniform until he retrieved a small vial from there. He handed it to her.

"I sent soldiers into the medical complex. The storage vault is secure as I suspected that it would be. There are instructions in the container. Two doses will be necessary." Valdore looked from her to Gupta. "You acquitted yourself well." The admiral turned and left. She examined the small vial that held her life.

Rigel X, May 2159

Augustus Kirk was not afraid. He had thought that he would be after the Vulcans had dropped him off. They had insisted on providing an escort for him but Kirk had refused. He had refused the offer as he had refused the company of the two dour Star Fleet Security troops that the president had provided for him. He had instead poked around until he had found two Klingon mercenaries who were willing to work for him.

Klaag and Gannar had shown the same Klingon arrogance and bad humor that he had discovered during his previous meetings with Klingons. They had called him a _brin'lk_, a type of animal used as bait for another animal. Kirk had surprised them by responding, in Klingon, that only they, the Klingons, smelled like a bait animal. It was not, Augustus thought, love at first sight but they had warmed to him after that; that as if Klingons warmed to anything.

He walked ahead of his bodyguards as they traversed the network of underground tunnels in the trade city. Kirk had heard several names for this place. It all depended on which alien species was queried about the city's name. There was nominal law enforcement, a shell that protected the many traders of illicit materials from interference by lawful agents of alien governments. Other than the faux police force this city was a functioning anarchy. The Orion Syndicate was an ever present shadow over all of that.

Kirk had been here for just a few days. Excited at first about the prospect of playing a bored human socialite, he had soon grown tired of that role. So far no one from the syndicate had approached him—that he knew of. Even his hired guards, whom Kirk had designated as his henchmen, were beginning to see through Augustus' façade. He decided to try another supposed smugglers' meeting place on this night.

They finally arrived at the establishment. Being near to the Rigel X's frigid surface Kirk could feel the cold air wafting down from above. He pushed his way into the bar's smoky interior. He instantly wished that he had followed the Klingons in. Some Andorians were near to the door smoking a narcotic drug. While he was sure that they enjoyed it, the drug's smell reminded Kirk of an outdoor toilet. One Andorian looked up at him and laughed.

"_Terratin_," the other said and promptly fell out of his seat.

Kirk spied an empty table and guided his escorts toward it. They sat down. Kirk ordered something called Saurian Brandy, which he had found to be excellent, while his bodyguards ordered blood wine. Kirk had tried it during his time at the warrior empire, but the local variety just wasn't the same.

"You _humans_," Gannar started, "you come out here and drink and chase females; except you haven't indulged in that last Kirk. Are you a kind of eunuch?"

"The _terran English _word is _husband,_" he answered. "It amounts to the same thing. How is the blood wine?"

"Not coagulated enough!" Klaag replied boisterously.

Both of his bodyguards were of the Asiatic, genetically enhanced type. They had both been angered by their condition but had accepted it. The duo had seemed more concerned about a matter with their ruling house. The House of Klevat was a minor Klingon fiefdom as far as Kirk could tell. Beneath the Klingon talk of honor and battle it had sounded like the two warriors had been stiffed out of their share of bounty from a battle.

"The brandy is good," he said.

Klaag was about to add something when a short thick Orion approached their table. He was flanked by a Denobulan and Tellarite. Kirk suspected that these were the counterpart to his henchmen. Klaag reached for his pistol while Gannar's short sword made a smooth metallic noise as he drew it. The Orion raised his hand. As far as Kirk could tell, that was the universal sign for a parlay; at least among aliens that had hands he reckoned.

"Someone has told me that you showed up with a case of dilithium crystals," the Orion said in very fluent Vulcan. "And that you were left here by that Vulcan ship over us."

Kirk sipped at his drink. "An introduction is in order," he answered in the same language. He gestured at his henchmen to settle down. The Orion continued to stare at him. "An introduction as in a name," he insisted. "You are interested in getting your hands on my crystals?"

"Getting my hands…" the alien answered, clearly confused by the human idiom translated onto Vulcan. "Yes," he said at last. Kirk gestured for him to sit. "Gifel N'Reol," he said as he took a chair. "You two may fade away," he told his guards.

"Augustus Kirk," Kirk said in introduction.

"There is a _terran_ named Kirk mediating an alliance between these warring nations," N'Reol said. "Is that you?"

"It is," Kirk said.

"You have a strange taste when it comes to companions," N'Reol said, eyeing the Klingon warriors.

"I'm a strange _man_, or so I've been told," he said. "What about the dilithium?"

"I doubt that you've come all this way, in a Vulcan craft no less to give out crystals. What is it that you want Augustus Kirk?"

"I'm looking for someone named Silik," he answered.

"I know of no Silik," N'Reol said.

"Suliban," Kirk said.

N'Reol recoiled. It was as if Kirk had told him that a deadly insect was on his shoulder. He recovered quickly. He took his time and visibly examined Kirk. Augustus knew that he was sizing up his options. Could this human be trusted? What were the risks? Kirk decided to help him along.

"I have grade _barreda_ crystals in three lattices," Kirk said. "There are three more lattices in the T'Plan's hold. All I'm asking for is an introduction to…this individual. Once you get me that then the T'Plan will leave the container of lattices in orbit for you. Also I might add that I've met this…Silik before. You can drop my name."

"Drop your…" N'Reol was befuddled at that.

"Mention it," Kirk supplied.

"I do not know this individual personally," N'Reol said. "Yet your offer is tempting. Let us meet back here after five passes."

"It's a deal," Kirk said. He held out his hand in the human gesture. The Orion looked puzzled. Kirk took his big green meaty hand and shook it. "Don't worry; it won't turn you into one of us."

The Orion got up, wiped at his hand, gathered his guards and left. That gave Kirk time to mentally switch gears and revert back to Klingon. He was somewhat surprised to learn that Klaag understood Vulcan. The Klingon was clearly angered by his deceit.

"Before you go any further and challenge me to a duel what if I had told you that I'm trying to go to the empire of the unseen ones?"

"I would say that you are madder than a _s'liz'th_ infested targ! The unseen ones must have a secret in their appearance for they guard it closely."

"Where did you learn to speak Vulcan?" Kirk asked. He wanted to change the subject plus he was genuinely curious.

Klaag and Gannar looked at one another as if they were embarrassed. Finally Gannar answered: "Once we were nearly broke and stranded on a frontier world. A Vulcan expedition passed through. They were hiring laborers for an archeological dig."

"That gives new meaning to beating your swords into plowshares," Kirk said. "Look, I need to get into the Romulan Empire." He spoke in a normal tone while his facial expressions were of a human talking about tomorrow's forecast. Whispers tended to draw attention. "I need your help while I'm here…maybe longer. Are you in?"

The Klingons exchanged glances. They had grown used to Augustus' strange human idioms. Kirk trusted the Klingons. They reminded him of Debra's brother, Harry. Kirk had once told Debra that Harry Connelly would go broke even if he had a credit dispenser before him. The Klingons weren't villains, just poor souls trying to eek out an existence.

"We…are…in Kirk," Klaag answered.

Kirk was pleased with that. He supposed that he would take a tour of the surface in the next few days. His days of boozing and carousing were long past. There might be fishing here but Kirk was no fan of ice fishing. He took a cigar out of his pouch, cut the end off and lit it. He passed one over to Gannar who had developed a taste for them. Klaag looked disgusted at his partner's choice of vices.

"Don't you worry either," he admonished the Klingon. "Smoking a Cuban cigar doesn't turn anyone into a human."

Romulan cruiser Riitraxa, in orbit of the fifth planet of the Romulus system, the fourth turn of the war, the Age of Genfildor

"What is the progress on communicating with Venador?" Admiral Valdore asked.

Major Denaton followed behind him as they toured the engineering compartments. Valdore paused before a porthole covered with thick transparent metal. He looked through the metal and saw crews laboring in heavy anti radiation suits. They were busily removing the remains of the ship's plasma conduits. Denaton was fortunate that he had lived to see Romulus. The great ship was heavily damaged but repairable.

"Sinphius ordered the communications keyed to a special code, admiral," Denaton answered. Valdore suspected that his officer was still reeling from his failure. "It was prudent as a means of stopping erroneous rebel signals. The trouble now is that the Tal Shiar operative in charge refuses to acknowledge us."

Valdore immediately thought that the operative should be executed but then he relented. Venador was light turns from Romulus. The last communications that Sinphius had sent to Venador had been warnings about the rebellion. For all that the outpost commander knew the order to put the fleet to space had been sent by Remans. Valdore saw little choice now except to go there.

"I know that you are doing everything possible, major," Valdore said. His next order pained him. He hated to waste lives needlessly. There was a need here but soldiers should die in battle, not in labor like _snag'n_.

"We shall be able to bend space in two dawnings admiral," Denaton said.

"Halt the safety protocols on decontamination major," he instructed. "The technicians' suits will be highly irradiated but that will save at least half a dawning. Without the need to change and decontaminate then you should be able to complete repairs in a single dawning. Time is of the essence."

"Admiral, if we do that then many will die in a few dawnings and many more from the bone death in a few turnings," Denaton protested.

"I am aware of that," Valdore said. He looked around to ensure that they were relatively alone. "The war is going badly for us. You are blameless for what happened to your force. You could not have predicted an enemy fleet coming out of the phenomena when it did. Yet as time passes our options become fewer."

Valdore shielded his eyes as they passed a technician using a laser welder to make a repair. Yet he still kept a watchful gaze on Denaton. He knew that he blamed himself. This was no time for recriminations and doubt. Valdore needed fighting officers to win the war. Or, he could barely admit it, to battle the Triple Alliance into some kind of a stalemate.

"It is imperative that we make for Venador as soon as possible major," he explained.

"How…how bad is the war going, admiral?" Denton asked.

"I can't conceive that I'll be able to attack them in their territories—not for awhile. Our industrial capability is only beginning to recover from the rebellion. I believe that I can intercept the alliance forces in deep space and crush one of these invading fleets. There are enough N'Ela cruisers to accomplish that. Once I destroy one of those fleets I can reconsolidate, defend the home system while sending marauders into alliance space. They are in a rush to finish us before they have to go to their citizens and ask for more tribute."

That was the optimistic version. One could not apply narrow standards to an entire race. Sensibly, the alliance should reconsider continuing the war if Valdore could reverse their fortunes. Whether they would or not remained to be seen. Valdore had once counseled the senate that the humans and their allies were made of sterner stuff than the propaganda writers were dispensing.

Denaton continued the tour. Valdore followed him while considering the pessimistic view. He might well make a last stand defending Romulus. Surrender was unthinkable. Would there be a great exodus where Romulans would retreat to rebuild and fight again? They were the chosen ones, chosen to rule over all others. That was the legacy of Careaza and his brother Tarl. But was this a test, a progression to that point? Like metal beaten to make it harder was this a forge to make Romulans stronger?

"We shall see," he said aloud.

"Admiral?" his aide asked.

"We shall see how fast we can get this vessel back into battle worthy condition," Valdore lied.

Romulan cruiser Penaithrn, outbound from Romulus, the earth spring of 2159

"All systems secure for space bending, commander," the ship's pilot announced.

"Very well pilot," Commander Mondex replied. "Take us to this serpent's mouth."

Tarang Gupta held onto a support member. Mondex had warned them to do so. He looked at T'Pol and smiled despite the danger that they might be going into. She looked at him without expression, yet he could feel comforting thoughts of affection from here. Gupta could see why they had been warned. Penaithrn's lights dimmed to near darkness. T'Pol appeared to stretch away before him. A feeling of intense nausea went through both of them as the Romulan cruiser jumped to warp. The lights returned to full brightness.

The nausea dissipated as fast as it had started. Pakesh walked over to them. He was not himself since they had left Svaerik. Praetor Karzan had put the male child under his protection. They had finally decided that this mission would be too dangerous for the young Romulan. Karzan had only just allowed Pakesh to go because he was the only one besides the Tal Shiar's linguist who could translate the ancient writings.

It was Pakesh who had convinced Gupta and T'Pol to go. They had decided after their return from the three dawnings to reject Karzan's plea. It was Pakesh who had appealed to them and convinced them that this was not just a Romulan matter. If the third family was advanced enough they just might be persuaded to align themselves with the Tal Shiar forces. Whether they would fight alongside their cousins against the Triple Alliance was hypothetical. What was not was that the present ruling structure would be cast aside. The Tal Shiar had tried that once. With new allies they were likely to try again.

Pakesh had then told them that if this group was less advanced then they should be allowed to develop unencumbered. He spoke of the cruelty that the Tal Shiar would visit upon the third family. He talked of the original intentions of Sargon. The noninterference suggestion had appealed to T'Pol while the talk of Sargon had struck a chord with Gupta. Besides Syrran he alone knew how close life had come to being extinguished on Vulcan. Planets and their ecologies could survive, the inhabitants often could not. This Sargon must have done what he did knowing how precious life was.

They had also decided to go out of curiosity. No one who went to space did so just as a job. Gupta had speculated that the serpent might be a wormhole. He was no astrophysicist but he could well be the first human to traverse such a phenomena. T'Pol had similar aspirations. If that is what the passage was Gupta reminded himself.

"This ship saw its better dawnings before any of us were born!" Pakesh said. He smiled but his smile was touched by sadness.

"I am sure that Svaerik will be fine," T'Pol told the Romulan, much to Gupta's surprise. Yet she had hit upon the reason for Pakesh's moodiness.

"He'll be a young noble by the time we get back," Pakesh said.

"It is a better life than that of the guild," T'Pol said.

"In some ways you are correct, Promise," Pakesh replied. "But we were a family there. I should have chosen a female and mated to give him a sense of completeness. I suppose the ancient writings dominated my thoughts more than female companionship did."

"Have you found out anything more from the writings?" T'Pol asked.

"I have. The third family was seeded last," he answered. "Whether that means that it was a thousand turns after us or a single dawning I can't tell. I believe that Sargon's race was long lived. How that affected their calendar, if it did, I do not know."

"We shall find out in a quartrent," T'Pol said.

"If this ship holds together," Pakesh whispered.

"Penaithrn is old but still spaceworthy Citizen Pakesh," Mondex interjected in a strong voice. He walked over to join them.

Mondex was a tall, broad shouldered officer who still carried himself like a youth despite being over two hundred turns. His pate of severely straight hair was shot through with gray. Mondex had been in retirement until this last turn. He had been reactivated as a training instructor. His ship too had been retired. Penaithrn, an ancient word that meant sea foam, had been built before long before Gupta's birth and even before T'Pol's.

Penaithrn reminded Gupta of the first large starships built by man. The cylindrical shape used by Cochrane's Phoenix had been made larger. Those types of ships had been the vehicles that men of the last century had used to explore space. A few attempts at using the toroidal ring design of Vulcan starships had been tried and finally rejected. Penaithrn had a cylindrical shape with the crew section and command section holding the forward half of the cylinder while the aft section housed the reactor and warp plasma transfer points. Three warp pods were attached to the drive cylinder.

The cruiser had three missile tubes but its armaments had been reduced to just six missiles. Gupta knew that these missiles were the immediate parent of the missile type that his people had called Moolah. The praetor had ordered them upgraded with new countermeasures. The older Romulan ship had no lasers. The weapons' designers had instead chosen to tie the old ship's rail guns into a more effective fire control system.

Mondex's orders were simple: hunt down the Tal Shiar ship and destroy it. Then he was to drop the _limati_ of soldiers that were accompanying them to deal with any Tal Shiar forces on the surface. Gupta, T'Pol and Pakesh were to deal with the leaders of the third family. If all went well they would return through the opening. Time was critical but if all went well they should have enough.

"Of course commander," Pakesh said in an agreeable tone. "I'm curious about this opening. I know what the texts say but what is it?"

"Our researchers can only guess," Mondex answered. "They theorize that space can fold creating a passage. Imagine a string held out in a line and then folded. The distance would decrease. What will happen to us is not clear. I will of course send a probe before us. But if these ancients passed through such openings then perhaps we can as well. It is also our mission to explore as well as to conquer."

Gupta muttered under his breath. They turned and asked him what he had said. "An old language from _earth_, called _Latin_. It means: in the stars, our destiny. It is the stellar navy's motto."

"It seems that we have things in common with the _hewmaans_," Mondex said. "We Romulans looked up and see our future in the sky."

"Perhaps there is a relationship there Pakesh," he told his friend. "Between our different races," he added.

"Perhaps, my friend," Pakesh said. "Well that gives me three times as many chances to mate!" He smiled. It was the old Pakesh.

He felt another wave of nausea. This was from T'Pol. He knew that it was from her pregnancy. He looked at her with concern. She told him that she was fine and then excused herself. They touched fingers briefly in the Vulcan fashion and then kissed. They all heard an annoying whistle.

"Patch that hole!" the commander roared at a technician.

An engineer ran past them with a sealing kit at the ready. Gupta wondered if there wasn't anything of substance to Pakesh's concerns. The commander returned to the central control column, performing an inspection of each crew position.

"So she can read your mind?" Pakesh spoke rhetorically. "I'm not so sure that I want to be reunified then. I might end up with a Vulcan mate. I have some…interesting thoughts."

"Stick to your translations then, my friend," Gupta answered.

Outbound from Rigel X, May 2159

Augustus Kirk struggled to get out of the webbing that was his bunk. The Suliban ship had been made for beings that were far more flexible than he. His bare feet hit the soft, carpet like floor. Augustus knew that it wasn't carpet. He wasn't sure that he wanted to know what it was. It seemed to embrace his feet.

Silik was standing there. How long he had been in Kirk's quarters he did not know. Augustus figured that it wasn't long. He didn't know these aliens' customs but he knew that Silik didn't seem like the type to wait. Kirk was a little surprised that the Suliban had assumed a human form. Taller than Kirk with a sharp face and full head of dark hair this version of Silik would have impressed the ladies.

"I'm surprised that your race survived. Do all of you make that irritating noise when you sleep Kirk?"

"I do sometimes but my wife has a mean elbow," he answered. "Don't you knock?"

"Knock on what?" Silik asked in reply.

"Forget it. How are my Klingons?"

"Doing well," Silik answered. "Why you wanted them along I don't know. We could just jettison all of you out of the airlock." The Suliban smiled cruelly.

"Then you won't get the rest of the computer codes to unlock the genetic markers. Why, after you figure out how to apply them you'll be able to grow a hand out of your head. You'll be the life of the party."

"I think that you are lying about being conditioned to die before you surrender the codes," Silik said. "But our ships are faster than anything your worlds have so I'll indulge you. And I have to admit that your race made great strides during your eugenics period. You may scoff at our desire to enhance ourselves, but that is our destiny."

"Everyone has to have a hobby," Kirk said. "So where are you taking me?"

"Your people call it the Narendra system," Silik responded. "I hope to find my Romulan contact there. You know what the Romulans are. Do you know of the Tal Shiar?" Kirk answered in the negative. "You humans have a term: unknown police."

Kirk did a double take. "Secret police," he corrected. "Ah, I see. You expect that this secret police will escort me in?"

"No, I expect that they would strip you, torture you for information and then dissect you." Silik smiled. "But they don't have their own ships. Your best hope lies in meeting with their military commander. He's fluent in Klingon since you've had little time to listen to the Romulan language information I provided for you."

"I'm a quick study," Kirk snapped back in garbled Romulan.

Kirk had considered the possibility that the Romulans would kill him outright. He was afraid but he also had resigned himself to whatever happened. Someone had to talk to them. He was also doing well with the Romulan language. There were enough similarities between the Vulcan and Romulan syntaxes so that Kirk had a solid foundation to work from.

"You will need to be, with the Romulans," Silik answered. "You should also consider that your Klingon friends have an interest in Narendra. The Romulans may not even be there. I trust that if that is the case then our agreement is still valid."

"You'll get your codes," Kirk said. He looked around at the oddly curving walls and bulkheads of his room.

"Very good," Silik said. "We are almost there. If you'll follow me," he added.

Kirk finished dressing. They stopped by the Klingons' quarters. Augustus realized that they would be practically useless if the Suliban decided to do anything to them. But he knew that they needed to feel useful. Kirk peered into their room. It looked to Kirk like they hadn't bothered using their nets. Instead he noted that they had procured two flat pieces of metal. These rested on the floor. Gannar and Klaag both seemed chipper, although Kirk would not use that word to their faces. They followed along with Kirk and Silik.

Kirk couldn't say how he got to the Suliban ship's bridge. He supposed that other races used different designs in their ships. The curving, sometimes climbing, sometimes descending corridors of the Suliban ship were confusing to him. Eventually they arrived at something resembling a command center. Silik passed some orders to the Suliban crew.

An image appeared in the middle of the chamber, seemingly out of thin air. The image was a display of stars stretched out into the different colors of the rainbow. One of the crewmembers said something to Silik. The Suliban's expression did not change. The image did. A star fleet ship, escorted by a flight of Minotaurs appeared. A dead airless world was in the image's backdrop.

"Is this real?" Kirk asked.

"Your races will have this capability at some point," Silik answered.

"Your technology is impressive," Klaag interjected. "Yet you are not conquerors!"

"Suliban have other goals," Silik explained. Kirk had to admit that the alien was forthcoming when asked questions. "Our race is tribal and is spread out to thin for such petty nonsense as conquest. We shall leave this part of the galaxy soon."

Kirk watched as several thick, winged ships tapering to a boom section emerged from the shadow of the planet. Augustus recognized the Klingon D-3 type of cruiser from his encounter's with those ships while aboard Serendipity. They appeared to be making an attack.

"What is going on?" Kirk asked. He turned and looked at Klaag and Gannar.

"If this display is truth then those are of the House of Mogh," Gannar remarked.

Silik spoke to another crewman. The mottled-faced alien ran his fingers with inhuman speed over a touchpad. A series of beeps, digital signals and static burst out of the air. The Suliban continued with the touchpad. Kirk was shocked when he heard terran English.

"Unknown vessels—do not engage, I say again do not engage," a female voice implored.

"They are vectoring for an attack," another voice announced. "It's Birdies!"

"Unseen ones!" a harsh voice boomed over the voice of the last speaker's. "Move the squadron to attack position!" Kirk sensed that this voice was Klingon.

"We have to warn them!" Kirk exclaimed.

Silik's arm stretched out to restrain him. "That was not part of the bargain Kirk." Silik looked at the unfolding carnage. A D-3 maneuvered sharply. So sharply in fact that its left nacelle cracked and broke away from the craft. "I am not going to involve Suliban in your conflict. We have a destiny with a race that has combined flesh and machine into one."

Kirk was oblivious to Silik's somewhat vague pronouncement. The wounded D-3's maneuver was not wasted. It released a blistering hail of rail gun fire that tore through two Minotaurs. The blasted remains of the stubby earth fighters drifted away. A mechanical voice announced the Star Fleet ship as the destroyer Oguma. Kirk figured that the Suliban machinery was translating the ship's linguacode. A D-3 was destroyed by a missile while the Oguma itself reeled from a broadside of two proximity blasts.

Kirk wondered about the outcome. A battered Minotaur made a suicidal run at a D-3. It was chopped to pieces by Klingon rail gun fire. Another D-3 was consumed by a nuclear fireball. Oguma turned, Kirk saw its warp nacelles turn bright blue. He could actually see it starting to stretch away into subspace when a Klingon missile finished it. Gannar and Klaag were cheering. Kirk stood stunned as the last of the fighters was destroyed.

"You asked why we don't engage in conquest Klingon," Silik said. "This is why." The Suliban turned to Kirk. "You look ill." Much to Augustus' surprise the alien actually escorted him to a chair. "We shall wait here a little longer. The Klingons were sending forays into this system. It may be that these are just that."

"This is our space!" Gannar asserted. "We know that the unseen ones have been operating here."

"Neither of your petty empires have the reach to claim anything out here," Silik said. He turned to Kirk. "We shall remain here for a time. I have a feeling."

Kirk left and forced himself to eat. The Suliban had provided them with a blue gel for consumption. It was tasteless. It reminded Augustus of a story; one that he had been required to read in grade school. The western loving Kirk had hated the story about astronauts and a renegade computer. He returned to the bridge sometime later with an escort. The female Suliban looked much like her male counterparts—in the face. Her form however was unmistakably female.

"It seems that the Klingons have departed," Silik said. "Strangely enough a Romulan vessel came from the sixth planet and started a sweep. At least they haven't inadvertently shot at anyone."

The Suliban gave Kirk a sly look. "Time to meet your fate Kirk," he said.

Kirk watched him press his entire palm over a panel. The hand of Silik's flesh seemed to oscillate like small watery waves. The alien looked up at something that Kirk could not see. Another voice echoed through the bridge.

"You again," the voice declared. "This is Romulan territory. We have not given you permission to be here."

"Our last venture was profitable commander," Silik retorted, "and I was not aware that this was Romulan space. It seems that you neglected to tell not only us, but the Star Fleet and the Klingons as well."

There was a long pause where Kirk thought that the Romulans had broken off completely. He used the time to ask Silik about whatever the Suliban were using to translate. He had heard that the French mathematician Picard and a linguist named Sato had built such a device. But Kirk was given to understand that the human made translator was the size of a small suitcase and did not reproduce tonal qualities.

He watched the Suliban reach a finger into his ear. He pointed the finger at Kirk who after putting on his glasses saw a very small hexagonal piece of plastic or metal on the tip of Silik's finger.

"Your race has these," Silik declared. "You are either brave or a fool—"

"The last one," Kirk interrupted.

Silik moved so fast that one second he was talking to Kirk the next he had a hold of his head. Silik's hand actually seemed to have grown in size as it restrained Augustus' head. Kirk's Klingon guards started to react. Augustus felt a pinprick in his ear canal and then Silik released him.

"I'm alright!" he exclaimed for the benefit of his henchmen.

"What is it that you want Suliban?" the faceless Romulan's voice asked.

The Klingons clearly wanted to defend Kirk. Yet they settled down at his behest. Silik replied to the Romulan commander telling him to wait. Kirk heard the conservation in an odd reverberating stereo sound. He shook his head. Klaag was issuing a Klingon threat to the Suliban.

"The human is under our protection," he said. "See that none of you harms him lest we kill you all!"

Kirk stared aghast at Klaag. Not because of his somewhat empty threat in the midst of these Suliban, but because he had just threatened them in English. He heard Silik telling the Romulan that he had a package for them and asking for a meeting. The entire conversation was in clear spoken English. The meeting was agreed upon.

"Consider it a gift Augustus," Silik said. "May I call you Augustus?"

"Why not," he answered. He rubbed at the ear where Silik had placed the translator. Kirk was crammed uncomfortably into the Suliban pod ship's cramped interior. He was terrified about their arrival but anxious to get out of the restrictive pod.

He watched as the Romulan Cabbage type ship grew larger on Silik's piloting screen. Kirk thought Silik must have been telling the truth about their tribal nature. Suliban technology seemed like leaps and bounds over anything that humans or their friends had. It was at least comparable to Vulcan technology. Augustus thought that if they would have come as conquerors than they would have had an easy time of it.

"So the two Klingons have the rest of the codes," Silik said; "very clever of you."

"You'll drop them off as per our bargain?" Kirk asked. "Alive," he added.

"On a Klingon frontier world," Silik replied.

Kirk would miss the two. His thoughts reached out to Chang. Was the Klingon youth still alive? He suspected that he was. He also thought that Chang would go far. There might be some rough patches with the Klingons but Augustus believed that one day his people would come to an understanding with the warriors. He suspected that in the meantime Gannar and Klaag would spend the crystal that he had paid them and be right back where they were. The pod moved soundlessly into the Romulan bay.

"I'll speak on your behalf Kirk," Silik said. "After I leave then—"

"I'm on my own," Kirk interjected. The bay door closed. There was a brief pause while the Romulans pumped atmosphere into the chamber. Augustus looked out of a blister at parked Aeon fighters. An airlock opened.

"Wait here," Silik said.

The pod's aft hatch opened. Somehow the Suliban squeezed past him although Augustus doubted that a shoe could have fit past him. Kirk turned nervously on the bump that he was sitting on. He heard several smooth melodious voices and then Silik's.

"What is that you want?" one voice asked.

"Where is this package?" another queried.

"I helped you in the past," Silik said. "So allow me some leeway."

"The Klingons did not turn on the Triple Alliance," the second voice spat. "You were supposed to implicate the humans in their problem."

"Events overcome the best of plans," Silik answered smoothly. "Such as an empire's plan at conquest," he added. "Now your enemies are nearly over your home world. One would think that your leader or leaders might wish to discuss a pause."

"We will con—" an angry voice, the second voice started.

"Are you treating for the alliance Silik?" the first voice asked.

"No," Silik replied. Kirk looked up to see the hatch swing open all the way. "But I have someone with me who is."

Augustus stood up, concealing a grunt born of age. He was standing upright, his torso out of the pod. Four golden helmeted beings stared and gasped at him. Their surprise turned to glares of hatred. Kirk noticed for the first time that one of the beings wore a gray helmet and accompanying sash.

"Jolan tru," Kirk said. He had been practicing this statement for the last week. He heard 'good dawning' in his ear which was confusing. "I am Augustus Kirk, special envoy from the United Federation of Planets." Kirk knew that the last was a lie, but it gave his credentials something extra. "I come on behalf of President Christophur Thorpe to discuss our present conflict."

The gray helmet withdrew a short stabbing sword from a scabbard. One of the golden helmets placed a restraining hand on him. Kirk noticed badges attached to each sash. There seemed to be no progression to indicate who was who.

"Wait M'tiix," golden helmet said. Kirk recognized the first voice that he had heard.

"It is our orders to kill all humans and their allies unless needed for experimentation commander!" This was the second voice that Kirk had heard. He paused long enough to seem like he was digesting and translating what he had just heard.

"You make sure praetor knows you me kill," Kirk said haltingly. "Know if talk praetor wants? Speak you do for praetor?" He was gambling that they did not. He just hoped that this praetor was a living person and not some contrivance.

"We have our orders commander!" M'tiix insisted.

"Stand away M'tiix. The Tal Shiar has done enough damage." So M'tiix was part of this secret police that Silik had mentioned. That explained the different color uniform sashes. Golden helmet removed his headgear.

Standing a head taller than Kirk was a dark haired Vulcanoid. The resemblance stopped at the ears and hair. Kirk noted a v-shaped ridge on the Romulan's forehead. Rather than the cool appraising look that Vulcans held, this individual gave Kirk a stare like a tiger might have. He looked Kirk up and down stopping to hold Kirk's gaze.

"Sub Lieutenant M'tiix is correct," the Romulan said while not breaking his gaze away from Kirk. "Yet this human is also correct. I cannot speak for our praetor. Do you claim to have that authority M'tiix?"

There must be a conflict between this…the captain and his political officer. Or so Kirk thought. If he lived he might play that. He was scared and the bay's near freezing temperature did nothing to alleviate his fear.

"Have you name?" he asked the captain.

The Romulan's right eyebrow arched up. Kirk noted a nasty scar running along that side of his forehead. He did not let up with the baleful glare. Kirk hoped that these Romulans didn't shake hands like his deceased Uncle Ernie had. The man considered a bone crushing handshake as a sign of respect. Perhaps they were like their cousins and disdained personal contact.

"I am commander," the Romulan answered after a few seconds. "I am Aladar Desearious…Augustus Kirk."

"Wish to meet praetor with," Kirk said.

"Are you offering to surrender human?" M'tiix asked. He laughed cruelly.

No actually I'm giving you that option, idiot. Kirk used the time that his apparent need to translate gave him. "Talk we will of options. War long time, need maybe to take pause, before get worse."

The commander looked at him. Kirk was beginning to believe that he was about to be killed. The change in Desearious' expression was barely perceptible. Yet there it was.

"This creature shall be our guest, Sub Lieutenant M'tiix," Desearious said. "We bend space for Romulus soon. I shall take you to apply for your audience. Know, Augustus Kirk, that if Praetor Karzan denies you then most likely you shall die."

Kirk saw a flash of anger cross M'tiix's face. He also saw a look that had the commander been human, he would have called satisfaction. There was a conflict there! Kirk was still cold. But he guessed that he would not die this day. Kirk decided to wing it. He took out a cigar and lighter and much to the amazement, confusion and bemusement of the Romulans, lit the fragrant weed.

"Everyone dies time in," he replied. "Dinner, what time is?" He exhaled a perfect, blue smoke ring.


	49. Chapter 49

Beyond the serpent's mouth, the earth winter of 2159

Beyond the serpent's mouth, the earth winter of 2159

"How do you feel?" Tarang Gupta asked T'Pol. She had filled out and was now showing signs of her pregnancy.

"This sickness does not usually happen to Vulcans." He came to stand behind her.

T'Pol was standing beside their quarter's air exchanger. She had removed her blouse and, standing naked was sweating profusely. Tarang laid his hands upon her shoulders and started to gently massage them until she shrugged them off.

"Do not touch me!" she snapped. Gupta instantly brought his hands away.

He watched her take a deep breath. She shivered. "I am sorry Tarang. Even after meditation I find that I'm having difficulty centering. It is not just a physical illness. That I could control. It is like an attack on my psyche."

"It's alright," he answered.

Commander Mondex's voice called out of the tiny speaker that was situated in the ceiling of their chamber. It was a call for the assault force to go to the shuttle bay. They had been on a heading to a system with a yellow star, much like the sun of Gupta's earth. The third planet had been identified as the one where the third family lay. Gupta went to their locker and proceeded to dress.

"I am having doubts Tarang," T'Pol said. "It is not logical. When Pakesh made his appeal to us I was adamant that we go; if only to discover a new Vulcan like species." She rubbed at her bare tummy. "Now I wonder if I have not recklessly endangered our child." She wiped away the sweat with a damp towel and through on her uniform.

"I supported you," he answered. He too had had doubts but he had wanted to explore space. That and mixed feelings he had developed towards the Romulans.

Tarang wondered if, technically he was a collaborator with his people's enemy. He had been among Romulans. For the most part he had seen a proud, noble race of people slowly beaten into submission by a leviathan government. His world had almost followed that course. Somehow he had come to the conclusion that perhaps his assistance would pave the way for some kind of future relationship with these people. Past enemies had become allies on earth. Why not out here?

He too had also been torn about the safety of their child. But he had also wondered where he and T'Pol would go. According to the praetor the healer who had altered his physiology had done so while maintaining his brain chemistry. Otherwise he would have been a Romulan vegetable. Without that knowledge there was a risk that; while Gupta could be made human again, his mind would be destroyed in the process. And if we was changed and returned home; how could his transformation be explained? Would he be accepted on Vulcan? T'Pol must have been tuned into his thoughts.

"The praetor said that he would assemble a team while we are gone to duplicate and reverse what was done to you," she said. She threw on the last of her outer garments and then put a vest over her top. She loaded a clip into her pistol while she spoke. "It will be difficult if you cannot be made human again. Yet I have wondered if that happens how we will be received on my world."

He sighed and pulled back the charging lever on his rifle. Gupta had no good answers. Perhaps their future was on Vulcan. So it was that he gasped when he clearly read her next thought.

"We could stay on this world…Romulus," she said, verbalizing her thought. She in turn read his counter thought. "No, I am not unstable because of a chemical imbalance."

"I'm…I'm sorry," he stammered. "It is just that you…you abhorred Romulus, from the first time we landed there."

"I listened to the Romulans that we came in contact with. They desire Reunification. Vulcans were becoming stagnant. Syrran recognized this. The Romulans are in danger of becoming nothing more than an empire of petty criminals. Perhaps Reunification is not in the form of a mass assembly. Perhaps a few Vulcans could come here as teachers. They in turn could learn Romulan ways. The two could become better. You told me that Surak who was Careaza changed the face of my world. A few Vulcans could change this world and in turn change Vulcan. There is much here that is distasteful to me. But there is also much beauty." She walked over to him and took his hand. She pulled up her tunic and put his hand on her bare stomach. "Much that was good for me and you happened on Romulus. I was wrong to condemn an entire world because of the rash actions of a few."

"Well, my Uncle Salil would have said that the future is not written," he said. Gupta remembered the vision again.

"Whatever happens we shall write our destiny, Tarang," she told him.

Mondex called again, this time for them specifically. T'Pol pulled her tunic down and took up her rifle. Gupta could feel her dislike for the weapon. But he also knew that she understood that their adversaries would kill them if given the chance. They stomped out of their quarters. Mondex called again, this time for Pakesh. As they were passing his quarters they stopped there. The door slid open, making a grating sound as it did. Pakesh was seated before his small workspace.

He held up his hand. "I know that it is the happy family," Pakesh said. His voice sounded like it was somewhere else, like he was somewhere else.

"We are beginning an aerial search of the surface," T'Pol started. She stopped and looked at Gupta.

Tarang had looked at the image displayed on Pakesh's screen. Complicated geometrical shapes that only just seem to form a pattern only to transform into something completely different than what the observer had first viewed. Tarang had seen that before.

"I…Pakesh…is the image complete?" Gupta asked.

"I believe there might be something missing," he said. He pointed to a junction of two intersecting boxes. "This might be part of a concept. I cannot be sure."

Gupta found a piece of scrap paper and started to sketch. His artistry was crude and sloppy. He handed the finished work to Pakesh as Mondex's voice, clearly angry came over the speakers again. Pakesh got up and threw on his web vest as he examined the drawing.

"Where?"

"Vulcans call it the Ka'Al' Zin," Gupta explained.

He looked knowingly at T'Pol. His primitive attempts to read the old glyphs had actually yielded results. He had assumed that his translations were wrong as they had been almost like an apology issued by Surak. Then he had melded with Syrran and discovered the truth. It had been an apology, but there had been more. Gupta had had an opportunity afforded to few: to observe the life of a great individual almost firsthand. Yet there were sizeable gaps in his knowledge.

Careaza had been an aficionado of ancient Vulcan artifacts. Much like Li Quan's dabblings into poetry and Khan's love of fine art the old conqueror had had an interest in other things besides murder. Gupta had seen little of those other things but he knew that they were there. He knew that the name Sargon had not been unknown to both Careaza/Surak and Syrran. Gupta had cast those memories aside but now they returned to him.

Pakesh tucked several slim notepads and a handheld into his backpack and followed them out of his chamber. They spoke as they proceeded to the flight bay. The information that Pakesh had was sketchy at best. He had had no idea of what he was trying to translate so it was amazing that that he had come this far. Pakesh handed Gupta his handheld and asked him to render the sketch into that. They arrived in the bay as Gupta finished.

"About time!" the commander admonished them. The Romulan officer stood next to a Harrier attack/troop shuttle. He divided his time between reminding them of their duty and bossing the deck gang as they prepared the shuttles for flight.

"Commander, has there been any sighting of the Tal Shiar's vessel? T'Pol asked.

"No sign at all, mistress," Mondex replied. "I'm not concerned. Our scanning equipment is the better. The corollary is that if I can't see them then they can't see us. If I were there commander I'd lay about one of the heavy inner worlds. They are massive and the solar electromagnetics foul the detectors. I have no doubt that their soldiers are down there, however."

"Commander, what of the world below?" he asked Mondex.

"If they have advanced technology then it is advanced beyond our means to detect it." Mondex folded his gloved hands behind his back. "So far all we have seen is evidence of fires on the night side. There are no major cities to see from orbit. Of course they could be underground. I have scanned for power emanations and have found nothing artificial."

"This is more confusing than ever idiot!" Pakesh hissed into Gupta's ear. Tarang turned to see him examining the image on his handheld. Mondex gave them a warning look that caused him to push his bushy eyebrows almost together.

"My apologies commander," Pakesh said.

He had shoved the handheld under Gupta's nose. Tarang could make nothing of the new image. He guessed that it was a continuation of what Pakesh had already translated. He felt a surge of knowledge. Tarang turned to see T'Pol studying the image.

"It looks like a three dimensional rendering of a bent space harmonic," she remarked.

"Let me see that!" the commander barked. Pakesh handed it reluctantly to the officer. The older Romulan studied the image for sometime. Gupta had begun to think that Mondex was ignorant of what he was seeing and was using the time to cover himself.

"It does look like that Mistress Promise," the old Romulan announced quietly. He was clearly in a pensive mood. Mondex's sharp grey eyes focused onto Pakesh. "These ancients of yours…would they post a beacon? Because, this is surely what this is; this is a signal beacon."

"Could it…could it mark the passage of a ship, commander?" Gupta asked.

"Summon my chief power room technician!" Mondex bellowed. "No, bent space is very small for the most part," he continued in answer to Gupta's question. "It was thought before the space bending fields were discovered that any such extra dimensions would be too small for we, as physical beings to enter. This appears like a harmonic for one of the smaller dimensions. One we might use for bent space wireless. This harmonic occupies the higher ranges; very difficult to use to send detailed information but very useful to attract attention."

A very tall, completely bald Romulan entered the bay. He paced up to them and listened intently while the commander explained what had happened. Sub Lieutenant Telnic took the handheld and after a brief look at the image agreed with the consensus. They were all curious. Why had the ancients embedded that piece of information into their writings? Would the signal lead to their homeworld? The group discussed that proposition.

"This is a short range carrier, commander," Telnic advised Mondex. "This may be active on this planet of these ancients but we could not detect it unless we were in close orbit."

"Scan here," Gupta interjected. Could it be that Sargon had left something on these worlds that the ancients had seeded? He had left information about the ancients on Vulcan, why not elsewhere? Mondex ordered Telnic to do as Gupta had requested.

The small group gathered around in the shuttle bay launch booth. Telnic was bent over the panel interface. The commander and his engineer and issued the orders and relayed the information needed for the scan. There was nothing after two passes. Gupta sighed and was thinking that he had made a stupid error when Telnic grunted and ran his agile fingers over the control studs. A glowing dot marked a location on the screen's map of the world below.

"If this world does not contain a space faring civilization is there any other thing that could make this signal commander?" Pakesh asked.

"Our science is still growing Citizen Pakesh," Mondex answered thoughtfully. "But to make a space bending field that happens to correlate to your translations? I think that this signal is your ancients. My question to you citizen; are our adversaries in possession of this information?"

Pakesh shot a rueful grin at Gupta. "I do not believe so commander. The final piece was supplied by our very own Centurion Tarack!"

Mondex smiled grimly and nodded. Gupta knew that he was unaware of his humanity and even held 'Tarack' in some regard as a fighter. Why on earth, or more properly Romulus that was, Gupta did not know. He had always felt that he was a lucky man who had just missed the shots and stabs of his enemies. That he had accomplished anything, Gupta had always subscribed to the company he had fallen into. Why others didn't see that he could not understand.

"Then the advantage goes to us!" the commander snapped. "I'm sending Harriers as planned. The difference is that one will drop to the surface near to this signal with you Centurion Tarack, your mate and Citizen Pakesh. I'll leave you with half a _centi_ of troops to help you." Mondex hesitated. "Mistress Promise is welcome to stay behind of course."

Romulan society was heavily male dominated. It had been more so before the war. Mondex, in Romulan fashion, was making a gentlemanly offer. Gupta and T'Pol had heard him decry the fact that Romulan females were working in the war production facilities. Gupta, or more properly Tarack as T'Pol's mate declined the offer graciously. He felt her stab of consternation when he rolled over the idea of leaving her behind. He loved her and wanted her to be safe. But this was her destiny and they went together or not at all.

Mondex seemed displeased but he accepted the choice. He bid them all good hunting as they boarded their ships. The Harrier was soon bearing them out into space and toward the blue green planet beneath. Gupta, T'Pol and Pakesh were quiet as the shuttle bit into the thick atmosphere.

Imperial Romulan cruiser V'ortax, near to the Romulan system, Nov 2159

"Your race is made up of perverts, Kirk!" Sub Lieutenant M'tiix insisted. "We read and observe how you crossbreed with your Andorian and Tellarite pets. What sort of a civilization allows itself to be defined by outsiders?"

"One that might be around for a few hundred generations?" he asked in reply. Augustus Kirk smiled at the Tal Shiar officer which only seemed to enrage M'tiix more. Kirk's eyes slid sidewise to see a brief smile cross Desearious' lips.

So it had gone in the months that he had spent aboard the Romulan vessel. Somehow he was tolerated. It had amazed him how the Romulans had at first looked at him like a zoo specimen and then accepted him. Then he had thought that they had never seen a human save for holos. They were as curious about him as he was of them. At least the commander seemed like that.

"Civilizations are different. You had the advantage of growing up from a homogenous tribe. We humans nearly annihilated ourselves because some of us wore crosses while others wore stars and some had light skin while others had dark skin. It was one excuse after another before we decided that different was alright. I probably won't like the humans of my great grandchildren's generation but that comes with the territory. They'll do alright despite my antique opinions."

Kirk was proud of his speaking abilities. Romulan was much like Vulcan, so it was that Augustus had had an easy time of picking it up. He owed no small thanks to Silik's little bug in his ear. Words that he would have taken weeks to stumble across came more naturally since he got to hear their English translations. His hosts had downplayed his ability with tongues, insisting that Romulan language experts could easily learn the languages of 'lesser beings' in as short a time. The Romulans seemed to think of Augustus, so he thought, as some sort of idiot _savant_ of language. Kirk might agree with them about the idiot part.

Desearious steepled the long fingers of his hands before him. "Your world is said to be an anarchistic state, Kirk." The commander's eyes slid over to fix his political officer in their stare. "You have no security force to control criminals and recalcitrants. Your citizens live in run down cities, terrified of mob violence."

Kirk took a bite of his _pela_ fruit. He had discovered that these dinners at the commander's table allowed Desearious to trade barbs with his dour Tal Shiar officer without doing so directly. Kirk had learned that, at least for this crew, many Romulans blamed the Tal Shiar for their present circumstances. Apparently there had been a major shakeup on Romulus in the past few months. What that was he had not found out.

He swallowed and answered: "Humans, and for the most part the Andorians and the Tellarites came up with a novel approach for our criminals: we put them in government where we can watch them." The ship's engineer, Centurion Dan'lek let out a raucous laugh in response to Kirk's answer. The engineer was cut bald as seem to be expected for those who worked in the engineering spaces. M'tiix shot the engineer a venomous glare. "Our world of earth, in the end divided into two groups: one wanted to control everything and everybody, the other did not. It took most of our recorded history but right now the do nots are in charge." Kirk grew serious.

"We elevated the individual. Humans believe in freedom but understand that it comes with responsibility. Bad manners can get a person a poke in the nose, sometimes killed if they happen to be practicing freelance _socialism_."

"What is that?" Dan'lek asked.

"A human word for legalized theft," he answered. "Some live in cities. Those were cleaned up after resources became abundant during the early days of space travel. When food, medicine and shelter were practically guaranteed from the largesse of the space trade the excuses for crime were eliminated. Humans saw it for what it was: antisocial behavior that had to be dealt with. Humans don't live in fear these dawnings. It isn't perfect and we still have problems but I guess we've gotten to where your race was in its beginnings—I mean after Vulcan."

"The commander asked you about security forces, Augustus," the ship's healer Q'Vannar interjected. Kirk had found the V'ortax's equivalent of doctor to be the most open of all the Romulans that he had met thus far.

Kirk shrugged. "We have a very few; enough to deal with what little crime is left and to deal with natural disasters. Individual humans take care of themselves for the most part."

"As can Romulan citizens," the commander said as he looked at M'tiix.

M'tiix snorted in anger. He pushed away from the table and started to get up. Kirk got another vivid illustration of why these people looked like Vulcans but were not. Desearious' hand shot across the table. The commander plunged a knife into the sleeve of M'tiix's uniform, sticking his tunic to the tabletop. The anger burned between the two for several long seconds. M'tiix's free hand went to his sash and then stopped.

"I did not grant you permission to leave the table sub lieutenant." The voice was calm, as if Desearious was commenting on a book that he had read.

"My apologies commander," M'tiix replied at last. He tried pulling his hand away but Desearious only pushed harder on his dagger. "May I…leave the table commander?" the Tal Shiar officer asked. His breathing was heavy.

Desearious pulled the knife out of the wooden surface. "You may." He held up a finger. "See that you change into a serviceable uniform. That one has a hole in the sleeve; very unbecoming for one of our society's guardians."

The sub lieutenant stood up, turned and made for the exit. The healer and engineer laughed quietly. Kirk could see M'tiix stop briefly, his shoulders tightening in rage. He left the commander's quarters. The three remaining Romulans burst out in laughter.

"You push him harder than you should my commander," Dan'lek proclaimed as the laughter died away.

"The peril is my own engineer," Desearious answered quietly. He smiled grimly. "Be of good cheer. This new Continuing Committee may alleviate problems like that _v'roul_." The Romulan turned his attention onto Augustus.

"He should be alleviated out of an airlock," Q'Vannar mumbled.

Desearious chuckled. "We are a stubborn lot, we Romulans, Kirk. It is our destiny to rule all. What do you think of us after all of this time ambassador, and of our destiny?"

"Where do we fall into all of that commander?" Kirk asked in reply. "I mean we never interfered with your destiny. Hell, none of us had heard of you before the war. The galaxy is a big place."

"It is that, Kirk," Desearious agreed. "To answer your question though: as loyal vassals and fighters. It is evident that we are more alike…perhaps more so than we are to our cousins." This last Kirk thought, carried a note of sadness.

"Earth, as part of some intergalactic empire," Kirk muttered.

"Why not?" Dan'lek asked. "That is what your federation is attempting, Kirk. You have just given it a different name."

No! That was not President Thorpe's plan. Of that Kirk was sure. Kirk had glommed onto the idea of federation because it had sounded much like his own United States. Nations meant little on earth these days yet Kirk, like many humans, saw himself as uniquely American. He counted his home as Iowa. That did not prevent him from being part of a larger union. He believed in the federation because he believed in a union that guaranteed his identity. Could the federation become some space spanning empire?

"Well, I can't predict the future," he said at last. He sipped his drink. "Even if I drank a few bottles of this," he added. Kirk hoisted his Romulan ale.

"My brother made this," Desearious interjected, holding aloft his glass. He swirled the contents around. "It is thirty dawnings old. Drink enough; perhaps you could predict the future." Kirk laughed. They each drank and were quiet.

"To answer your question commander: I was thinking the same thing," Kirk said. They all looked at him. "I mean about us not being unlike. It is unfortunate that we met this way—our races I mean. You Romulans are formidable opponents. I think that once you get a hold of something you never let it go, even if you have to hold it in your teeth for a _t'loucalq_." Kirk almost choked on the Romulan word for millennia. "We humans respect and admire that in ourselves and others."

"What do you offer our praetor Augustus?" Q'Vannar asked.

Desearious chuckled. "Look for my healer to make the deepest cut!" His mood turned from humor to one of dead seriousness. "The question is valid: what are you offering us ambassador?"

"Aren't you afraid that M'tiix has…bugged this room?" he asked. He saw their look of bemusement. Translating human expressions into another language sometimes had unintended consequences. "I mean listening devices," he hissed softly.

He watched as the commander reached into his sash and withdrew a small device. He pushed a button on it. "M'tiix's…bugs have been shut off—for now." He pushed another stud on the small controller. "This will allow my brave sub lieutenant to hear us speak—but the conversation will be other than what we really say. Also I've had an annoying tone embedded in the signal which he must listen to. It cannot be filtered out." Kirk saw Desearious' pleasure with this setup.

Kirk sighed. Here goes nothing, he thought. "We want to end the war without revealing to our _people_ who we have been fighting. Call it a stalemate for now."

"You want the Vulcans to bolster this new empire," Desearious said. Kirk was not startled by his shrewd guess. His silence was all the answer that Desearious needed. "The other races will follow our cousins." He pushed back from the table. "So you present us a respite from battle only to confront a greater enemy in a few tens turnings."

"Don't forget that the Vulcans will become a big part of writing my race's future Commander Desearious," Kirk countered. He grew thoughtful. "It's almost like they—the Vulcans are only just discovering where logic is taking them. I don't think they are ready for Reunification until they know who they are. Maybe this will set the stage for that to happen in the future." His thoughts recalled private conversations that he had had with Soval. He counted the old Vulcan as a friend.

"Perhaps too, we are not ready," Q'Vannar interjected. "To use one of your _earth_ expressions: maybe we need to get our house in order first, Augustus. But you are right: no one can predict the future."

"I can predict that you, Augustus Kirk," Desearious started, "shall be granted your audience with our praetor."

"Really?" he asked. Kirk's eyebrows arched up.

"We are close enough to home that I received an answer to my bent space communiqué. You have been granted an audience with Praetor Karzan." Desearious leaned back in his chair. "That is well. I…would have taken no pleasure in slaying you Kirk."

That's touching. Kirk bit his tongue to not say that. Desearious explained that they would be around Romulus in another two dawnings. Kirk's appointment was ten dawnings hence. Augustus asked about the extra time.

"The praetor is busy," Desearious answered. "I have an estate near to the Valley of Chula. I would that you be my guest there until you meet our leader, Kirk. I have a son. He is turnings away from service but he should see our enemies' face."

"I'll show him my face then, commander," Kirk agreed. He took several cigars and passed them around.

Among other things Sub Lieutenant M'tiix was angry at, was Kirk's introduction of tobacco among the Romulan crew. Augustus thought that one thing seemed universally true: fascists of all persuasions hated vice—of any kind; whether it be sex, food, drink, or smoking a fine cigar. All were to be regulated for the individual's own good. He suspected that the sub lieutenant was the loneliest Romulan on V'ortax. Well, Kirk thought as he exhaled a fragrant blue stream, M'tiix needed to lighten up.

The tail of the serpent, the earth winter of 2159

The tall green golden grass had not seen rain in some time. Tarang Gupta was no farmer but he recognized the signs of drought. They had had precious little time to do a biochemical survey of this world. A human expedition would have employed scoops and then dropped sampling units before putting men ashore. Tarang had gleaned that the Romulan approach was a little more haphazard even when speed was not necessary. The _centi _crunched through the grass as small biting insects attacked them.

"Centurion Tarack, the source tracks true for almost two _elil'n_," Uhlan Vanexor informed him.

"We shall have to dig for this object when we get there," Pakesh grumbled. "Do you realize how many turnings ago it must have been left here?"

"I wonder if a similar object is on Vulcan?" T'Pol asked.

"We don't even know what this is," Tarang interjected. He could feel T'Pol's excitement over this possible find. Gupta imagined that he would feel the same way if an alien artifact was buried near Calcutta.

So far the Harriers had not spotted any Tal Shiar legionnaires on this world. Had they even come ashore? Gupta began to imagine that their adversary ship was hiding, with their load of troops, waiting to spring on Mondex. Taking on Penaithrn might be more of a proposition than the Tal Shiar had bargained for though. Gupta had read up on Mondex and found that he had a record as a cagy and unorthodox commander.

"If a space bending field device was buried next to your _T'az Mahaal_ you wouldn't be so much of a stick," Pakesh complained. He seemed to be as much in tune with Gupta's thoughts as T'Pol.

He chuckled. "You are right…"

Gupta's voice trailed off. A clearly animal growl pierced the alien twilight. It sounded like a low throaty growl that quickly rose in scale to a venomous, screeching yowl. They _centi_ was walking just below the crest of a great out flung arm of a mountain. The animal sound had come from over the other side of the hill. Curiosity got the best of Tarang. He took two uhlans and sprinted toward the top. The crouched low as they neared the top.

Gupta crawled forward to see…a dragon. Below him a mighty creature stood upon its hind legs. Its great head swooped near to the ground. There was a loud snap which Gupta realized were the things jaws snapping at something. He took up a pair of binoculars and looked through them. Reason replaced his fear.

The creature was about as large as a small adult terran elephant. That was enough to stomp a man or Romulan but it put some perspective on what Gupta was seeing. The creature seemed to be battling a smaller, shapeless creature. What that was Tarang could not make out. Bushes obscured part of the scene below. He had almost decided to let nature take its course here when he saw the other animal. A humanoid figure scrambled just out of reach of the creature's quick moving jaws. Gupta focused on that person.

He saw a dirty creature wearing a black fur tunic and breeches. Long black, scraggly hair hung from the poor person's head. He or she was obviously in a fight for their life. Tarang glanced to his side. One of his uhlans had his eye glued to his laser sighted sniper scope. Gupta deplored the idea of killing an animal but wounding this beast might send it into a final rage against the unfortunate down there.

"Kill it," he ordered softly.

There was a barely perceptible pop. Gupta looked back through his glasses in time to see the great beast go rigid and then start a ponderous collapse to the ground. Not exactly Doctor Cochrane's idea of contacting new civilizations he mused. He found the jerking beast's intended victim. He discovered that the humanoid seemed to have divided into two beings. They each clung to one another. Gupta got up and led his soldiers down the hill.

The two beings were obviously shaken. So it was that Gupta was shocked when they seemed equally terrified of him and his troop. He started to discern a larger individual protecting a smaller one. The faces and eyes showed them to be Vulcanoid. Tarang thought that the larger one was female, perhaps defending her child. He barely avoided the rock that she sent toward his head. Uhlan Paelex raised his rifle and aimed. The female flinched. She obviously knew what their weapons could do.

"No, stop," Gupta commanded. He halted his soldiers.

Gupta strode forward slowly, arms extended, hands out. He tried to reassure the female in as soft and defenseless tone as he could muster. The child had a head wound. No wonder that she had not tried to run. It looked to Tarang that she could run but the child could not. He walked slowly toward the injured alien. That effort got him the screaming alien female pushing and clawing at him. He snapped his head away but not before receiving deep painful scratches on his cheek. He backed away and bought his hand up to the wound. It came away covered in green blood. The female stood defiantly over the child hissing and issuing a guttural stream of what must be her language. Gupta was at a loss. Then the female changed her stance. She seemed deeply curious about something behind him.

Gupta turned slowly, never letting the female out of his sight. He beheld T'Pol, her helmet off, her long mane of black hair flowing past her shoulders, walking slowly toward the alien. She too was speaking to the alien in a cool but comforting tone. The female relented. She barked words at T'Pol while motioning at the stricken child.

"How did you know?" Gupta asked in a quiet, tight lipped voice.

Without taking her eyes off the female and continuing in the same tone T'Pol replied: "It was logical to assume that she has seen others like us; the Tal Shiar force no doubt. It is also reasonable to assume, based on their previous behavior, that the Tal Shiar probably came here with an all male detachment." Gupta substituted the word 'Romulans' where she had said Tal Shiar. I believe that it may comfort her to see another female" She stopped and slowly knelt by the child. Gupta watched her take a cloth and mop at the blood. He saw the perfectly formed pointed ears when T'Pol pushed aside a piece of long matted hair. She gestured at Tarang. "Join me," she commanded.

He moved slowly. The female tensed. He stopped briefly and then moved carefully forward. Gupta knelt beside T'Pol. Her apparent vouching for him must have worked. The primitive alien allowed Gupta to kneel beside T'Pol. He removed contents from his small medical kit and passed them to T'Pol. Gupta was relieved to see that the male child's wounds didn't seem as serious as they looked. The boy stirred and sat up slowly, as frightened as his protector had been. Gupta took his canteen from his belt. He took a sip to show that it was harmless and then handed it to the male. The alien child drank greedily.

T'Pol, with the help of the advanced med kit, soon had the young alien sitting up and lucid. T'Pol gestured for Gupta to stand aside. They moved away carefully to show that they were not a threat. Pakesh had joined the group and listened intently to the primitives' speech. Gupta took food out of his pouch and ate. Both of the aliens were lean. The female's mouth watered as she watched Tarang eat. He carefully extended his hand, mindful that he was dealing with little more than an animal.

The female snatched the Romulan ration from his hand. She snapped the bar in two and gave the male child the other piece. They both swallowed the ration in seconds. The female had said several words to which the male responded. Pakesh barked out several words. The aliens looked at him in confusion. However the female responded.

"_Bal'ili hai nou'v me'q_!" the female proclaimed.

"_Me'q hai e'lz_," Pakesh said.

The female looked thoughtful. She pointed at Gupta's canteen. "_Me'q_," she said simply.

"Amazing!" Pakesh proclaimed quietly. "This may confirm a theory of mine: namely that language can be determined through genetic makeup. If we are all the children of Sargon then it may be that we are made up to facilitate Sargon's language, whatever that was."

"Pakesh," T'Pol started, "how do you know if you said water to her or canteen?"

"Or for that matter asked to mate with her?" Gupta interjected. Pakesh gave the alien female a wide eyed look. Gupta was glad that he had for once gotten the best of his old chieftain. He chuckled.

"She is rather fetching," Pakesh announced. A rueful grin was pasted on his lips. He joined in Gupta's laughter. The female and her charge relaxed after that. They could not understand one another but she must have determined that Gupta and his _centi_ were friendly.

Gupta ordered food to be parceled out. He also instructed his troops to make no untoward move against the aliens. The Romulans posted guards and sat in a circle as night fell. Tarang had a fire built. His scouts had the area covered for several hundred _elil'n_. The aliens stayed back until the cool night air forced them closer to Gupta, his group and their fire. Pakesh spoke as best as he could to the female. Gupta looked on while he spoke with T'Pol and his uhlans.

"Centurion, they made a lucky pass," Uhlan Vanexor theorized. "Probably they read the transmission as an ore deposit. There is a type of crystal in the mines of Remus that has similar properties. It is said that it can intensify energy into a coherent source. They probably landed here to for that."

"Then they are as close as we," T'Pol interjected.

"Possibly mistress," Vanexor answered. "But read as a crystal deposit their search area would be much larger. They may have been fortunate and landed on the site or be as far away as two dawnings march with no clear idea of where they are going. Your sketch matched the frequency exactly."

"We'll proceed to the point and set up there," Gupta said. "Topographical charts show that it's a defensible area. Our guests encountered the Tal Shiar. How far do you think that they came, Vanexor?"

The Romulan looked at the primitive aliens. "Maybe a dawning's march, centurion."

"It is about that," Pakesh announced. He scrambled away from the aliens. He had made some progress with them.

"The female's name is Ae'omè," he explained. She started at her name. "Her…I think brother, is H'ez'im. They come from caves about a dawnings travel in that direction." He pointed as he spoke.

"Is the Tal Shiar there?" T'Pol asked.

"I was coming to that Promise," he answered with his trademark grin in place.

Ae'omè and her brother had had a run in with a tribe dressed like Gupta and his _centi_. The intruders had moved into Ae'omè's underground community. Pakesh seemed to think that they had gained control of her tribe through fear and intimidation. H'ez'im entered into the picture next. It seemed that the male child had provoked or attacked one of the newcomers. Realizing that H'ez'im was in danger, Ae'omè had taken her brother and as far as Pakesh could tell, set out for her paternal family's tribe.

"You've established quite a rapport, Pakesh," T'Pol commented.

Gupta silently agreed. He also noticed that Ae'omè seemed very content to be around the Romulan scholar. He pointed that out to Pakesh, who characteristically took it in stride.

"All the females love me Tarack," Pakesh said. "What can I do? It is my curse." His smiled dropped away. "We must help her tribe Tarack."

"That is our mission here," T'Pol said flatly.

"Our mission, Promise, is to wipe out the Tal Shiar soldiers that are here," Pakesh said. "Mondex is prepared to do so with a small nuclear device. There has to be a better solution."

"Does she have an idea of numbers Pakesh?" Gupta asked.

"I think her race actually has a primitive number system," he answered. "You won't like it but she seems to think that they have many more than we do. She drew a figure that I think means us plus three."

Gupta let out a very human sigh. "A _limati_ at least, I'm not surprised. Commander Mondex suggested that they might have come here with twice that many."

"If their goal is to come here, conquer these people and use them to form a new empire they would need that many, even more," T'Pol conjectured. "They will seek to form a ruling class."

"This is a long term venture," Pakesh said. "Such a feat would take generations."

"Once the wormhole closes, they would have generations," Gupta said.

At current warp speeds Gupta had calculated that no human, allied or Romulan starship could get here for human decades. Even a Vulcan cruiser would take several years to get here. It would have to travel at maximum warp through uncharted space at that. Pakesh was right: the Tal Shiar were in this for the long haul.

"Such a feat is doomed to failure," T'Pol interjected. "These Romulans would become absorbed into the local population after many tens turns. The end result is that they would severely contaminate these aliens. Their dream of a new Romulan Empire would fail. Quite likely they would succeed in giving these primitives advanced weapons. They would be more likely to destroy one another in tribal warfare than to set up a new empire."

"That sounds likely," Gupta said.

He took a stick and drew figures in the loose dirt. Somehow they had to eliminate the Tal Shiar ground force without taking any alien lives. Gupta was a former UESN intelligence officer and would-be spy. He was no tactician. He tried to remember everything that he had learned at his academy in India. Gupta had no clear ideas but he knew he had to maintain an advantage.

"Vanexor, how many of our _centi_ are skilled in ground maneuvers?"

He watched as his subordinate considered the question. "Tanlek and Peltor were Imperial Marine trainers," he said at last. "Centurion they would be the most skilled and they are in our group."

"Pakesh, see if you can get more information from Ae'omè about where she came from," Gupta said. "Vanexor, find Tanlek and Peltor and tell them to prepare for a scouting mission. I'll call the commander and see if he can redeploy some of the other searchers near to our destination."

Gupta wondered what they would find at this destination as he contemplated strategies. As excited as Pakesh and T'Pol were he began to think that they would find another enigma. The real secret of this world, he thought, was represented by the two primitives seated near to Pakesh. Clearly Vulcanoid they were a type of proof, a validation for those who spoke of an elder race. Gupta knew that a few on earth advocated that theory. Would he ever get back there to tell them that they had been right?

Star Fleet Heavy Cruiser Excelsior, First Star Fleet, near Nelvana, Nov 2159

"I never expected the Birds to just go home," Admiral Maxwell Forrest told Captain Nakamura. "I'm just a little surprised that Frank got his wings singed."

That was euphemistic. The loss of Yamato would hurt. They had recovered the fighters but the Minotaurs needed repair ports and refueling places. Forrest had of course factored in the loss of ships in his war plan. That didn't make the loss any easier to bear. Those people on the casualty lists were more than just names in a database to Forrest. Some of them had been his friends.

"We'll drive them out of here and then move to the next phase, sir," Nakamura said.

Forrest could tell that his operations' officer was disturbed by the choice of strategy. Yoshi had been one of those who had advocated going straight for Romulus. So too, in an academic sense, had Forrest. Max needed to inflict a major wound on the Romulans. At night when he was alone with his thoughts he doubted that that was possible unless they were hit at their homeworld.

"They've got a web of listening posts out here captain," Forrest said. "I want them blinded in a variant of the Schwarzkopf strategy."

"I thought that we had them pinned until the loss of Oguma," Nakamura said.

"That put us behind schedule, captain," he responded.

"The Birdies did a major hit and run at Narendra," Nakamura said. "I reviewed the intel from first fleet and it is very odd. There are pieces of Oguma and other fragments that aren't Romulan."

"They could have sent a force of Clavicles there," Forrest said. Max was making excuses. Something was fishy about Narendra. It certainly fueled the idea that Birdies were learning to move quickly. Yet there had been no trace of a ship movement. Space was big but subspace sensor technology was bringing more of it under observation. "The Romulans could also be using mam technology. That might account for the unknown metal fragments."

Forrest had reviewed a report from Commander McCoy suggesting that very thing. It was an unpleasant prospect. There had also been hints that the Romulans were using stronger yield warheads. Forrest thought that it was possible that they were getting weapons from others. Oulette had found them dealing with that new race called Tholians. Whatever had happened there it had reminded Forrest that the Romulans were not out of the game. He had expected them to mount a strong defense at each system. Possibly he had been wrong.

"If they are using matter anti matter then they've only just started doing so," Forrest said. "That means that they might only have a handful of ships with that ability. We'll proceed as I've planned."

Minotaur Squadron 12, near Nelvana, Nov 2159

Chief Walter 'Lefty' Groening studied the video screen intently. Commander Bill 'Sluggo' Walters knew that they had taken a beating the last time they were here. This time should be different. He checked their course and heading while Lefty acquainted himself with the target for about the hundredth time.

"Deep scans are showing solid objects in the sun's poles, sir," Lefty told him.

"Just as the admiral was hoping," Walters said.

"Looks like they are going to try the same thing again," Groening said. "Al'Kumariz is on a heading for the inner system."

There were still a few minutes before the battle would start. "You're North American, Lefty. I bet you hate missing Thanksgiving." Walters knew that this was the time to relax. The pucker factor would soon be high enough.

"Are you kidding Sluggo?" he asked in reply. "I caught a glimpse of the cooks' experiments with algae. They didn't look pretty and nothing looked like a turkey that I saw."

Walters chuckled. He also noted that some of the tension had left Groening's voice. "The resequencers leave a lot to be desired." That was an understatement. "You should have been around last year. They actually looked like turkeys except that they were as blue as the water in the chemical toilets."

Groening laughed and then grew serious. "Radiation readings are spiking sir!"

"Lay down our pattern of EMP torpedoes and then warp to the assigned coordinates," Bill snapped.

"Torpedo armed sir: firing and away!" he roared. Groening flawlessly transitioned from the launch to the warp jump. "Coordinates inputted, preparing to engage mam packet for warp entry!"

"Coordinates conformed copilot," Walters responded. They had been practicing this for weeks. Walters downlinked his commands to the rest of his squadron. "Warp two—mark!"

Aeon fighters rose from the surface of the gray world. They did not find a smaller number of Minotaur fighters. They did find a large swarm of needle-shaped Andorian fighters. Their instruments fouled and near useless thanks to the EMP blasts the spherical fighters were outnumbered and out of sorts against the prepared Andorians. The Aeons soon found themselves the hunted rather than the hunter. Aeon pilots fought bravely but ultimately futilely as the Andorians blazed away at them.

Romulan cruisers emerged from behind the crest of Nelvana's first gas giant as one looked out from the system's sun. Earth Minotaurs burst out of subspace several thousand kilometers from them. The stubby fighters fired salvo after salvo of Amazons at the Romulan force. The small suns cast a harsh light onto the rings of the gas giant. Out of range, the explosions did prevent the Romulan forces from going to warp. A parsec away two behemoths exited warp, Charger and Heracles warped into normal space. On a plane from the exact opposite of the Conquerors' position two more of the battleships entered normal space. Protector and Victory started firing missiles almost immediately.

The warp driven Cachalots entered subspace and made the short faster-than-light flights to their intended targets. The combination of Sabinus and Veronus class ships launched counter measures against these attackers. The first wave of Cachalots failed, save for one that made it through to a Veronus. The Romulan cruiser was obliterated instantly. Meanwhile the Minotaurs sped forward.

The fighters' were in range when they launched their next salvo. This time the force of twenty-three Romulans faced the smaller more maneuverable Amazons and the lethal high speed Cachalots. Their neutronium pellets and countermeasures were simply overwhelmed. The Romulan ships erupted in nuclear fire.

Over Nelvana III Excelsior moved in with Beagle and Trafalgar. Three Tellarite heavy cruisers joined forces with the former UESN vessels. The ships fired large ground attack Grand Slam missiles into the atmosphere of Nelvana. Glowing plumes dotted the surface which was quickly becoming a radioactive inferno. The Star Fleet forces concentrated their missiles on regions that they had identified as Romulan bases. The surface glowed molten red, lighting the hulls of the rapidly dwindling Aeons and their Andorian foes.

"Radar and magnetometer readings are clear Sluggo," Chief Walter Groening reported. "Amazons are exhausted, it's a clean sweep!"

Walters was relieved. He was also glad not to have had anymore hallucinations. Sharon Patelli had told him to seek help. That had grounded him for awhile but the combination of counseling and the hard work that he was put to by Edmund O'Brien had helped immensely. It helped to that Admiral's Forrest strategy of turning the Romulan tactic of blinding their sensors back onto the Birdies had worked.

The first wave of Amazons launched by twelve and the rest of the Minotaur squadrons were designed to add to what the Romulans had already done. The Star Fleet ships had reverted back to radar and mass and magnetic readings to track their opponents. This had allowed the Conquerors and his fighters to move in on the Romulans while they too switched back to older methods of detection.

Walters ordered the second echelon to commence a sweep. The Birds might still have a few surprises left in this system. He couldn't imagine many. They had spent months reconnoitering this system. After the near brush with destruction that the Valley Forge had faced there had been a move to increase surveillance on these enemy held systems.

"Let's head back to the barn," Walters said as their relief moved in. "We might just make it back in time for synthetic turkey!"

Groening rubbed his stomach while making an unpleasant face. "Now is a great time for an equipment malfunction sir!"


	50. Chapter 50

Star Fleet carrier Ticonderoga, near Nelvana, Nov 2159

"They don't move one way or another," Ensign Charles Gauthier informed Commander Sharon Patelli.

Patelli nudged the ensign aside and shoved her head against the sensor hood. She could imagine the reproachful gaze of Captain Luther Hammond. Hammond had admonished her before over her physical approach to command. It wasn't that Sharon didn't trust Gauthier. It was that she wanted to see for herself. She had given the ensign a polite nudge, but probably not enough to satisfy Hammond.

"What do you make of that?" she asked the sensor officer. "The journals say that these things can get extra-dimensional reflections. That one reading looks like us but what about these others?"

"They've been with us the whole time sir," Gauthier answered. "Would the Romulans do that; I mean latch onto us just out of sensor range and stay for weeks?"

"We were with the fleet for the past weeks," she answered slowly.

Would one of their leaders do such a thing? It would be a big risk, avoiding detection and such. But these carriers were the main offensive weapon of this war. Nothing had so devastated the Birds like the Minotaur forces. Killing a carrier was one thing that would help their war effort. Or so Sharon suspected. The phantom readings moved and resolved themselves into solid returns.

"Clavicles on approach!" she exclaimed.

"Communications, signal our escorts and prepare to go to warp!" Captain Hammond ordered.

Patelli sprang away from the sensor station and covered the three meters to her station in a second. She slapped at the bridge comm command. "Engineering, prepare for warp drive now!"

"Accelerating and—new contact!" Gauthier exclaimed. "Romulan Tyrannous on approach from the port quarter. Both ships are clocking warp 4.2!"

"Helm emergency escape vector two thirteen mark forty one!" the captain bellowed.

Patelli barely climbed into her seat when Gauthier reported incoming missiles. She breathed a sigh of relief as Ticonderoga's warp drive spooled up and sent them into subspace. The bridge was plunged into darkness. For several seconds Sharon thought that she was upside down as the carrier's artificial gravity struggled to absorb what had to be a near miss.

"Columbine moving to intercept," Chief Helena Abatzi reported amid her coughs. The bridge was filling with noxious odors.

The bridge lighting returned for a few seconds and then instrument panels exploded. Most of the primary lighting blew out after Ticonderoga lost its struggle against repeated near misses and plasma cannon impacts. Patelli watched the engineering bridge status panel go dark. High speed shrapnel was evident when several bridge crewmen started screaming. Patelli turned to Gauthier who was issuing reports in a calm voice. His right arm was gone past the elbow.

Ticonderoga's sensors held on long enough to tell Sharon that her ship was gone. She had finally raised engineering only to hear someone in the process of frantically ordering an evacuation. The commotion stopped after a loud pop sounded. It was replaced by the dead silence of vacuum.

"Captain Hammond I suggest--"

Patelli turned and saw Hammond. His seat swiveled slowly in the carrier's dying artificial gravity field. A jagged red hot piece of metal was lodged perfectly in his right eye socket. His face was otherwise calm. Patelli hit the shipwide and without hesitation ordered the crew to abandon ship. She unstrapped and used the zero gravity to propel herself to the nearest wounded crewman. She removed Gauthier's restraints and hugged him to her.

Abatzi pushed over to her and helped. The two women bounced along the walls with Gauthier in hand, to the nearest shuttle bay. Main lighting was gone completely. Several burned bodies floated through the passageways. Patelli organized survivors as they made their way to shuttles. She swam into one of the last shuttles. Sharon looked behind her and saw the telltale brief fog of explosive decompression. She hit the hatch close just in time.

Patelli settled into the copilot's seat. A launch sequence was unnecessary. The shuttle had been blown out into space. Sharon found Ticonderoga on radar and sped away from it. One thought was on her mind: Romulans did not take prisoners. She chopped the engine thrust and rotated the shuttle. Her instincts as a Minotaur pilot were taking over. Ticonderoga was a great whale like shape that was growing smaller.

It was a wounded, dying whale. Two of its four warp pods had been blasted away. The great ship rolled over slowly, trailing molten debris and plasma. She saw a few shuttles making an escape. A glowing line neatly intersected the wreck: a Romulan plasma cannon volley. Ticonderoga was cut into two before exploding. Patelli watched what was left of her ship expand outward. A large piece of wreckage was heading toward her shuttle. Space lit up from the explosions of Romulan tactical nuclear weapons. They were finishing off the survivors.

She turned to the shaken crewman who had taken the pilot's seat. "Prepare to power down!" she snapped as she maneuvered to match vectors with the glowing flotsam.

"Ma'am," he answered with a deeply North Eastern American accent. "I'm not a pilot! I just grabbed a seat. I work in the galley!"

Patelli reached to her left, fished around until she found the small electronic checklist guide, and handed it to the crewman. "Enter in 'shutdown sequence' and follow the steps."

He took it and started to clumsily page through the electronic manual. Sharon roughly matched speed and heading with the shrapnel. The word 'cargo bay' was emblazoned on it. What bay it had belonged to she couldn't tell. She kept one eye on the cook as he slowly entered commands into the shuttle control panel. The interior lights went out. She figured that she had parked the shuttle less than a meter from the former cargo bay door. She hoped that the Birdies would just see a piece of junk and not fire a nuke at them. Her instrument panel went dark. The standby power warning lit up.

"Good job Crewman…"

"Bailey sir," he answered, military protocol returning to his voice. "It isn't much different from shutting down the resequencer." He peered out of the shuttle's crystalline windscreen. "Do you think we have a chance?"

"If they shoot us chances are we won't even feel it Crewman Bailey." She turned slowly in her seat and looked at the rest of the survivors. She counted around twenty. "Then we have to wait for them to leave and hope that the rescue forces get here before we asphyxiate."

He shook his head. "I was cooking scrambled eggs this morning sir."

"Sorry that the Romulans interrupted you crewman." She leaned back in the seat.

Was Bill okay? It was obvious that the Romulans had been shadowing them for some time—obvious now. How many ships had been lost in the attack on Nelvana? Bill could take care of himself. Anyway he was in a Minotaur. Patelli had to acknowledge that that was Bill's element. She just hoped that he had a carrier to which to return. The shuttle interior filled with a blinding light.

Some of the survivors sobbed, some cursed. They were not dead but the Romulans had surely just killed some of their mates. Patelli reached into the collar of her tunic and fingered the ancient crucifix that hung there. She swore to go to mass again if she survived.

Imperial Romulan cruiser Riitraxa, the fifteenth hundred turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of blood,

"The battle carrier is destroyed my admiral," Major Denaton reported. "Reports are coming in. We have been successful at destroying three of the abominable ships and their escorts."

"At the cost of an assault force and the loss of our base at X'Atn," he answered. Valdore looked up. Now was not the time to show his crew pessimism. "A great victory nonetheless!" he exclaimed in a vigorous tone. "Now we give the Triple Alliance a reminder that our talons are still sharp, our eyes focused and upon them!"

"Shall I bring forth Martox?" the major asked.

"Please do," Valdore replied. Denaton left for auxiliary control to retrieve the uhlan.

Valdore took the time to analyze the situation. They had cleansed the region of survivors. Valdore would have liked prisoners to interrogate but he could not afford to wait while they were found and captured. He ordered the power room technician and pilot to bend space. His forces had the element of surprise. But they could ill afford to have Triple Alliance forces fall upon them. The loss of the carriers would have consequences for them. But he believed that they could lose those ships whereas he felt every loss as if a part of him was being sliced away.

"We are away in bent space admiral," the pilot announced. "The N'Ela cruisers follow."

"Admiral Valdore," Denaton said. He led a young and frightened uhlan before him. "This is Martox."

"Ah, Uhlan Martox, I believe that we owe this victory to you as much as to anyone." Valdore bade the uhlan to take a position at the scanner console. "Examine the battle. Your discovery that the alliance's matter annihilation generators create a special bent space field has led to this dawning's victory."

He waited while the soldier reviewed the battle. Valdore had always despised the fact that details were kept from those who served in the cramped spaces of their ships. He knew that the young Romulan was somewhat surprised to be here. So he immediately moved onto what was most on his mind.

"How long before the alliance discovers what we know and corrects it?" he asked the uhlan.

"They have been using matter annihilation for some time Admiral Valdore," Martox answered. "I think that the field is generated by _h'lix'n_ crystals, such as we discovered on Remus. Possibly if I were an alliance power room master then I would try modulating the relay to the plasma flow regulator."

"Fortunately for us, you are our technician," Denaton interjected.

"But not for long uhlan," Valdore said. He saw the look of shock and fear on the younger Romulan's face. "Do not be concerned. Did you not go to the university?"

"I did admiral," Martox responded. "I had to leave…to go to war."

"You had to leave because you were displaced by the son of a government official Martox." Valdore folded his arms over his chest. "I read your history. Romulus can ill afford to spend our brain trust out here. When we return to Venador you shall be put off ship and transferred to a troop carrier to return home. I shall write you a letter to have you readmitted to the university so that you may continue your studies."

"Admiral…I…" The uhlan stumbled for words. Valdore reached out and laid a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"It is no shame for you to leave the service under these circumstances Martox," he said. "The empire needs you to build a greater technology. You are dismissed for now. You shall take private quarters where Sub Lieutenant Nevar resided." The former Tal Shiar operative had had an untimely accident at an airlock. The uhlan thumped a hand against his chest in salute and left. Valdore watched him go.

"How many potential geniuses and creators have we sacrificed on the altar of bureaucratic power Denaton?"

"We discovered Martox's abilities in time, even took advantage of them admiral," Denaton answered. He seemed hesitant to continue.

"Say what is on your mind major," he commanded.

"The things that have happened, in our society," he started; "admiral, they will take many turns to correct. Do we…"

"It is for the gods of _vorta-vor _and _vorta-tx_ to foresee what time we have left to us Denaton." Valdore relaxed. "Take heart Denaton, we are Romulans! We shall conquer, even if it takes a thousand turns."

The Valley of Chula, Romulus, the fifteen hundredth turning of the age of Pentar'n, the season of blood

"Father, Au'ustus has taught me to catch fish with a stick!" the Romulan youth exclaimed.

Paeteron ran to Desearious to show him his trophy. The fish had come out of the lake that sat at the bottom of this idyllic valley. Augustus Kirk wondered at these Romulans. Their home must surely have been the blueprint from which god had designed the Garden of Eden. At least it seemed that way to Kirk. He found himself contrasting it with the brutal desert planet of the Romulans' cousins.

Desearious smiled and patted the boy on the head. For just a minute he was reminded of his son. His thoughts then went out to Chang. What was the hardheaded Klingon up to? The commander knelt by his son. Kirk had come to know these people. He hoped that Admiral Forrest would not have to kill this particular Romulan.

"Remember Paet, it is our destiny to rule all. But we must not be blinded by arrogance to the point that we do not learn from other races." Desearious looked at the fish. "Take these to your mother. We will feast on them at the night meal." The boy took off running up the stone covered roadway.

"You were explaining the different seasons here," Kirk said.

"We are in the season of blood," Desearious explained. "Our descriptions of time are based, as many in your world are, on the growing pattern. But we Romulans also remember our exodus and the early struggles here. Shortly after arriving and conquering the Remans there was a great plague. Those afflicted bled out of their eyes and ears until they died. Records show that almost half of those who had lived through the flight here were killed by this disease."

"Is that when you harvested Reman genes?"

"They are a part of us," Desearious answered. "Too few had survived. Without the Remans their children would have been born defectives."

"I see," Kirk said.

"I wish to thank you for the time you have spent with my son," Desearious said. "Not for the least of which is the time I have been granted with Teel'n. I see my mate little now since the war."

You could just stop fighting and go home, Kirk thought but was careful not to say. Instead he asked about his audience with Praetor Karzan. Desearious explained that the appointment had been granted, but there had been no instructions since then. Kirk found himself in the Romulan version of bureaucratic limbo. He sighed. Augustus looked on the bright side: he was on the homeworld of his enemy, living in comfort. They started back to the estate. Kirk swiped at the Romulan version of the gnat.

Both of them were surprised to see Paeteron charging back along the road towards them. He must have been to the estate Kirk thought: he was minus his catch. Kirk became concerned when he saw golden helmeted soldiers marching up the road behind the boy. Was this the last dance for Augustus Kirk? Kirk picked out an older Romulan amidst the throng of troops. It was probably the oldest Romulan that he had seen thus far. The troops stopped to let the old Romulan continue.

Paeteron charged into his father's waiting arms. He announced that the praetor was here. Kirk would have found the scene laughable. Huffing and puffing the Romulan child still managed to make a childish but formal introduction for Karzan. Fully half a head taller than Augustus the wiry Romulan leader had a head full of short cut white hair. Kirk returned the old leader's appraising gaze. These folks respected strength. Without breaking his stare Kirk bowed to the praetor. There was no point in being rude to these people.

"I am Augustus Kirk. I am here on behalf of President Christophur Thorpe."

"And your allies?" the wizened old Romulan asked.

"I am…empowered to speak for them as well," he answered.

"But not this federation," Karzan said. "The Tellarites and Andorians and our cousins have yet to put their approval to such an organization."

"With all due respect Praetor Karzan; you know that it is going to happen," Kirk argued.

"Perhaps," Karzan said. He turned to his guard. "I will walk with this one." One of the guards, a grizzled old Romulan was about to protest when Karzan silenced him. "Be at peace major." He looked at Kirk. "This one looks to be equivalent to my age as his race measures time. At most all we would do is gasp and wheeze at one another. I fear no violence."

Thanks, Kirk thought. The Romulan leader had just said that he amounted to a harmless old fool. Kirk resented that especially as his wife Debra frequently used the same words as a dig. Kirk fell into step with the old Romulan. Karzan led. He struck out for the lake. Kirk wondered who would puff and wheeze as the praetor walked at a quick step.

"You are not the first _hewmaan_ to come here Kirk," Karzan said. Before Kirk could speak the praetor told him about an Earth intelligence officer and his Vulcan mate. The story of their abduction and blackmail at the hands of a Romulan admiral seemed fantastical to Augustus. Yet here he was.

"So this Gupta is aiding you," Kirk answered. His voice was devoid of emotion. The idea of a human traitor repelled him. For so this former officer must be.

"He has acted nobly Kirk. Know that although Admiral Valdore colored his report. The truth was that Gupta defeated our effort to invade Vulcan. That was not an effort that I supported. But I am the praetor. No matter what passed it is my responsibility. Valdore would never have used him as he did unless he believed him capable of doing what the admiral wanted. Thanks to Gupta I am here now to negotiate with you."

Kirk was taken aback. "I thought that…"

"That I would be too proud and arrogant to admit that my empire is at the abyss?" he asked in reply. "It is not just that Kirk. Gupta learned of a secret that concerns my race and our cousins. I will not reveal what I discovered from him to you. I will tell you that regardless of the political situation, regardless of whether our relation to our cousins is discovered, the secret would destroy our cousins. It may destroy Romulus as well."

"I can't imagine what would be so damning," Kirk said.

Karzan stopped and took in a breath of air. "The lake mirrors the mountains. It is said at this time of the turn that the face of Careaza can be seen in the lake. Tell me Kirk. I know some about your _people_. Do you believe in Jesus?"

"I…I don't know." Kirk stumbled. Hadn't he just compared this place to the Garden of Eden? Religion was still practiced on Earth. His parents had dragged him to church on many a Sunday and always for Easter. He had subjected his sons to the same. But even in his eighth decade Kirk was not sure. Sure something was guiding things. At least he believed that. But was that the god of the bible? Kirk just didn't know.

"But you hesitate; you a _maan_, born of time when your race can bend space, when your race has ordered its civilization and no longer fears hunger or pestilence. Your god, your idea of a god influences you Kirk. How many of your race thinks likewise?"

"Enough to make a difference I guess praetor." Kirk wondered where the old Romulan was going.

"Admiral Valdore must be allowed to find a military solution Kirk. I shall grant him time to do that. You shall remain here. I am compelled to admit that having a conduit through which to contact the alliance is fortunate. After all that has transpired a simple bent space communiqué would probably be worthless."

"A military solution," Kirk said. "Praetor, I know that this planet was torn apart by civil war. I know that Admiral Forrest destroyed your shipyard. I can't predict the future but you have to see that the weight of our industry is against you."

"I have taken that into consideration Augustus Kirk. You should also consider that your forces fight a war over great distances." He eyed Kirk. "I have limited information on you. You served the minimum tour in a type of home guard. This war is far from over. We Romulans are fighters, consider that. When I see you again Kirk that will be when we have arrived at the tipping point. Jolan tru, Augustus Kirk."

Kirk bowed and bid the praetor the same. The praetor had spoken like this was the end of their meeting. Kirk waited. He looked out onto the lake's surface to see if there was a face in the water. He heard Paeteron's pounding feet and the lad's father's firm steps behind those.

"Au'ustus is the most famous alien ever!" the young Romulan proclaimed. "You got to speak to the praetor!"

Kirk agreed solemnly. He decided that Praetor Karzan and Christophur Thorpe were the two most terrible people that he would ever meet. Both were fighting for their worlds. Both knew that responsibility began and ended with them and them alone. Both were fully aware of the import of the decisions that they made. He told Desearious of the praetor's wish that he stay on Romulus.

"I was informed Kirk," the commander told him. "I was told that you will continue to reside here. I have been promoted to commander of the system guard legion. I am pleased that duty keeps me near to my family. I too will take the time to learn how to catch fish with a stick."

Kirk was pleased that he could help this father and son. They were the enemy but they had faces. He also knew that Forrest was operating in their space. Kirk also knew that, minus a diplomatic resolution, the Star Fleet would batter its way here. He hoped that the admiral could deal the Romulans the wake up they needed to stop this war before the Star Fleet ships were overhead.

Beyond the serpent's tail, the earth winter of 2159

H'ez'im and Ae'omè turned out to be excellent guides. Their Romulan was terrible but Pakesh and T'Pol were picking up their words at a seeming exponential rate. Tarang Gupta was amazed. Ae'omè's tribe had crossed over this region to escape a particularly cruel winter. So it was that she led them to where the source of the bent space signal was. Pakesh's comment that it was 'just a breast shaped hill' resonated with Gupta.

He ordered his _centi_ to set up a perimeter. Those who weren't doing that got to set up the dig area and start to work. How long had whatever had been buried, been here? He had studied archeological theory and practice at the behest of T'Pol. The signal source might be under the hill and then some. Echo sounding gear from Penaithrn had, as of yet revealed nothing.

"Centurion, Tanlek has sent a coded image to us!" Vanexor shouted. The Romulan scrambled up the hill to where Gupta was seated, examining the latest sounding.

Gupta took the electronic pad from his uhlan and studied it. He was distressed to see Tal Shiar soldiers organized in a marching _limati_. He was even more upset that natives were with them. The primitives were armed with an older type of automatic rifle. T'Pol who needed to rest lately because of her condition looked over his shoulder at the image.

"The corruption begins already," she lamented. "How can they not see that an aggressive _Mintakan_ will not eventually organize against them?"

Ae'omè had revealed that her people called themselves _Mintaka_. "Sinphius believed that they would form the start of a new Romulan Empire, one that was clear of the influences of weaklings."

"They outnumber us centurion" Vanexor stated.

"They are not experienced," Gupta retorted. Truth be told, neither was he. He did not want to murder these Mintakans. They were doubtless driven by a mixture of fear and awe for these new arrivals. He looked at Vanexor. "Tell Peltor and Tanlek to stay with them. It looks like they are two dawning's march away. We have some time."

The uhlan saluted gravely and left. They had assumed that their transmission equipment was secure from monitoring. Gupta turned back to T'Pol with some concern. She felt her mind in his. He asked the question nonetheless.

"Do you think that you should go back to the ship?" he asked.

"I am in the later stages," she answered. She touched her ample belly. "This…has been difficult for me. On Vulcan there would have been a female healer to assist me. I have had to…make do with information provided by our hosts." She touched her fingers to his. "We go together. This is our mission. We agreed that this task is more important. As a Vulcan I cannot condone the cultural contamination that is being done here. I know that your human sense of fairness cannot allow this either."

"Even if we root out the Tal Shiar what then?" he asked.

"Ae'omè says that they are representing themselves as gods. Somehow we must remove that idea from the Mintakan's minds."

"Their technology is the equal of ours," he said. Gupta sighed. "If we simply kill them, we replace one set of gods with another."

"What sort of a _v'roul_ constructed this device?" Pakesh roared. He punched commands into the Romulan version of a handheld computer. He obviously was not getting results.

Ae'omè followed close behind Pakesh. Gupta had begun to wonder if there was not an attraction there. T'Pol had showed the Mintakan female soap and some feminine products. The change had been quite striking. He smiled when the female quickly snatched the small computer from Pakesh's hands and banged it against a rock. She handed it back to the distressed scholar.

"It's working!" he exclaimed with a smile on his lips. Gupta watched the odd couple as they continued on.

"Brawn," he mumbled.

"What?" she asked.

"I'm not sure yet. It's a gamble." Gupta chuckled and kissed her lips. "It was all a gamble from the beginning."

"You have a plan on dealing with the Tal Shiar?"

"Centurion!" a Romulan technician came charging down the hill. "A chamber, a chamber beneath the dirt!" he added breathlessly.

Gupta doubted that the excited young legionnaire had seen his sixteenth turn. He put aside his handheld and took the proffered paper from the uhlan. The holo showed a v-shaped chamber. It might also be a natural formation as far as Gupta knew. He ordered his team to start a tunnel to that place. It looked like they could burrow almost straight down. That seemed helpful when he thought about cave-ins. He got up, kissed T'Pol and went to help the uhlans. He stopped and asked her to get with Pakesh and determine what sort of breeches Ae'omè's tribe wore and what animal they came from. She was puzzled but she agreed to do as he had asked.

Gupta started to supervise, but his Hindu work ethic soon compelled him to jump in and help. Pakesh, in a rare display of candor had once told him that the uhlans respected him because they often felt that officers would not get their hands dirty. The laser drill chipped away into the Mintakan soil. Gupta formed a line to carry away the excess dirt. He ordered the drill crew to stop when they were near to the chamber. The passage was steep. Gupta decided to finish the last part of the dig himself, by hand. Vanexor protested, but finally agreed to lower Gupta into the hole.

The odor of hot dirt overwhelmed his sense of smell as he fended off of the smooth bored wall. When the bottom was in sight he ordered Vanexor to stop. Gupta took a few careful shovelfuls. The makeshift hoist was biting into his abdomen. Tarang planted his feet lightly onto the bottom of the hole so that he could let some slack in the rope. The floor fell out from beneath him. Tarang gasped as the rope tightened around him. He hung, suspended and dirty in blackness. Gupta coughed when he breathed dust.

"I'm alright!" he shouted in between explosive coughs. He fumbled around and retrieved his hand torch.

Dust filled the air, obscuring wherever he was at. He absently swiped at a clump of dirt on his shoulder. He saw a type of spider fall from him instead. He gasped and cursed in Hindi when he realized that he was covered with small crab-like arachnids. Gupta started swiping at his back and arms. Vanexor called down again. The dust settled.

"It's alright," he shouted. This had been a waste of time. This was just a small cave he reckoned. He was about to ask to be pulled up when he saw an up thrust pillar of stone. It was perfectly smooth save for where his light revealed small intricate geometrical patterns; the same patterns that had plagued Pakesh's studies. "Lower me down!" he commanded. "And lower two uhlans down here with light stands and digging tools!"

Vanexor lowered him to the uneven floor of the cave. Gupta absently flicked a spider off of his arm as he surveyed the pillar. It appeared that something had sit atop the pillar. Three angular stone supports, one of them broken jutted from the pillar's top. Gupta shined his torch around the cave. Nothing was evident. Warm dirt cascaded down onto the floor as the first of his team was lowered into the cave. He spotted the broken support half buried in dry dusty soil.

"The idiot conquers again!" Pakesh exclaimed. Gupta wasn't surprised that his friend had come down here. "At this rate you will be appointed to be our next praetor! Promise will make a fine queen." Pakesh knelt before the pillar and rubbed his long hands along its smoothness.

"The markings are only visible when they are in direct light! Look at just the edges of your beam." Pakesh was right. The markings faded and disappeared where the light was less. "Something set on here. Did you see anything?"

"Nothing yet," Gupta answered. An uhlan climbed down bearing a lantern. Gupta told him to set up a tripod and set the light onto it. "Just the broken support arm," he added.

"Odd, the material looks like one solid piece," Pakesh's voice was almost a whisper. "Strange how part of it broke away. I wouldn't be surprised if we cannot identify this material."

"Any guesses on what is written here?" Gupta allowed the uhlan to stand next to him. Most of them knew that this artifact came from a parent race. Even normally arrogant Romulans were awestruck by the notion of such an idea.

"Perhaps," Pakesh responded after awhile. "Sargon used a type of three dimensional symbology. The top of this structure seems to correspond to figures that were on my chart and on your K'al' Zin. I begin to wonder if it is not a key."

"We'll set lights around this object." Gupta laid a friendly hand on Pakesh's strong shoulder. "If anyone can find out what this is, that is you, my friend."

"I'll try my best friend," Pakesh declared in an uncharacteristically serious tone.

Gupta wanted to stay but decided to leave Pakesh and his soldiers to the task. He needed to speak to Vanexor and T'Pol. He was raised up and back into the bright sunlight of this fresh dawning. T'Pol was kneeling beside Ae'omè. The two were speaking as much as that was possible. He called to Vanexor who then trotted over and thumped his arm to his chest in salute.

"Have Peltor and Tanlek make an assessment of the Tal Shiar operatives Vanexor," he told his subordinate. Vanexor seemed reserved and was silent for some time. Gupta asked what was wrong.

"I ordered the scouts to do that very thing centurion! I beg your forgiveness!" Gupta had forgotten how low ranking Romulans were treated.

"You are an excellent soldier Vanexor. Your parents should be proud of you and of your service to the empire." Gupta knew that this was high praise to a Romulan. Vanexor's nervousness sloughed off. Gupta asked if the scouts had returned an answer.

"Centurion, they agree with Commander Mondex. These Tal Shiar, they do not conduct themselves like soldiers. They are like criminals in a _snag'n_ gang. Several times Peltor has seen them leave a flank unprotected or set an improperly guarded camp. They have brought some natives besides those they armed. Tanlek reported that these are being used to provide the Tal Shiar operatives pleasure. What kind of soldiers do that?" Vanexor instantly looked apologetic. "I am sorry for quest—"

"It is alright," Gupta consoled. "Commander Mondex tells me that our reinforcements will be here soon. Here is what I want done." He laid out a plan. Most of it was a chance. Neither Gupta nor his Romulans had ever done what he was ordering them to do. Gupta wondered if it would even work.

Many of the Tal Shiar had indeed been recruited from prisons. Dregs that not even the Criminal Guild would accept; they had found a home in the de facto secret police force of the Tal Shiar. Gupta was surprised that these types were leading a military expedition but then he realized that this was more about conquest. The Mintakans were to be broken on the wheel of violence and intimidation. Those whom Sinphius had sent here were perfect for that. Satisfied that Vanexor understood his instructions Gupta sent him to work. T'Pol joined him shortly after that.

He told her of his plan. She cast a dubious eye upon him. Gupta smiled sheepishly. He explained that, given the circumstances it was the best he could come up with. He asked her what she thought and about the animal skins.

"I see what you are attempting," she answered. Although her voice had that level of emotional control he could hear the sadness nonetheless. "It is matching brutality for brutality. I am however forced to agree. These Mintakans have not reached a level where reason prevails."

"It is something the Mintakans can relate to. I hate to think of the alternatives. How about the skins?" he asked. Gupta wanted to deflect the conversation.

"A common animal," she answered. "It is the creature that you said looked like an _American buffalo_. H'ez'im is skilled in the preparation of the skins for wearing." He could feel her disgust over the wearing of animal skins.

"We should be able to procure some then," he said. The animals were all over. "By the way: you don't happen to know how to make a bow and arrow?"

She cocked her left eyebrow at him. "That was not in any of my classes at the Vulcan Science Academy."

"Hurry up Mendak!" the centurion commanded.

Mendak was growing tired of Centurion Xarez. He was commanding only because he had been a lowly uhlan. That was until he had been caught selling illicit narcotics. As far as Mendak was concerned there were others who could command. They needed no boot polisher to get things done on this accursed planet. Mendak picked up his pace reached out and shoved C'elln. The primitive had been given to him by the tribal chieftain.

She looked back at him with a mournful, broken gaze. He laughed and pulled at the foul smelling animal skin that she wore. There, he thought, walk naked for awhile--fool. He hit her squarely between her bare shoulder blades and cursed at her. She started walking faster.

"Keep your mind on the search you fool!" Xarez barked. "We must find this crystal source. There is time for your _awevhoi_ later. That is all that is on your mind!"

"That is because in prison he was the _awevhoi_!" his mate Hanelok remarked. Those Romulans in earshot laughed.

"Shutup you stinking _vin'mok_!" he retorted.

Xarez started to turn around. No doubt to deliver another humiliating dressing down. Suddenly the centurion dropped into the ground. A terrible high pitch scream followed. Mendak charged forward and then stopped abruptly. Xarez lay in a pit. Thick green blood spurted out of his mouth. He was impaled on many sharp stakes. Hanelok shouted a warning at him. Mendak looked around in confusion. Somewhere he heard a branch break. He looked up just in time to see the heavy tree swinging down. Something punched him in his abdomen.

"A trap!" he heard Hanelok say. His mate's voice was growing softer and farther away. "Get those savages away from here! They mustn't see this!" Mendak became aware that he was hanging impaled from a spiked tree trunk. "Too late for you Mendak," his old cellmate told him. Hanelok's voice was _elil'n_ away.

There was a wet tearing sound. A great pain burned in Mendak's abdomen. He was flat on the ground. Something was hanging on the spike. It was pieces, pieces of him! He cried. C'elln stood over him. She smiled and kicked his head. Darkness swallowed Mendak.

Star Fleet Hospital vessel Erebus, in the Nelvana system, Dec 2159

"Wake up spaghetti woman," Commander Bill Walters told Sharon Patelli. He watched as her dark eyes fluttered open.

"Bill, Bill," she said softly.

"I'm here, hon," he replied. He bent over her hospital bed.

"Please don't make me eat your mother's sauerkraut again," he watched her face light up in a mischievous grin. He pressed his lips to hers.

"That is the best rehabilitation I know of," Doctor Carmella Howard proclaimed in a heavy Scottish accent. Walters turned to see the red haired doctor examining Patelli's chart. "Just a touch of hypoxia and carbon dioxide poisoning," she recited. She pulled a hypo from the pocket of her smock and pressed it against Patelli's arm. "A little cure all from our Vulcan friends: we are calling it triox. It'll oxygenate your blood and help speed along repairs to your vitals commander. Looks like we got to you just in time," she said. She excused herself after ensuring that Sharon was comfortable.

Walters saw Sharon looking at the ceiling. "How many Bill?" she asked. He knew exactly what she was looking for.

"Your shuttle and two others Sharon," he answered. "Fifty one people," he added bitterly.

He watched her close her eyes as if she were in pain. The Romulans had operated according to how they had always operated. There were no surprises. But Bill, as the sole survivor of the Romulan massacre on Deneva vividly knew what she was feeling; loss over those who died and anger over how they had met their ends. Her eyes opened again.

"I thought that we were done for," she said. "The air scrubbers were exhausted."

"Your Crewman Bailey saved the day," Walters told her. "We think that most of you had passed out. Somehow, without the training for it, he found the coded emergency beacon and started that going."

"He was scrambling eggs that morning Bill," she remarked. He knew Sharon well enough to see that her mind was somewhere else. "This goddamned war, one minute a person can be fixing breakfast the next minute they can be dead." He watched her hands twist at her bed blanket. She was not trying to be funny.

"It's the nature of the beast," he responded lamely.

"What did that red haired _puttana_ recommend for me Bill?" she asked.

"Sharon!" he exclaimed. He had worked extensively with Howard when the Andorian flu had swept through the fleet.

"Maybe she is the reason that you want to stay in the navy," Patelli said. She didn't look at him as she spoke.

"I…she was the only healthy doc on the Forge when the flu knocked everyone down," Walters protested. He needed to explain his ambitions to her. "There is something out here. Call it some corny desire to explore space and do all those things those guys did in our school textbooks. I just want to be a part of it Sharon."

She still did not look at him. "I'll be eligible to return to Earth for morale leave. That is the reg for when somebody is in an attack like this." He nodded. The hatch slid open admitting Admiral Buchanan and Chief Edmund O'Brien. Somehow O'Brien had gotten out of being a commissioned officer. Walters came to attention.

"No need for that Bill!" Buchanan said. The admiral looked at Patelli with concern. "I'm glad you're back. The docs will get you on your feet again and then you can give some payback to the—"

"Admiral, I'm sorry," the normally formal Patelli interrupted in an uncharacteristic fashion. Walters was surprised and curious. "As soon as I'm healthy I'd like to take survivor's leave. I…I think I'm going to put in for ground duty and mustering out; that is in the regulations sir."

Buchanan closed his eyes for a long time. He opened them back up. "It's in there commander." He sighed. "I'll get with Howard and sign the authorization myself."

"Sharon, think about it," Bill argued.

"Thank you sir," she told Buchanan. She looked at Bill. "I'll think it over." She was lying and he could tell.

"Bill I know you want to be with Patelli here, but I need a few minutes of your time."

Bill kissed her on her forehead and told Sharon that he would be back. Patelli smiled limply. He knew she was shook up but this was bad. Buchanan bid her a good day and hoped that she got well. Walters followed the admiral and the chief out into the busy corridor of the hospital ship.

"I'll cut straight to it," Buchanan said. He led them to a private conference room as he spoke. "You two solved the Romulan sensor jamming and put Charger together."

"Well sir it was really the chief—"

"Spare me the happy backslapping bullshit commander," Buchanan said. "I read reports. You can save the false modesty for the wardroom. I need you two to figure out how the Birdies are tracking us and come up with a fix for it." He guided them to the conference room where a doctor lay sprawled, asleep on the conference table.

He was still wearing a blood stained surgical gown. Buchanan cleared his throat loudly. The man got up slowly, licked his lips, checked his chronometer and apologized to them. His unshaven cheeks were sunken in, his eyes tired and listless looking.

"Christ it's almost my shift—again," he lamented. "Thanks for the wakeup gents!" Somehow he seemed to come alive before them as he got up and stumbled out of the room.

"Can you two do it?" Buchanan asked.

Walters looked at O'Brien who gave him the 'let's get to work' shrug of his shoulders. Bill had spent many nights reading about subspace wave theory. He had told no one that save for O'Brien. It seemed less embarrassing to admit spending his nights watching porn holovids than to say that he was reading high brow physics books. Ideas sprang into Bill's head. He looked at Ed and nodded.

"We'll get right on it admiral," he said

"Fan-goddamned-tastic!" the admiral exclaimed. "I'll expect progress reports but you two know not to turn this into a damn report-writing fest. We're anchoring in this system until the next phase. Anything you need you ask me for."

"Aye aye sir!" they both snapped.

Buchanan turned to leave. "Good luck Bill," he added. Walters knew that he did not mean this project. Bill thanked him as he walked out.

O'Brien walked over and leaned against the table top. He folded his arms over his chest. "It's something to do with warp drive, maybe subspace radio but I doubt that. You know, going back to Earth to be a rich overpaid engineer isn't a bad gig, sir."

"I thought that we were discussing Romulan detection gear," he countered. He grinned. The chief was a good friend.

"We are sir, we are!" O'Brien insisted. "Òrla accepted being a navy widow. But that is not for everyone. I missed seeing my little ones do the important things. I kind of made up for it by watching you boys do important things. No substitute for the real thing sir. You know, those Earth companies would pay a bright chap like you a fortune to show them how to repair their automated vacuum cleaners."

"Not quite the same as doing a field upgrade of a warp core," Walters said.

"Except that when you get done fixing the vacuum cleaner you go home to your wife and children," O'Brien said. "After the warp core is upgraded you go back to your quarters and look at family pictures or drink yourself silly at the NCO mess."

Walters nodded. O'Brien used the conference room computer access to bring up files that they would need. The two men fell to discussing the problem at hand. Walters listened halfheartedly. His mind was back with Sharon.

She had endured a great trauma. Maybe the talk of mustering out was just that. Walters remembered his feelings after the attack on Deneva. He remembered jamming his sidearm in his mouth when it had seemed that he would suffocate in his fighter. Bill had always thought that the staunch academy graduate Patelli would stay, despite her statements to the contrary. Now reality was upon him. He did love her. But he also loved his work. He agreed to meet O'Brien in the Forge's engineering spaces after lunch. Bill returned to Sharon's room.

Paris, France, the old European Hegemony, Jan 2160

The wind whistled through the supports of the second Eiffel Tower. Christophur Thorpe listened as Kendra Stiles explained to Shahar Shran how the first tower had been felled by a vicious terror attack. The alien leaders and diplomats seemed to think that Paris was a suitable place to put the executive branch of the new federation. Creel Zarn had been particularly enamored of the Place de la Concorde. Thorpe wondered if that had anything to do with the Tellarite's appetite for French cuisine.

"Tribal warfare must be addressed eventually," Shran said. "It seems a common thing for all the races that we wait until innocents are killed before there is action."

"It's a big tower!" Zarn declared sarcastically. "When do we eat, Stiles?"

"We'll eat when I say we eat you rude ass!" the councilor snapped. "The more you talk the more time it'll take!"

The Tellarite looked off of the observation deck at the Paris dusk. He sniffed mightily and laughed. He told Stiles that she sounded like his mother. Thorpe walked over to stand beside the Tellarite. They stared into the golden rays of the setting sun.

"The Vulcans have been most generous, Thorpe," he told Christophur. "It has weighed heavily in our decision to sign the federation document. I must admit that defraying the costs of war among the races has been no small incentive either."

Thorpe nodded and agreed. Soval's announcement that Vulcan's shipyard would absorb the cost and rebuild many of the alliance's freighters had come as a godsend. For Earth the old Mons Olympus freighters were nearing the end of their service life. It also helped that the Vulcans had pledged to take over and conduct the Daedelus ship building program. With Vulcan help Jason Crusher had designed a faster, more resilient block II cruiser. Daedelus would save the allies a fortune over each planetary nation building their own class of explorer.

Kendra Stiles joined them. "These worms are really good?"

"In Tabasco sauce they are excellent Councilor Stiles," the Andorian replied. "We are preparing those at the embassy for Friday night's meal. You are invited."

"I do like the hot food! It just doesn't like me anymore," she commented. "How about you sir?" she asked him.

Thorpe looked out into the darkening Paris skyline. "I'm working late that night, my apologies."

"Are things that bad sir?" she asked.

"The new Romulan offensive has stalled our forces," Shran interjected.

"What of our friend Kirk?" Zarn asked. Stiles was unaware of exactly what kind of an assignment Thorpe had sent Kirk out on. He could see her pique with interest. Stiles' friendly country doctor routine put her patients' owners at ease. He knew that beneath that veneer lay a keen wit.

"No word from Augustus," he said. "But he is near the border of Klingon space. He might be lucky if he can get to a subspace transmitter." He had told her that Augustus Kirk was on a diplomatic mission near to Klingon space. That was all.

Was Kirk alive? Thorpe didn't want to think about that. The casualty reports were hitting him hard. It did no good that the few left in the antiwar movement seemed to be trumpeting Star Fleet losses more so than were the Romulans. He wondered how they could be so heartless and cruel. It was enough for relatives of the dead to bear the loss. But to hear some stuffed shirt declare that it was all for nothing was just plain wrong.

"Take heart Christophur," Shran said. "Admiral Forrest and Strategos Antor both speculated that the fight would turn bloody at this point. We now are at the pirates' door. They are fighting for their homeworld as you humans did."

Forrest needed to deliver the decisive deathblow. So far that effort looked to be on hold. Maybe Christophur was just feeling his age. He wanted to be done with this bitter thankless job. He would not run for office again. Let the next president deal with the incessant whining of people who would be dead if not for the very military actions that they disdained. No, he should not be bitter. He smiled.

"We'll win this thing and there will be a federation," Thorpe declared confidently.

Kendra Stiles looked out over the City of Light. "Someday some historian will look back at all of this fussing and declare just how pointless it all was. Think about this sir: if we beat them before next year you have the council votes for the federation. Victory fever will run so high that it'll be hard for the throwbacks to do much for a long time."

Creel Zarn grunted. "Everything is going to change. I feel it in my belly."

"I too feel the change Tellarite," Shran said. "We are the past. We've done what we can for the future. It'll be for them to deal with new challenges. But one thing: our races will no longer face those challenges alone."

Romulan Imperial cruiser Riitraxa, at Venador, the fifteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of blood,

Valdore and his commanders looked over the holographic display bubble. He could see the looks of satisfaction beneath their shadowed, helmeted heads. The Triple Alliance carriers had been forced into the Belezax system. Their cruisers were still formidable but Valdore planned to add some of those to his score. What was telling was that they had relative positions for all of Forrest's ships. So far Martox's discovery was still giving his forces an advantage.

"We should drive into Belezax and send all of their carriers to _Vorta-tx_!" one of his commanders proclaimed.

"The admiral will decide," Denaton started.

"I can fight my battles major," Valdore said. "In fact Mhenas, that is exactly what I have planned. But to do so under the present conditions is suicidal. That is why you shall engage their forces here." Valdore used a laser pointer to pinpoint the enemy taskforce in question.

"Admiral…that force has two of their Conqueror battleships with it…"

"Yes Mhenas," Valdore agreed. "You are hereby given the chance to show that your heart is bigger than your mouth." There were small chuckles throughout the darkened chamber.

"You are one of my best commanders," he told the officer. Mhenas may have talked a lot but he had ability that justified that. "Chosen ships of your force are being equipped to launch some of the few space bending torpedoes that we have. Your targets are the Conquerors of Taskforce 18; if you destroy both, excellent, but one will suffice. You shall then withdraw."

"We shall allow them time for bent space wireless," Valdore continued. "Their other forces shall be advised of our attack. We shall pass just within detector range on an apparent heading for Taskforce 18. Forrest will think that we are moving to dismember his forces one taskforce at a time. Once out of detector range we will then change course."

"For Belezax," Denaton declared breathlessly.

"My aide is correct," Valdore added. "Never before has their ships been in this position. The closest forces that could relieve eighteen are the _Powhaton_ escorts around Belezax. We shall move into Belezax on a perpendicular heading from the direct line to eighteen. The pilots will plan an offset that keeps us out of detector range."

"Admiral," Commander V'Ez started, "what if the Triple Alliance keeps the escorts with their carriers?"

Valdore looked around. "Mhenas should arrive after we have joined the battle. Some of us will have to make suicidal charges against the escorts. Riitraxa will be the first vessel to do that. Commander Mhenas will assume the mantle of admiral of the legions after my demise. I will not ask one of you to sacrifice his life and that of his crew were I not willing to do so myself. The destruction of their carriers is imperative."

"Such a victory would not only be a major strategic blow, but surely would give their governments a setback." Mhenas said.

"Do not believe that you can predict your enemies' actions Commander Mhenas," Valdore counseled. "That is one possible result that a victory would grant to us. Remember to consider all of the possibilities."

"I shall my admiral," the mollified officer answered.

Valdore doubted that Mhenas was expecting the possible promotion. But the proud Mhenas had made no small issue of his rise from humble beginnings. In a field of officers too frequently placed in command positions because of government connections the fighting Mhenas stood out. Mhenas had battled the Earthers over their own world. Valdore had heard how he had nearly disregarded the order to retreat. Of all of his commanders he knew that Mhenas would put the interests of the empire before his own. That was a rare quality these dawnings, Valdore reflected bitterly.


	51. Chapter 51

Mintaka, the Earth winter of 2160,

Mintaka, the Earth winter of 2160,

"Surprisingly centurion there is still much to learn from the _hewmaan'n_ experience in _Vet'Niam_," Vanexor explained.

It had shocked Tarang Gupta that the Romulan military database carried information on that human war. Gupta had scratched his head as he tried to recall that ancient war. He believed that Vietnam was a battle fought during his world's Second World War. He remembered its significance for where the modern fighters of that era had met their match in the form of primitive jungle guerillas.

"They have not ventured forth since their experience at the spiked pits," Vanexor said. He grinned wickedly. "Peltor believes that some of the Mintakans are rebelling. Several of the cave dwellers were seen running. The Tal Shiar soldiers were shooting at them."

"We have to drive them out of the caves," Gupta said. He did not say but he hoped that the innocents had not been killed.

"Tanlek used the archeological equipment and the female Mintakan has helped us to map her home," Vanexor said. He bowed his head. "I apologize that we have been unsuccessful in making the bow type weapon centurion. The tips break when we try forming them by hand."

"We shouldn't have expected to master an art all at once just because it is primitive, Vanexor," Gupta replied. Still the bow and arrow would have made an excellent weapon for what he had in mind. "Does Tanlek know where the Tal Shiar troops are dug in?"

His uhlan handed him a holophoto. The ruins looked like those he had toured with Alvin Crosby. Six long turnings—no years ago, he mused. It seemed to Gupta to be more like sixty. Those ruins had been home to the Anasazi. Vanexor told him that the Tal Shiar soldiers had been spotted in pueblos near to entrances. They didn't want their new subjects escaping, apparently. He handed Gupta another holo. This one was taken for infrared readings.

"Altonza believes that they are the heat plumes made by metal forges, Centurion Tarack," Vanexor told him.

"We shall make some forges of our own then," Gupta replied. "Also, my friend, we shall make this." He handed Vanexor a computer constructed drawing. "T'Pol was doubtful that we could make bows. This was her proposal. The weapon is primitive but using modern equipment we can exactly measure stresses and kinetic energy for better accuracy." He showed Vanexor another drawing. The young Romulan turned pale.

"I understand that your father was a temple master," Gupta started. "This may be offensive to you but remember: we must show the Mintakans that the Tal Shiar are mortals."

"I…I understand centurion," Vanexor stumbled. "I just wonder; the type of Romulan that becomes a Tal Shiar legionnaire. Do they even believe in _Vorta-vor_ and V_orta-tx_?"

"Who knows Vanexor," he said. Gupta had almost said that he questioned his own Hindu faith from time to time. It was hard to believe in gods when so much that was evil had been cured on Earth. In the end it had seemed like man had helped himself. "Everyone must believe in something greater than themselves, if only for a flash of time. Make ready the preparations uhlan."

Vanexor saluted and went about his duties. Gupta went to his camouflaged tent. T'Pol lay inside. She was naked and obviously suffering. Cool cloths were not helping her. Ae'omè, who seemed to have knowledge of this condition stood watch over her. She spoon fed T'Pol an herbal mixture. The deep smell reminded Gupta of cinnamon.

He took her hand. "Does that help?"

"The concoction is horrible. I believe that you would say: it tastes like _shit_," she said. T'Pol took a deep breath. "But it seems to help contain my nausea."

The tent flap opened up. Pakesh pushed his way inside. Promise! Let me get a pin. You look like you are going to burst!" He smiled and laughed. "Don't be shy. I have seen the female form many times!"

He grew serious. "I would not have intruded unless this was important. I believe that I've solved the key. But the message makes no sense. It seems to say that Sargon can be seen here. It refers to the cradle of knowledge and that which it holds. That is what makes no sense. I have found nothing that the dais held. I've had deeper soundings done and nothing! Could…could the Tal Shiar have beaten us here Gup—Tarack?"

"And leave no marks?" he asked in reply. "I don't see how that is possible."

"Is that all Pakesh?" T'Pol asked. She looked absolutely miserable.

"I'm not sure," Pakesh answered. "I believe that there was a warning about the future. It is cryptic but it strikes me that any advice from the past would be that. Religions always work from a choice of opposite but loosely defined ends. That allows the practitioners to sin with impunity!"

"Has the construction of the dais itself been determined?" T'Pol asked. She wiped away sweat and slowly got dressed.

"Nothing we brought is useful," Pakesh spat. "We've tried lasers, drills and micro charges with no results." He looked away absently. "I didn't think that they had beaten us. It just seems that I'm missing something. It is haunting my dreams now."

"You'll find it my friend," Gupta assured him.

A uhlan asked for admittance. Gupta granted it. Pakesh passed the Romulan soldier who was bearing an armload of skins. He presented these to Gupta. Gupta held out the furry breeches. He went through the stack until he found some that looked like they would fit him. Ae'omè walked up and proceeded to undress him. Modesty prevailed and he tried to stop her until T'Pol gestured for him to let her help.

"You have been seeing me while I am not at my peak," she commented.

_What is good for the goose_, he thought at her. She actually smiled. That gesture had much improved since they had first come to Romulus. Ae'omè tugged at the breeches. T'Pol complimented him on the look. The primitive female found a vest to go with the breeches.

"We should do something with the hair," T'Pol remarked. "Mintakans have longer hair. I wish to go with you," this last she added hastily.

He sighed. "Beyond your condition, it is just that…"

"I was a pacifist," T'Pol said. "I can no longer claim to be that after things that I have done and seen done. I know what you and the legionnaires are going to do. I can help you construct the devices, at least. I deplore what must be done. Yet already the Tal Shiar's hold is slipping."

Ae'omè started speaking quickly. Gupta who had not had time to study the Mintakan language as much as had T'Pol and Pakesh, caught only that the female was offering something. T'Pol replied slowly in the same tongue. Gupta waited.

"Ae'omè says that she understands that some of her tribe have escaped. I think that she accepts that we are of the same race as she and not gods. I believe that she thinks we are somehow touched by gods. She also seems to understand that the Tal Shiar are…like a rival tribe. Ae'omè is offering to help recruit those who escape for us."

"You have grasped her language in almost no time," he remarked. So too, the Mintakan had gleaned many of their words. Vanexor had only just informed him about that fact. Ae'omè must have overheard his uhlan talking to the scouts.

"I am Vulcan," she answered quickly.

"Modest too," he retorted.

"I am."

He laughed. She smiled slightly. Gupta considered the female's offer. He looked at T'Pol and felt which direction she was going. Gupta agreed. Local assistance would be of immense help. But those Mintakans would only come to see them as they saw the Tal Shiar; beneficent rather than evil to be sure but also as superiors.

"Thank her for the offer but this is something that we must do ourselves…" He paused. He could feel her brief mental contact. Gupta smiled shyly.

"And yes, the Mintakan female is attracted to Pakesh," T'Pol told him. "And no; you may not use the information for personal amusement. Despite the surgery and genetic manipulation you are still all too human."

"Pakesh would do it if the situation was reversed," he pouted.

"Probably so," she said. "Would you like me to caution him as well?"

He smiled. "Promise me that you'll take care of yourself, please? You can go as a technical advisor."

"I shall…take care," T'Pol replied. "Of course I had planned to advise. Someone that knows what she is doing should be there to help you."

The work took several dawnings. They had advanced tools and equipment. Yet save for some power room technicians few of them had constructed things made of wood. It occurred to Tarang that on his world man had once sailed the oceans in wind driven craft. Despite having been born into his time Gupta could not build a sailing ship just because he came from an era that was more advanced. Ancient arts and techniques had been lost and replaced; so too on Romulus.

Yet here they were. Gupta bid T'Pol farewell. They had the chore of wheeling their devices within range of the Mintakan pueblos. Thanks to his scouts they had gotten to work in relative peace. The Tal Shiar had sent out scouts of their own. Peltor and Tanlek who had taken over as non commissioned officers had picked several more out of their number that were equally stealthy and lethal. None of the enemy scouts had lived to return. There had been no bodies left either. Gupta wanted the Tal Shiar operatives left in the dark.

Gupta's technicians had also made several primitive metal forges. They had made exactly the type of thing that he had wanted. Vanexor's words of assurance had persuaded many of the deeply faithful technicians. They too had had questions about what they were tasked to make. They had spent most of two dawnings pushing the weapons toward the caves.

Ae'omè's tribe lived in caves that were surrounded by a small belt of trees. The Mintakans had never thought to clear the trees away. Tribal warfare existed but not on a large scale. More importantly, up to now the trees had acted to shield the Mintakans. They could not have conceived of an attack from afar.

"We should kill this chieftain Hanelok," Marx'en told him. "Perhaps have a go at his family first."

"Shar'tx will do as we bid," Hanelok answered. "Listen Marx'en, we need strong leaders. My father handled _snag'n_. He always picked a strong slave to keep the others in line. It crushed the spirit of the other _snag'n_ and allowed him to keep his hands free for other things."

"Has the ship called?"

Hanelok threw another log onto his chamber's burner. He cursed this cold place. It was still the growing season here and yet these primitive stone dwellings were cold. He peered out of the narrow slit that passed for a window here. The forest down below was quiet.

"No," he answered.

"The imperials; they are here," Marx'en said.

"Likely yes," he answered. Perhaps their own vessel had exploded. It had barely made it through the anomaly. "That is probably what happened to our soldiers."

"You should tell the others that," Marx'en countered. "They are becoming less than confident about our assignment here."

"I told our bureau head to send more of us! This is not Romulus. Don't you see Marx'en, the empire that Sinphius imagined and what we will make are two different things? We must fight to maintain our superiority here. We must ensure that our descendants are Romulan."

"I've told the others that the ambush was the work of the imperials," Marx'en said. "They should hear that from you. They fear that it is another tribe of locals. They are concerned that we have found nothing of those we sent out to look for answers. We need to organize for a counterattack. Why did that fool Xarez have to take the point?"

"Too late to cry over that!" he exclaimed. He knew that it had gone way beyond concern. Some among the _limati_ were openly fearful of the disappearances. "We have to organize a patrol; a real patrol like legionnaires would carry out. Listen, this is why I want to keep Shar'tx where he is. I've gotten through to him that I need his best hunters to lead a patrol. We'll follow along and give it back to the hawk heads."

Marx'en's face glowed for a brief time. He never got to tell Hanelok what he thought. Rock and red hot metal pulverized the outside wall of Hanelok's chamber. Marx'en's head was a green fleshy mess. His former companion collapsed as Hanelok bolted for the exit. A large boulder tore into his chamber. His abode was reduced to falling rubble, but not before he escaped. He ran out onto the wooden walkway. One of his lieutenants, his clothing aflame ran screaming past him.

Hanelok caught him and knocked him down. "Roll you fool!" he ordered.

He scrambled down into the back of the fortifications. The caves of the natives offered the best protection. Hanelok slowed when he realized that the bombardment was not falling here. He saw one of his soldiers climb down a ladder. Hanelok watched him fall to his knees. Hanelok shuddered when the soldier threw a crudely made metal chain onto the ground.

"What are you doing Hegan?" he asked. He tried his best to put some authority into his voice.

"The chains of _Palix'nar_!" he cried. Hegan looked at the chain, his body shook. "The gatekeeper of _vota-tx_!" he gasped. "We are damned, damned on this accursed world!"

"You idiot can't you see—" He stopped when Hegan drew his pistol.

"The marks of _Palix'nar_ are on the chains! Look yourself!"

Hanelok did indeed see the marks. He also saw Mintakans gathering around now that the attack and initial shock were over. They eyed the Romulans while whispering among themselves. He told Hegan that the imperials were planetside. He told him to get a hold of himself. He reminded Hegan that they were conquerors.

"All that temple nonsense is just that Hegan," he explained. "Nonsense to scare children into serving foolish ideas," he added.

"Hanelok…you don't believe?" Hanelok believed that Hegan might shoot him accidentally given how his arm was shaking.

"Of course not you fool," he answered at last. "Now put that gun down."

"We are damned…damned to _vorta-tx_." Tears ran down Hegan's cheeks.

Hanelok walked slowly toward him. He extended his hand. Hegan seemed about to give up his gun when his arm snapped up. Hanelok lunged as the soldier placed the pistol under his chin. Hegan pulled the trigger. Hanelok was just in time to catch the twitching body.

Hanelok decided to call the ship. This was an emergency. Was that fool of a commander observing radio silence because an imperial cruiser had showed up? If true it was high time for him to deal with that threat. Hanelok faced another kind of threat down here. He could see the looks of the natives and they were not fearful, reverent or respectful. They looked dangerous and foreboding. A few of the boldest wore openly contemptuous scowls. Whatever imperial that was leading this effort knew a little about the arts of the mind.

Star Fleet cruiser Beagle, Taskforce 18, on patrol outside of the Nelvana system, Feb 2160

Another fruitless cruise, more boredom, these were the things that dominated the lives' of the crews of Jocelyn Stiles' taskforce. Yet Jocelyn knew that they were out there. When they had been this close to Earth the UESN had fought them like wild cats. She knew that they were not going out with a whimper. Forrest's last communiqué had said pretty much the same thing.

"Results of the last missile drills commodore," Captain Jean Baptiste Jospin announced. He handed her a clipboard. Jospin leaned in close to her command chair. "They cannot physically get any better commodore. These constant drills are not relieving the monotony. They are starting to have the opposite results."

"This is not a pleasure cruise to the Jovian Moons mister," she snapped. "I know there have been fights. Remind the crew that those engaging in inappropriate actions will be confined to the brig pending a mast. These people are not children and they are here by choice."

She could read his resistance to her hand stance. The crews didn't need rest breaks now. They needed the break that would come after a victory over the Romulans. Now was the time, she could feel that. The Birdies hadn't been heard from in weeks. She could feel this stalemate coming to an end. Stiles had been studying the Vulcan offshoots.

The Vulcans seemed intent on burying that part of their history. But records existed nonetheless. Stiles saw a group of militants who hadn't known when to stop. They had fought until they had nearly extinguished all life on that world. They had never been defeated in the military sense. Even in the end they had been rallying for a final stroke against the Vulcans of Surak. Vulcan history had spoken of how Surak had convinced the Romulans that their dead world was no longer worth fighting over. They had chosen to instead go into exile.

Stiles had to consider a people who, exiled thousands of years ago, had never forgotten the dead world that they had left behind, a people who had waited thousands of years to try and reclaim that world by force. They had an advantage. Stiles didn't believe that they were licking their wounds. Something would happen soon.

Jospin seemed to relent. "How about some sort of competition to take the edge off?"

Stiles mulled the idea over. "Okay, plan something and put it into effect."

"High speed contacts coming into sensor range," Lieutenant Lintok reported. The Andorian was new to Beagle. Stiles still found it odd to see the blue skinned aliens wearing the jersey and slacks combination. In a few short years human ships had gone from being crewed by personnel from different nations wearing different national uniforms to this.

"On second thought, scrub that," Stiles said. "Comm, notify the taskforce and set battle stations. Tighten up the defensive sphere around the carriers."

"They'll be after Bataan and Truman," Jospin said.

"Champion and Devastator are in formation," Lieutenant Rice, Beagle's tactical officer reported. Stiles had followed Admiral Oulette's policy of turning the gunnery position into a new one designated as tactical.

"The Birds will think twice about attacking our carriers while the Conquerors are protecting them," Jospin said. He was busy strapping himself into his seat.

"Confirmed Romulan power plant signatures," Lintok reported. "Inbounds are on an intercept heading at warp 4.1—estimate thirty seconds until contact."

"Damn," Stiles muttered under her breath. They must have found an area an area of instability in which to hide.

The departments reported in. Stiles gripped her armrests. This entire attack had a surreal feeling to it. The tactical plot came up on the main viewer. She stared intently at it. Her first thought was that the Romulans were committing suicide. They seemed to be steering for an angle that put them out of range of the carriers but well within range of her Conquerors.

She slammed a fist down onto an armrest. "Redeploy the fighters to attack from a position that gives Devastator and Champion some cover!" The communications chief looked confused but did as he had been ordered.

Jospin spun in his chair and looked at her. Stiles in turn nodded at the tactical display. The Clavicles popped into normal space well in advance of where they should if they were hunting the carriers. Stiles watched in frustration as their power readings spiked. Her Conquerors emerged from subspace. Stiles knew that their captains would have Cachalots loaded and that the gunners were running firing solutions. It would be too late.

Mhenas stared into the detector display. "We've got them!"

"Primary weapon is powered and ready commander!" the voice of his power room master blurted into the tiny speakers of his battle helmet.

Mhenas waited. He took several deep breaths. He drank in the feel of the enemy. Not yet, not yet, he thought as he saw the enormous power readings that the Triple Alliance ships exuded. They would energize their hulls. He could not have fired before that. He wished that Romulan ships had that ability. Mhenas took a deep breath. He tasted a metal tang in his mouth.

"Fire," he ordered quietly.

"Commander, missile barrage calculated and ready, commencing launch," his weapons controller announced.

The uhlan at the detector visibly tensed. "Inbound bent space missiles commander!" he shouted.

"Calm down, Xt'an," he cautioned.

"Commander their heading—"

"Will not intersect ours," Mhenas declared confidently. "I am not wrong." If he was, he doubted that he would feel his death.

He looked at his first. Mikeel displayed no outward sign of emotion. Yet Mhenas had played _T'flal_ with him enough to see his small ticks of nervousness. The lights gradually came back up as the power room master energized another plasma charge. The command center shook briefly as the high speed missiles caught his cruiser in their subspace wake.

Mhenas smiled slightly. He tapped the heels of his boots together. "See Mikeel, their missile officer launched on his first calculated vector; just as I foresaw."

"To make us break formation commander," Mikeel interjected.

Their conversation was interrupted when cheers went up in the control room. One of the Conquerors erupted in an awesome power surge. The surge climbed up on the screen and then rapidly dropped away. They had partially succeeded. Mhenas allowed the crew their celebration. There had been too few of them recently.

"Commander, the rest of the attack group reports that fighters are away," Mikeel announced.

"Remember what those brave soldiers do here today!" Mhenas shouted. The eight hundred some pilots would be left here. Driven to a furor, they knew that they would die. However, loyal officers controlled destruct devices for their squadron mates if any were to question their mission.

"The human fighters are upon us commander," the detector operator announced.

"Our fighter screen will protect us," Mhenas said.

It amazed him how imperial fighters, built to maneuver in space, were constantly bested by the ugly, stubby earth craft, but not here on this dawning. Enough _Kalivok'n _had been sent out to cover them. They would not wait to recover these. The fighters would fight on till the end. Many of the small ships were armed with explosive devices. They would become intelligent missiles. Mhenas ordered his attack group in closer. The surviving alliance behemoth was fighting a gradually losing battle.

Small molten pieces of Devastator formed their own starfield amid the backdrop of the fight. Champion hurled missile after missile out of the maw of its single Cachalot launcher. It lurched violently to port when it was caught squarely by two Romulan plasma volleys. The Powhaton escorts raced to defend the lone battleship. Champion was harshly lit up by multiple explosions of Romulan nuclear weapons.

Moolahs and Mambas blanketed space between the Star Fleet ships and their Romulan attackers. Acting as a protective cloak the exploding warheads incinerated most of the Star Fleet counter strike. Several of the Moolahs continued on to engage Champion's Pitbull antimissile missiles. Two of those made it through. They exploded, enveloping the Conqueror in a blinding ball of fire. Romulan ships streaked away into subspace.

Their Aeon fighters stayed behind. They spread apart to engage several of the arriving escorts. The Star Fleet ships used proximity charges to destroy groups of the small fighters. Yet many still managed suicidal charges against the escorts. Three of them wound through nuclear weapon detonations and laser fire to smack squarely into Cyane. The Powhaton's bulbous bow section was shorn away. Its defensive lasers disabled, the doomed escort was finished by a barrage of Romulan tactical nuclear weapons.

Jocelyn Stiles surveyed the smoky bridge of Beagle. She had ordered her ship to assist in mopping up the Aeon fighters. It had also occurred to her that perhaps they could capture a live Romulan pilot. That would end President Thorpe's dream of the federation she thought. But it would also reveal the truth. But that would not happen today.

A single fighter, a survivor of a large swarm had made it in to ram Beagle. The resulting impact and explosion had overloaded some systems: hence the smoke. But other than that her ship had escaped relatively unscathed. Devastator and Cyane had not. Champion survived but would need a major refit to make her spaceworthy again. Jocelyn smarted over that. She had allowed her guard to go down. Stiles threw the flap of her jacket over her breast and snapped it closed. The bridge got colder as cool, clean air was pumped in to replace the contaminated air.

"Incoming coded transmissions from several taskforces sir," Chief Michelle Paul declared in her nasally Australian accent. "They are the sensor traces from several Romulan battle groups."

Jospin looked at her. Stiles nodded. "Throw them on the viewer chief!" the captain bellowed.

Stiles saw a nightmare take shape on the main bridge viewer. The amalgam of readings showed a conical formation of enemy groups. The cone's open end was on a direct line to engulf Taskforce 18. Paul reported another transmission: this one was from Admiral Forrest.

"It's scrambled voice over vid," the chief added.

Stiles ordered her to display the message. "Taskforce 18, it appears that a large force of Romulans is on a line to intercept your force." Stiles was looking at the snowy image of a concerned looking Admiral Forrest. Apparently the other taskforces had scanned the Birdies as they passed on a heading for her force. Stiles listened with half an ear to Forrest's orders recalling her to a fallback position. She listened with half an ear while Jospin coordinated with Lieutenant Ward and the rest of her taskforce to follow the admiral's orders.

She stared intently at the viewer while she walked over to Chief Paul's alcove. "Send out a broadband subspace ping chief," she ordered.

"Sir…the Romulans…"

"Know our position chief," she supplied. "Send the ping out." Her tone was gentle and considerate.

She watched the young lady, only seven years younger than she, do as Stiles had ordered. A few minutes passed. Stiles saw the look of confusion on the chief's face. She heard Jospin ask her if she planned on ordering Champion scuttled. She gave no reply. Instead she waited for Paul.

"Interference sir," the chief said. "The ping is reflecting back."

"Your orders commodore," Jospin asked.

"Funny how we could all talk when the order to reposition comes in," she said. Stiles was talking more to herself than to anybody else. "Now we cain't." She was unaware of how her accent had come out, so deep in thought she was. "They got me. They got me good; not again." This last was almost a whisper.

"Commodore," Jospin started. She acknowledged him. "Captain McCarthy is on screen. He is ready to evacuate and scuttle."

"Helm, set new course: two-seven-three mark eleven," she ordered Lieutenant Martin Ward. "Downlink the course change through the tacnet."

"Commodore!" Jospin exclaimed. "That will take us right into the closest—"

"Stow that!" She interrupted. Stiles turned to the image of McCarthy. "Captain if we leave can your people take care of themselves?"

The heavyset black haired native of Ireland looked surprised. His surprise turned to a tight lipped grin. "The engineer claims that she can give me warp one! It'll take day or two but she says she can do it. I'll fire her if she can't. Aye, we can take care of ourselves. But more than likely the Birds will have our number."

"I think that you'll be okay here," Stiles said.

"The taskforce answers ready, commodore," Jospin announced.

She saw McCarthy take a clipboard from a yeoman. He looked at it and then gave Stiles a wily look. "You think the hammer is going to fall at Nelvana?" He nodded as he spoke. "We'll do our best to make repairs sir! The bloody damn Romulans won't take me or my crew if they do come this way! Hell, maybe I'll get to Nelvana with you for a bird roast. Good luck commodore."

"And to you captain," she replied.

"Course for Nelvana programmed and set commodore, we are free and clear to navigate," Ward announced.

She looked at Jospin. "Maximum warp mister," Stiles told him.

"Taskforce engage at warp 3.2!" he in turn ordered.

Mintaka, the tail of the serpent, the earth winter of 2160

"I don't like this. I don't like it at all," Tarang Gupta, lately Centurion Tarack said.

"A counter attack was the logical outcome," T'Pol interjected.

"Mondex is deploying Harriers but is keeping Penaithrn hidden in a gravimetric fold," he said. Gupta looked out into the dark Mintakan night.

"That is wise," T'Pol said.

"What is wise is for that child to make a showing!" Pakesh bellowed. The Romulan scholar joined them at the fireside. As was common of late he had Ae'omè in tow.

"It will be any dawning now," T'Pol informed him. "If I was at…home then the healers could make an exact determination."

"Mondex has sent down the ship's healer at least," Pakesh said. It struck Gupta that Pakesh really did care about those around him despite his apparent cavalier attitude towards others. The Romulan let out a sigh. He pulled the broken piece of the edifice from his pack and held it out.

"Not getting a translation from the pedestal?" Gupta asked.

"No!" he exclaimed. "I was hoping that one of the commander's pilots could take this piece up to the ship for further examination." Pakesh held the bent shape out. "It is light and yet not dense as far as we can tell. Close scans reveal that the material's structure is, as you might surmise, incredibly well bonded, but not close together. If someone up there can separate it then we might be able to get inside the dais."

"Why break open something that might be exactly as it is presented?" T'Pol asked.

"Whatever was in the cradle is no where to be found," Pakesh complained. Gupta could not help but to notice Ae'omè's comforting hand on Pakesh's shoulder. "What if whatever Sargon left behind is in there? What if the dais itself is what he left?"

Gupta held out his hand. Pakesh understood the gesture and handed Gupta the broken section. This piece had puzzled Tarang since they had discovered it that dawning in the chamber. His duties dealing with the Tal Shiar had taken precedence over his archeological musings. But now, holding this artifact his mind started swirling.

"If this material is so indestructible then why did this one piece break off?" Gupta held it out, silhouetting it against the firelight.

"Age?" T'Pol interjected. "The material was somehow flawed to start with?"

"Perhaps Sargon or one of his minions used a device to cut it off," Pakesh suggested.

"Why would Sargon do that?" T'Pol asked.

Pakesh grinned which caused Ae'omè to giggle. "Because there is an afterlife and Sargon is looking at us and laughing?"

"Have you tried fitting this piece back into the dais?" T'Pol asked.

Pakesh's eyes became quite animated after T'Pol's suggestion. He hastily grabbed the piece from Gupta and looked at the broken end. He was clearly excited by that idea and confessed that he had assumed that the piece was broken from there and he had seen no need to replace it. Gupta too was equally moved.

"Centurion!" Uhlan Vanexor called out as he scrambled down to the encampment.

Gupta had made their base at the bottom of the tall mountain just above the hill where the dig was. He thought that Earth geologists called this place a cirque; a bowl like depression at the mountain's feet. The Romulans had dug another tunnel into the old chamber from the bowl's side.

"What is it?" he asked. He could see that the young soldier was agitated.

"Peltor called to report that a group of the Tal Shiar soldiers passed a distance away from him. Tanlek confirmed that. Then Peltor fell silent. Tanlek called—he is on the run. The Tal Shiar is using the primitives as guides and scouts."

A roar passed overhead. It was a Romulan Harrier. "You must have called Commander Mondex?" Vanexor indicated that he had.

Gupta heard a sound like a great zipper being opened. The Harrier's Gatling style guns firing. He was horrified when he saw a plume rise, like a shooting star from the ground. The plume lit up the sky as the missile careened wildly. There was a loud; blinding explosion, as the Tal Shiar fired surface-to-air found its target. Somehow Gupta had been outsmarted.

"Centurion, they are likely to have mortars and field lasers!" Vanexor exclaimed.

Gupta had relied on the Tal Shiar staying near to the pueblos. They had to maintain control of the natives. Obviously, one of them had taken a bold step. Not long after the uhlan's warning they heard several hollow concussive sounds. The night was lit up as explosions sounded just outside the lip of the cirque. The detonations carried a strangely hollow sound.

Vanexor shouted a warning at several of his fellow soldiers as they scrambled over the top of the depression for the shelter below. The group of three collapsed. Their dark figures, illuminated by the small campfire were visible as terribly twisting and convulsing shapes.

"Gas!" the uhlan shouted.

"Get H'ez'im out of the tent!" Pakesh shouted.

Gupta ran for the tent where the Mintakan youth was staying with Pakesh. The young male was already awake and was shaken by the fighting. He grabbed him. T'Pol waved them all toward the tunnel to the chamber. Gupta wondered why but as he went underground he saw that she was right.

"Vanexor! Grab some of the _centi_ and cover up the entrance!" he ordered.

"We'll suffocate in here idiot!" Pakesh bellowed as he followed Gupta underground.

"Better that than breathing poison out there!" Gupta saw that his soldiers were sealing them in. He turned to T'Pol. She stood clutching at her ample belly. "What is—"

She collapsed. Ae'omè caught her. She helped T'Pol to the floor of the chamber. Ae'omè was speaking quickly in her language. The chamber shook. Gupta guessed that they had switched from chemicals to something more explosive. He knelt by his mate. Her face had turned a strange shade of pink.

"Impeccable timing Promise!" Pakesh exclaimed.

Ae'omè knelt on the other side of T'Pol and started to help her. Where was the healer? Gupta's mind was everywhere at once. He had to protect his mate. He had to consider that the Tal Shiar would swarm over this place after the gas attack. He ordered Vanexor to make a defense, hoping that the Romulan youth was up to it.

"Shar'tx has done as we bid," Vannek declared. He looked around the darkened clearing at his troops and at their local scouts.

The Mintakan scouts had indeed outflanked the imperials. Hanelok was pleased. This soldiering business was not as hard as the imperials made it out to be; just as he had always guessed. Hanelok was smart enough to bow to his enemy here. For some insane reason the imperial commander had not taken advantage of technology. Hanelok put it down to some sort of nonsensical thought game on his opponent's part.

"It helps that we have his children hostage," Hanelok said.

He looked at the mortar crew as they fired yet another chemical charge. Shar'tx stood back and watched. It worried Hanelok that the Mintakan's fear of them appeared to be gone. But that could be a good thing. There would be no new empire made up of timid, fearful beings.

"It does," Vannek agreed. His lieutenant looked toward where the mortar shells were falling.

"Some of them may live Hanelok," he said.

"We'll move closer as the gas dissipates," Hanelok declared. He laughed. "We have ground coaches. Imagine that idiot of an imperial using catapults! What a _v'roul_!"

"He is a dead—"

Vannek never got to give his opinion of the imperial commander. A Mintakan scout had buried his primitive axe in Vannek's spine. Hanelok drew his pistol without hesitation. He aimed it at Shar'tx who was stabbing at one of the mortar operators. The Romulan fell forward dropping the shell into the mortar. Hanelok fired. Shar'tx jerked and fell backwards—into the mortar. It fired. Hanelok shot the rebellious Mintakan again just for good measure.

He heard a whizzing sound and in one terrifying instant realized that he was dead. The errant mortar round erupted before him. He was blown away and landed on his back. Hanelok laughed when he realized that he was mostly unscathed from the concussion. The gas would take care of him. He felt the first twitches as his vision faded to pinpricks. A great gout of vomit erupted from him to fall back splattering on his face. The starlight faded to black.

"Contact commander," Sub Lieutenant Nevav announced. "Bending out of the double star formation commander!" he added.

"Eject mines and increase speed," Mondex snapped. He watched the pilot deftly apply those maneuvers. He turned his attention back onto Nevav. "Scan their power signature as we discussed. I want to know exactly when they collapse their space bending field."

Mondex listened to the information coming in through his battle helmet. Their ground forces were engaged. Two of his Harriers had been shot down. The Tal Shiar thugs were inexperienced but not stupid. Apparently they had coordinated a ground attack so that they could ambush the armed Harriers. He should have foreseen that, but who could have imagined them taking surface-to-air launchers with them to quell a preindustrial civilization?

"Launch a fouler satellite and continue thrust until we've reached apogee," he ordered. "Load defensive missiles report on kinetic load," Mondex continued.

The kinetic energy gunners reported in at the ready. Nevav tracked the fouler device until its electromagnetic output threw a cloak between his ship and the approaching cruiser. Penaithrn could not track them nor could his ship's opponent see them. But Mondex could read the approaching craft's space bending field. His opponent would not have that advantage.

"The enemy is on final approach commander!" Nevav exclaimed. Mondex could remember when he was as excited about the thrill of battle. He allowed the young officer his excitement. Battle meant that it might be his last.

"Their field?" he asked.

"Levels remain the same commander—no wait! They are returning to normal space!"

"Pilot, maximum thrust!" Mondex ordered. "Once we've broken orbit alter course for the planet's dark side."

Penaithrn left orbit with a generous push from the world's gravitational field. The course that Mondex chose would put them in a relative position behind their enemy. Nevav announced that they had acquired the enemy ship by conventional means but that it was maneuvering close to the zone set up by the fouler.

Mondex examined a three dimensional chart that was projected into his left eye through his helmet. "Lock missiles for a detonation over sector nine, grid one-five-three by eight-four: fire!" he barked. "Kinetic crews, lead the target by six thousand _elil'n_, commence fire and continue."

Mondex could feel the slight concussion as his gunners shot heavy metal pellets out into space. The gravity fields of newer ships of the empire allowed for no feeling of momentum. He thought that the younger commanders and their crews were missing something. Mondex ordered another missile to be fired. He also ordered a harsh course change. If his opponent was really inexperienced he would track them on the opposite vector.

"Plasma fire!" Nevav exclaimed. Mondex calmly examined the returns on the threat. The opposition gunner had missed by a wide margin.

"Amateurs," he said under his breath. "Gunners change target position to sector eight, grid nine-oh-six by forty-two!" he snapped. There, Mondex thought, let them figure where he was firing from now.

"The fouler satellite's power fades commander," Nevav informed him. "I'm picking up debris. There is a large piece of debris."

"Power readings! Power readings!" he bellowed. If he had been caught in such an obvious trap he would have lain quiet and hoped his enemy would make a mistake.

"Their atomic readings fade," Nevav answered. "Their magnetic field is collapsed, commander."

"Commander," Uhlan Menvec started, "I am receiving a transmission from them. They…are offering to surrender."

"Gunners, deploy two missiles around the target," Mondex commanded. "Put them in a relative position to make a high speed engagement on that ship…just in case." He would also see if that ship was as dead as it appeared. "Uhlan Menvec, are they transmitting image and voice?" The uhlan informed him that they were. "Then let us see what sort of a _v'roul_ would surrender his command. Perhaps the Tal Shiar secretly recruited _hewmaan_ commanders." This last elicited several chuckles from the command center crew.

The tactical view was replaced by the image of someone familiar to Mondex. "Ketaaran! I was just speaking about you." He was a little shocked and disgusted to see that Ketaaran wore a hybrid abomination of an imperial uniform. Apparently even the old trappings such as uniforms were not even good enough for the Tal Shiar. Smoke filled Ketaaran's command center.

Commander Ketaaran coughed. "So, they send the master for me," he said. Mondex had been an instructor of Ketaaran's at Norcela. He smiled, in Mondex's opinion, pathetically. A human would have more _z'vex't_ than this worm, he thought.

"So the rumors were true: you did go into the Merchant Guild," Mondex remarked. "Obviously my notations concerning your ship guidance skills meant nothing."

Ketaaran smiled. "Having the _kali-fx_ with an administrator's daughter helped. But I didn't need all that _rmeg_ about precision navigation and slewing courses to command a big fat freighter."

"You could have used that here," Mondex said. He took a step back to the missile control station. The two missiles were in position. His gloved hand whisked over the stud controlling one of those.

"You've won here. We command on the ground." Ketaaran said. "There is little time before the anomaly closes, stranding us all here. Let us compromise: you accept our surrender and take us aboard ship and I'll in turn order a halt to the ground battle."

"There are enough dawnings left to defeat your cowards on the ground and make it to the anomaly. What a disappointment you are; a disappointment as a soldier and worse yet as a Romulan. You always were a poor student." He depressed one of the studs.

Ketaaran had an instant to realize what was coming. Rather than curse his old instructor he screamed like a child. The image went blank. Mondex regretted destroying so much imperial property. It was unfortunate that it had become infested with vermin.

"Menvec! Raise the surviving Harriers and have them launch," Mondex ordered. "Have them fly a ground attack near to Centurion Tarack's encampment." Hopefully that soldier lived. Ketaaran could have taken lessons from a real Romulan soldier like Tarack, Mondex thought.

Star Fleet Carrier Valley Forge, in the Nelvana system, Feb 2160

"I swear Ed," Commander Bill Walters said as he brandished the heavy spanner. "I swear that'll I'll clock your drunken Irish ass with this thing if you don't stop about me and Sharon."

O'Brien shot back a disarming smile. Bill lowered the wrench and smiled back. The chief reminded him of what they were here to do. Walters hadn't intended on striking the chief but both of them needed something to lighten the moment. They seemed to be no where closer to solving this problem.

"Anyway you'd make a good earthbound engineer sir," O'Brien continued on his previous tack. Bill groaned. "No…I mean it! You spend half your time flying, the other half reading subspace theory books and that is it. At least Doctor Cochrane liked to drink and listen to Rock and Roll."

"Rock and Roll, that was around the Baroque period?" Walters asked in an attempt to distract O'Brien. He had once been admonished by a school music teacher to restrict himself to non lyrical pursuits. Ancient music forms were just names to him.

"I think, I think that was around the time of Beethoven and Van Halen," O'Brien mused.

They had a station set up near the warp core. Bill had thought that such an interactive work station would make an excellent upgrade for starships. He imagined himself designing that and submitting his idea to be turned into reality. Or would he be on Earth building fancy environmental systems or ground cars while chasing black haired children?

Walters started pursuing a thought other than those of his might be children. "Cochrane," he said aloud.

"Yeah he was a bit of a party goer and womanizer from what history said," O'Brien said.

"I was reading about a by product of warp fields," Walters said. "It is in his book _Zephram Cochrane_. One of Cochrane's technicians was concerned about a…distortion that warp fields generate. She thought that it might be harmful to human beings."

"You're talking about Cochrane distortion," O'Brien said. The engineer took another reading off of the Forge's warp core. The computer produced a rendering of the waveform so that O'Brien could analyze it. "It's not dangerous. A person could take a bath…" O'Brien stopped and ran a hand through his curly mop of red hair.

O'Brien grabbed a heavy manual and started leafing through it. Walters sat down took up a sketch pad and handheld computer and started putting together a Cochrane distortion detector. O'Brien, manual open, gave him numbers while pointing out flaws in his design. Walters did likewise as the two made something that might actually do what the math claimed it would.

Admiral Frank Buchanan looked over his military log entry. So many words to say nothing; no Romulans spotted not even an ion trail evident. He certified the entry and sent it into electronic storage land. Buchanan kicked back in his office chair and stared at a cold half smoked cigar. He decided not to finish it. He looked around the dimly lit outer room of his quarters.

They had spent weeks tied up near this system. Carriers, the ships that had turned the tide in this war, had become big bullseye covered targets for the Birds. He stood up and walked over to the mural on the far wall. It depicted the great ship leaving its dock at Utopia Planitia. There had been hope back then. There would be again.

This stalemate would not last. He was sure of that. Buchanan was also sure that the Birds were preparing for something. He did not know what. He did suspect that it mostly involved inflicting a major defeat on the Star Fleet forces out here. He hoped that Walters and O'Brien solved the problem. In the meantime he had another plan. If the Romulans could track them, then perhaps the carriers could become the bait for them.

Forrest had thus far resisted that plan. It put some of their largest assets on the line. Yet Buchanan could not just sit back. Somewhere out there, the Birdies were not sitting back. They were planning something. He walked into the next room where his bedchamber was. Five years ago this entire cabin was bigger than a luxury cabin aboard a starliner. Frank remembered when a UESN captain had a fold down desk that doubled as a bunk.

He wore just the black undershirt and shorts. Hardly the picture of a flag officer he thought wryly. He went to his dresser and grabbed a pair of slacks and a gold jersey. His cabin chime sounded. He hoped it would be Walters and O'Brien but knew that it was not. He heard Captain Ramanujan announce himself. He pulled his boots on.

"Nothing from our tech boys?" he called out.

"Walters says that they are on to something…a detector," Ramanujan answered. "If they confirm that as a suspect then the next step is a test."

Buchanan walked out while he pulled his tunic over his head. "You haven't been down there bugging them, have you?" Frank was a subscriber to the theory of letting good people alone to do their work.

"Routine reports sir," the Indian replied. Buchanan suspected that Ramanujan had dropped in on the duo for a supposed friendly visit.

The boatswain's call sounded. The land loving Buchanan let out a groan as he crossed the floor to his desk to acknowledge the call. Some traditions were best left where they were he thought.

The small screen on his desk showed him the image of Lieutenant Marutei. "Sir, there is jumbled comm traffic out there. It appears to be Romulan jamming. But we just received a war bulletin from Admiral Forrest."

"Go on lieutenant this isn't an Agatha Christie novel. You can tell me who did it." Buchanan said. He picked the cold cigar up and relit it. It tasted foul. He took a deep puff of smoke in.

"Yes sir," she answered after a short pause.

"Probably thinks that Agatha Christie is an adventure novelist," he confided to Ramanujan while holding down the mute button.

"Command has recorded an attack on Taskforce 18," she continued. "Romulan positions indicated that they were sending in more strike groups to finish the job. All attempts to raise eighteen have failed."

"Any idea if it failed because of jamming or…" Buchanan didn't want to think about Stiles being dead. Forrest had briefed him on her indiscretions. While serious, Buchanan believed in redemption. Getting rid of a fighter didn't make much sense to him.

"None sir," she answered.

He let out a long stream of smoke. "Launch the alert fighters and have maintenance bring up the spares; same for the rest of the carriers. I want my planes in the sky."

"Aye sir," Marutei responded crisply.

"You suspect something sir?" Ramanujan asked as Frank cut the circuit.

"Always when it comes to Bird—" The boatswain's call sounded again. "Have that goddamned thing removed Rama! If I'd wanted in the navy I'd a stayed back in Bridgeport and joined the US Coast Guard!"

"Aye sir!" the captain snapped.

Buchanan switched on another image. This one was of a haggard Bill Walters and Edmund O'Brien. He wondered if either had really slept since he had given them this assignment. They announced some success.

"We think that the Birdies are tracking our Cochrane distortions," O'Brien explained. "Me and the commander actually built a detector, sir. Anyway, so far as we can tell that is the one thing that lights up like a beacon for several light years."

"Can you fix that?" he asked.

It seemed to be Walters' turn next. "We're not sure sir. If it can be fixed it might be a simple adjustment or it may take a major refit. We just can't say right now. But the other thing is that our detector—if it is working right has picked up something."

"Show me!" Buchanan snapped.

Buchanan almost laughed at their comedic attempt to route whatever device they had made up to the Forge's comm system. Both men were beat tired, he thought. In the end they brought a monitor over and faced it in the coverage area of the video pickup. Buchanan saw a reference for Nelvana and the relative positions of his ships. He was about to dismiss their alarm and attribute it to being a little punch drunk when he saw blips appear along two axes of approach. He motioned Ramanujan to join him and look over his shoulder.

"And there you have it," he said.

"Sir, if these are Romulans then the prudent course is to—"

"I don't know who else would be operating out here sir," Walters voice interrupted.

"It looks like we have about twenty minutes before they get here," Buchanan said. "Do you fellows have any clue about how to cover up Cochrane Distortion? No theories that'll take the Design Bureau ten years to implement and another ten to actually build. And if the Romulans can detect it then why haven't they found something to screen it?"

O'Brien groaned and looked at Walters. "We have one possibility: it's an adjustment on the primary plasma flow regulator. In fact, the fact that the Romulans are still putting out a trail led us to the plasma flow theory. They are using sensors that are almost like first generation subspace sensors. We've upgraded ours with some help from the Vulcans. Me and Ed—the chief think that whatever Bird thought this up immediately sought a fix for their own emissions. But in layman's terms: in plugging one hole another opened; in this case another frequency. This frequency lit up out subspace scanners but not theirs." Bill rubbed his eyes which, Buchanan observed, were a little bloodshot. "It looks good on paper and our flow regulator adjustment shouldn't seriously degrade the warp drive. We need to run some tests."

"How possible is this?" he shot back. Time was of the essence here. "And how long will it take?"

"I'd say fifty-fifty, admiral," O'Brien took up the answer. "We should be able to make the changes in fifteen minutes or so. We have to get a work gang together and show them what needs doing."

"Well hell bells boys!" he shouted. "If this was a horse race I would as sure as hell take those odds! Get your fix underway but standby on it. Pipe your theory down to the rest of our ships. While you're at it make sure that the fighters know about it. Can the average Minotaur crew do this?"

Walters looked far away. O'Brien was the better engineer but Bill had real cockpit experience. Frank knew that Walters knew what a Minotaur could do and more importantly what their crews could do. Walters responded positively. Buchanan sent out orders and then told Marutei the situation. Buchanan ordered a cautious and seemingly random move toward Nelvana's star.

"Sir, it would be prudent to withdraw our carrier assets," Captain Ramanujan stated.

"I heard you the first time Rama," he said. "I heard everything up till you said 'prudent'. Prudent isn't going to win this war and prudent didn't get us halfway across this sector to Romulan space." He got up and headed for the Forge's bridge. The captain followed.

"We'll have a few minutes to jump away if our boys fall on their asses," he said. Crewmen pressed up against the walls as the two sped by. "We need to be here. If the Romulans think they have us they'll sure as hell think twice if we suddenly pack up and warp away. I want their asses in this system going against our fighters. We have a few escorts to round things out."

Buchanan stepped out onto the bridge. Lieutenant Marutei announced his presence and surrendered the center seat. He noted the position of his carrier along with those of Kearsage, Rabin, Winston Churchill and Forrestal. If the Romulans destroyed all of them it would be a major blow against Star Fleet. Captain Ramanujan took over Walters' customary position of air group commander. He reported that the fighters were ready for launch. A quick thought occurred to Buchanan.

"We are to take up a position near to one of the satnet satellites sir," Ensign Taales told Chief Walter 'Lefty' Groening.

Groening looked over at his Andorian copilot. "Lefty or just plain chief will be fine Taales, after all, you out rank me."

"You are the aircraft commander, sir," the Andorian said. "You must be afforded the proper respect. That is how the Imperial Guard conducts itself, so does the Star Fleet."

Groening accepted it, but he didn't like it. He fed the course in to take his little fighter out to the subspace satellite network: a large web of networked satellites that had been planned as the nexus of a new communications' hub. If Groening interpreted his orders properly then shortly there wouldn't be a new network. But he didn't have long to think about that. He was still reeling from his sudden promotion to flight officer and his appointment as Minotaur commander.

"I've resynced the regulator!" their involuntary passenger announced. Groening couldn't help but feel a rush of desire at the sight of the Philippine woman's beautiful dark features and mane of black hair.

Lieutenant Carina Adea was occupying the normally vacant observers' position since the admiral's order to do whatever was necessary to institute this fix. Groening guessed that he just failed as a command pilot because frankly, he didn't even know what Adea was here to repair.

"Strap in to the observer's seat sir," he advised her. "There is a long evacuation brief but let me shorten it: if we get hit we're going to die." He didn't have to remind her to put on her helmet. He watched her tie her hair into a makeshift ponytail and tuck it into her suit collar.

"Is it true why they call you 'Lefty'?" she asked innocently.

He was glad that his helmet covered his head. He could feel his face flush. Groening started to think of a defense but decided to go with it. The chief found himself derailed when his copilot decided to be helpful:

"You humans; there is nothing wrong with that. Especially on a long voyage where one has not found a mate to—"

"Okay, okay," Groening said. He laughed despite his embarrassment. "You wouldn't buy that I'm such a man that I need constant stimulation and no woman has given me that yet."

Groening acknowledged another comm. He looked at his small screen and scanned the advisory. "Looks like the BB stackers will be busy," he remarked.

He had used the ancient moniker for the munitions' techs. The freighters had arrived with their deadly cargo of continent busting Grand Slams. The technicians had been sent over to perform the necessary maintenance on the missiles and their warheads. Star Fleet was preparing for the arrival of the new Farragut class fleet monitors.

Adea asked to see the message. Groening told her how to access it from her small panel. "Sounds like a good idea," she remarked. "So, you haven't found the right woman yet?" she asked him.

Groening realized that he was under fire of a different kind. He actually found himself wishing that the Birdies would show up. Adea was attractive and he had been looking at her at the mess. But Walt thought that she was out of his league. The classic heroes of literature that he had read would no doubt win this battle single handedly while bedding the woman. He decided that now would be a good time for humility and just plain trying to survive.

"No, are you volunteering lieutenant?" he asked, deciding to call her bluff.

"If we live through this thing then I'll meet you for drinks in the wardroom," she replied. "I'll see how much woman you need." He took the effort to turn in his seat, no small feat owing to his harness. Her expression was dead serious.

"I hope it works out sir," Taales announced. It occurred to Groening that the Andorian had not yet received a callsign. Several nasty ones concerning people, who made intrusive observations, came to mind. "At least you might no longer have to use your left hand—contacts!"

Imperial Romulan cruiser Riitraxa, the fifteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the end of the Season of Blood,

"It is a routine shift my admiral," Major Denaton stated. "We've observed their carriers do this before, probably taking advantage of the system's star light."

Valdore was uneasy. Denaton was a good officer but like many he labored under the fallacy that their enemies would act according to Romulan plans. Valdore had led long enough to know that the enemy wasn't briefed in their expected defeat. Buchanan had other plans as would Valdore. That one, much more flamboyant than the reserved Forrest or Antor reminded Valdore of Klingons. That was what made this even more dangerous.

"Pilot, increase the angle of approach," Valdore ordered. He wanted no parts of the network of Triple Alliance satellites.

"That will cost us time my admiral," Denaton whispered to him quietly.

"They are several units apart major," he explained. "But in terms of space bending they are not far at all." Valdore checked the position of his attack group. "Order the N'Ela'n to accelerate to attack speed. They may engage and attack the battle carriers at will."

"Admiral," his detector operator interjected. He answered the centurion. "Commander Mhenas' group has come within detector range."

"Very good," he replied. Valdore switched his helmet view. He was pleased and proud to see Mhenas. At the same time he could not help but to notice that Mhenas had lost over a third of his battle group.

"If the Tal Shiar had just waited another ten turnings," he muttered softly. Perhaps imperial technology would have been on a par with that of the alliance. Sadly, his ships could not stand up to theirs in an even match. "We will defeat them nonetheless! Superior tactics can defeat technology."

"The N'Ela'n are emerging into normal space admiral," Denaton informed him.

Valdore listened and observed the movements of his group. He removed his helmet in favor of the older ways. He stood rooted behind the detector operator. Everything was proceeding as planned. The energy readings of the attack cruisers spiked as their plasma weapons charged in preparation of being fired.

"Admiral," Denaton started. Valdore observed the Triple Alliance carriers' power signatures.

"Tell the N'Ela'n to withdraw! Now!" he bellowed.

The energy readings for the carriers suddenly grew in intensity. Valdore could not see it but he could imagine the atomic fire reaching out to envelope his cruisers. He ordered a directed scan toward the star of Nelvana. If the carriers were still here it was likely that Buchanan had concealed them there. He watched. Instead of carriers he suddenly saw readings for the earth fighters. They were coming from the concealment of the communications' satellites.

"Increase speed before they blanket our attack path!" he snapped.

Too late, he saw the readings showing the missile discharges from the fighters. He heard Denaton issue an emergency course change. Valdore saw the returns from the carriers. They were indeed hidden near the sun's magnetic poles. The command center went black.

Valdore felt the loss of gravity in his inner ear. When it returned along with the emergency lighting he had just an instant to realize that he was going to hit the ceiling. He hit hard. His stomach lurched. Valdore was heading back to the floor. The center command column exploded in sparks and flame. Valdore hit the floor. Everything went dark.

Star Fleet cruiser Beagle, Taskforce 18, in the Nelvana system, Feb 2160,

"Fan out, execute taskforce maneuver gamma!" Jocelyn Stiles ordered. Captain Jospin echoed her command to the rest of her ships.

Stiles watched as her ships formed a cone with Beagle at the apex. Beagle was nearing a group of Romulan ships that had been brought out of subspace by Amazon missiles. She ordered an approach to nine thousand kilometers. They would be well within plasma cannon range but she intended to finish then while Beagle's hull plating was working.

"Exiting warp," Lieutenant Martin Ward announced.

"Solution plotted and ready!" Lieutenant Damon Rice exclaimed. "Missiles ready for launch!"

"Fire!" she spat. Stiles gripped her armrests. Her shoulders bit into her restraint harness when the artificial gravity tried to keep up with the displacement inflicted by a plasma cannon hit. "Hold together baby," she mumbled softly.

"Firing and away!" Rice snapped.

"Helm stay with the port Cabbage!" she ordered. Stiles planned to put her ship between a Veronus and Sabinus. She hoped that that would afford her some protection from Romulan Moolahs. Rice announced that the next salvo was loaded and ready.

Walter Groening wasn't flying to impress a pretty officer. He was flying for his life. Taales was a natural gunner. Groening got him near to a target and the Imperial Guard soldier put an Amazon into it. Lieutenant Adea had turned out to be of immense help as well. The third set of eyes had kept them out of harm's way of several enemy missiles. Groening guided his ship near to a friendly cruiser. He saw a split second video image of a snarling dog emblazoned on its side.

"The Iron Maiden is here!" he announced.

"Beagle is firing another spread!" Adea exclaimed.

Groening looked at his ship's momentum and direction. He made a subtle course change to follow the missiles' wake. Groening accelerated. Taales informed him that they had just four missiles left. Groening intended to make them count. The Narwhals quickly outpaced his Minotaur. Scans ahead showed that first one and then another was defeated by Romulan countermeasures. His fighter was within five hundred kilometers. The Andorian fired while Groening curved the fighter over the great bulk of the Romulan Cabbage. The cruiser exploded. The fighter's radiologic alarm blared. Groening got out of the zone of destruction as quick as the fighter would go.

"You probably scorched the hull Lefty!" Adea piped in. "I'll have to do a major refit on this bird. You better live up to your stated reputation mister!"

"Changing course!" he announced. He wanted the Veronus that Beagle was currently attacking.

"Is that an order lieutenant?"

"Ah, it's the small things in life Rama," Admiral Buchanan declared amid a wreath of blue smoke.

"Beagle is on the link admiral, scrambled voice over vid," the comm chief announced.

The fighters, escorts and the ships of Taskforce 18 were mopping up the rest of the Birdies. Buchanan thought that he could take a break from directing his forces. He signaled to put Commodore Stiles on. He had seen the attractive but haunted looking young black woman before; as before he was struck by her commanding presence. Especially for one so young, he thought.

"Thanks for the flow regulator fix admiral," Stiles said.

He nodded and blew out a stream of smoke. "I hope you don't mind me taking a page from your exploits commodore." He had remembered her placing earth nukes in a freighter as part of a trap for the Birds.

"I reckon those were Grand Slams admiral?" she asked.

"Those fireworks just cost the taxpayers plenty," Buchanan said. "But I'd bet that it cost the Birds more. We scanned twenty-four of those new fancy fast movers of theirs. Funny thing they ran into freighters full of high megaton nukes when they thought that they would find carriers."

Stiles smiled and laughed. "I hate when that happens." It was pleasant to see her hatred drop away if just for a second. Her face resumed its hard set. "My engineer tells me that adjusting the flow regulator might cause resonance waves in other pockets of subspace."

"My boys exploited that. They realized it; apparently the chief bird did not. They sent out a fleet wide dispatch to the engineers. The electron pushers can turn to the problem. I've ordered my boys to take a three day nap. They broke the ground. It'll be for others to work out the details."

He watched Stiles fold her hands before her. She nodded. "Kind of foolish to expect that we'd worked out all of the bugs in warp drive. They'll probably still be coming up with new stuff in the twenty-fourth century and still not have it all figured out. What's the next move admiral?"

He grinned sheepishly. "My name ain't Forrest so I can't give you a good answer commodore. Hell, if it was me I'd consolidate and put a major strike into motion; at least by April." Buchanan took another puff of his cigar. "But then again maybe a longer consolidation and reconnoitering is in order. You know that the Farraguts won't arrive until the end of May. They'll be held up now because they'll have to carry extra stores. I'm known as a hell raiser but I wouldn't put one boy ashore without those monitors overhead. If it comes to landing troops then we'll need those."

"This is sounding later and later sir. Sir with all due respect, not one red shirt would have to go ashore if we did a large scale bombardment."

Buchanan scowled. "You know that that is the business of the politicians, commodore. I think you're right but Admiral Forrest would probably say that we aren't considering the long view."

She wrinkled her face in return. "In the meantime, what are your orders, admiral?"

"Set up a good sensor perimeter with the fighter patrols. We'll start a detailed sweep of the system as soon as we can. Just to let you know: I think that we sent almost seventy Romulan ships to hell. That is the biggest showing that they've made in months. Hopefully they put everything into it."

"I do hope so admiral," she agreed. He nodded and invited her to a captains' dinner.

It might be premature but Frank thought that he should get his senior people together for a celebration. Things seemed to moving toward a climax. A little get together might be just the thing for all of them to relive the stress. They had a few days, perhaps a few weeks respite. Buchanan knew that it would be back to work all too soon.

"Champion is reporting in sir!" Captain Ramanujan reported. "Captain McCarthy is limping at warp 1.2. He is requesting cover until he gets into the system."

"Send Squadron 12 out to reel him in Rama," Buchanan said.

He smiled. The Romulan strategy was now apparent to him. They had almost fallen for it. Frank breathed a sigh of relief when he thought of how this entire situation could have been turned upside down. The Birdies might have gotten both Conquerors and made a clean sweep of the carriers. Instead, they had gambled and lost.

Mintaka, the tail of the serpent, the Vulcan time of Renewal,

"I've sent a recorder drone through the anomaly," Commander Mondex's voice informed Tarang Gupta. They once again stood in the cirque. The wireless had survived the Tal Shiar attack.

They had dug their way of out the chamber. No attackers were in evidence. Vanexor had recovered a chemical detection kit. He had used it and determined that the deadly gas had dissipated. Tanlek had called after that. He had been nearly killed but had outwitted his Tal Shiar opponents and their guides. He had reported that the guides had turned on their would-be masters.

High aerial holographs of the Mintakan pueblos had shown no Tal Shiar activity. Even more the holophotos had shown that the metal forges were in the process of being dismantled. Another holo showed what a burning pile: of bodies. Ae'omè had confirmed that her tribal customs involved burning the dead. Whether it was Mintakans or Romulans or both could not be determined. She had volunteered herself and H'ez'im to sneak back into the pueblo. Gupta had reluctantly allowed them to go. It was their planet.

"That is probably wise commander," Gupta replied. Penaithrn had had a rough journey through the wormhole on the way here. Mondex was preparing for the worst in case their journey back came to a bad end. All Gupta knew was that it was the end.

He and T'Pol had done everything that had been asked of them. Now, seeing his new daughter, the hope and promise of two races, he wanted a rest. Gupta was looking forward to taking his family back to Romulus and then on to Vulcan. He no longer cared if the genetic changes done on him could be undone. For him and his mate and their daughter Kamala the war and everything with it was over.

He looked down at T'Pol as she rocked their daughter. Kamala was a Hindu name that also sounded like the Vulcan word for sky. It seemed fitting for one born underground during a siege.

"How are you doing?" he asked T'Pol after muting the connection between him and Penaithrn.

"I am well," she answered. She looked down at Kamala. "She is well."

They touched fingers. _Yes, I too want to go home. Our future is uncertain. Yet I love you and it seems enough._

"Enough of that!" Pakesh exclaimed. "You'll have another one of those to care for if you don't stop that!" Gupta saw that he was still bearing the piece from the dais.

"We'll regroup here and our local guides will see what has happened in the village," Gupta told Mondex after reopening the link. "It seems like the natives rejected the Tal Shiar. It's been a dawning since the attack and we've seen nothing. I'd like to use our guide to scout the village and take any technology we find before we leave, commander."

"That is what the praetor ordered centurion; make it so," Mondex commanded. "Remember, we have but two dawnings at most before we must be underway."

"Leave the wireless open!" T'Pol hissed.

Gupta was confused until he saw several armed Romulans at the lip of the cirque. Shots rang out. He rose and stepped away from the wireless. He saw Tanlek led before a uniformed Tal Shiar soldier. The Tal Shiar commander stood behind his group. He hobbled down the hillside on a makeshift crutch. When they got to the bottom of the depression their commander issued an order. The Tal Shiar soldier behind Tanlek calmly shot the scout in the head.

"I don't know you." The Tal Shiar leader slurred out his words: they were almost unintelligible. He was horribly disfigured, his face twisted in a seemingly frozen grimace. Gupta saw that he could not work the entire right side of his body.

"But I know that I've won here," the disfigured operative declared. Drool flowed down his chin. He looked at Gupta, at the markings on his sash. "The Chains of _Palix'nar_," he spat. "No more games!"

He fired an automatic shotgun into the wireless. T'Pol sprang away lithely while protecting her precious burden. The wounded Romulan looked at her and the child she held with wonder and confusion.

"What kind of a fool brings a female to a place like this?" he demanded. He leered at T'Pol. "Anyway, I thank you. I have leverage now."

"Who are you?" Gupta demanded.

The twisted Romulan took a deep breath. "I am Uhlan Hanelok of the Tal Shiar."

"You know that you can't win here Hanelok," Gupta said. He was careful to keep his hands raised.

"I don't need to win. I just need to kill you!" the vengeful Romulan spat.

One out of the five of Hanelok's soldiers spoke up. "You said that they would send us down equipment Hanelok! We would set up here!"

Gupta had just Vanexor and two others, all that had survived. Mondex might send a Harrier, but what would that accomplish; save that they would all be killed in a strafing run. He looked at his mate and their child. After all of this to die here, he thought bitterly. Hanelok motioned for them to remove their bandoliers and weapon vests. Gupta did so reluctantly. He ordered his soldiers to do the same.

"Stay with me Enteaz'n," Hanelok told his uncertain troop. "I will get us out of this."

"You'll miss the treasure Hanelok," Pakesh remarked. He had been standing in the shadows near to the ruins of their tent. He walked forward cautiously, hands out.

"Another fool—"

Gupta saw recognition on Hanelok's grotesque face. Gupta watched Pakesh trace his finger along his scar.

"Teacher," he slurred.

"You have a memory for faces. You had none for language." Pakesh faced the Tal Shiar soldier.

"Are you still defending the honor of senators' daughters fool?" Hanelok asked. He pointed a quaking hand at Pakesh's scar. "I thought that I taught the teacher something!"

"You did, you did," Pakesh insisted. "But now you are throwing away the greatest treasure." Gupta realized that Pakesh was trying to buy time. The scholar motioned toward the underground opening. "In there, we've discovered a secret from the ancient times."

Gupta could see Hanelok's skepticism even through his disfigured features. The Tal Shiar operative slung his shotgun and hobbled toward the dig. Gupta started when he pulled out his pistol and pointed it at T'Pol's head. Pakesh warned him to stay still.

"Hanelok is quite dangerous," he told Gupta.

"If this is a game then I'll kill this _awevhoi_!" Hanelok spat. He gestured toward the opening with the pistol. "Let me see this discovery." He turned to his troops. "Watch them!" he ordered. He looked back at Pakesh. "You first teacher!"

Pakesh led. Gupta and Vanexor and the two uhlans followed. Hanelok had his gun squarely pointed at T'Pol who walked before him with Kamala. Hanelok's troops followed. They entered the dark hole. Gupta could feel T'Pol's sense of helplessness. He didn't have an answer. He heard the Harrier's fire tearing through the Tal Shiar troops. He knew that they were being reduced to fleshy green pulp. Mondex had heard and responded. _Drop!_

T'Pol dropped down with Kamala. Gupta did likewise. There was a shot. Pakesh's knife grew out of Hanelok's throat. T'Pol reared up; holding Kamala and much to Gupta's surprise and shock seized the knife's haft and finished the luckless Hanelok. He crumpled to the ground. The Romulan's last breaths came in sickening gurgles as his body convulsed. Gupta sprang up.

"Are you—"

"We are fine," she said calmly but with emphasis on the first word. _Pakesh_, they thought as one.

They ran the rest of the way into the chamber. Their savior and old friend, was dragging himself toward the dais. A bloody green swath was behind him. The couple knelt on either side of him. Gupta gently rolled him onto his side. Blood pumped freely from a wound near his heart. T'Pol lay Kamala down and inserted her hand over the worst of the bleeding. They looked at one another with concern.

"That…_v'roul_ got me again!" Pakesh said. His breath came in great ragged gulps. Despite that he actually smiled at them.

"Mondex will order the Harrier crew back. We'll get you up to the ship and the healer," T'Pol said. Her tone was surprisingly soft and reassuring.

Pakesh fingered the broken piece of the edifice. "You think I want to ride back through the serpent?" His smile died. "You know that I'm not going to live to see Penaithrn." He looked at the dais. "I was so close!" He held the broken corner out. "At least I'll see it complete…please Tarack." Gupta took the crooked object from his friend's hand. Pakesh reached out and squeezed his hand.

"We'll get you back and you'll be fine," he told Pakesh. Gupta had seen enough wounds on Romulans to know that they needed to land soon.

He shuffled toward the dais. The chamber was dimly lit by their hastily erected work lights. Gupta said a Hindu prayer. He heard the Harrier's VTOL engines as it touched down. Perhaps there was still a chance for Pakesh! He looked back at his friend. T'Pol radiated a blast of grief at him. She knew. Pakesh's eyes were on him as he clumsily tried fitting the piece where it belonged.

"Meaningless," Pakesh mumbled. "Svaerik…"

T'Pol looked at him and shook her head in the human fashion. Vanexor, holding his recovered rifle at the ready told them that the Harrier had finished its sweep. The light level increased dramatically. Things were blurry. Gupta realized that he was crying. He looked and saw T'Pol, Kamala back in her arms, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. The dome of the hill vanished. Tarang gasped.

A radiant white beam lanced out of the arms of the dais. It leapt skyward. A great blinding flash lit up the dawning. Penaithrn! Gupta threw himself toward his mate and his child. T'Pol shouted a warning at Vanexor to throw down his rifle. She must have come to a conclusion about whatever was happening. Another beam shot out. Vanexor was a brief, hot, white outline of energy and then he was no more. T'Pol shouted something unintelligible. The Harrier appeared atop the cirque. A beam shot from where the three arms of the dais lay and cleanly intersected the Romulan attack shuttle. It vanished in a flash of heat.

Gupta looked at T'Pol and in gaped in horror. They were both opaque. Gupta could see their muscles and bone. He saw his daughter's little heart pumping. He looked down and saw the he could see the interior workings of his arm and hand. T'Pol shouted the seeming gibberish again. He remembered her discussing how the dais builders must have spoken. That is what language she had been shouting. Gupta saw their flesh return to normal. At the same time he felt a piecing pain in his head. T'Pol was feeling it too. He cried out. The pain slowly subsided.

"The evil that was Hanoch lives on," a male voice declared. Tarang clearly heard his native Hindi.

Gupta turned slowly. He beheld a biped, completely hairless as far as he could see. The being's face and the set of its eyes were human. The ears were decidedly Vulcanoid. The creature seemed to be looking at nothing. Gupta felt foolish but he waved a hand before the alien.

"An image?" T'Pol asked. She stood beside him.

"Pakesh mentioned a Hanoch," Gupta whispered.

"An image," the alien repeated T'Pol's words. "I am the image of Sargon. This device was put here to defend my children."

"That is why Vanexor was killed. It is logical to assume that the uhlans met with a similar fate," T'Pol said. "I reasoned that the attacks were being made against weapon bearing entities. The fire directed at Penaithrn and then at the Harrier while we were not fired upon."

Penaithrn; was it destroyed? Gupta shuddered inwardly. Perhaps Commander Mondex had somehow survived. He could feel T'Pol's concerns. The image of Sargon then confirmed their worst fears: the Romulan cruiser had been destroyed.

"Why, why?" he asked. "We were trying to save the Mintakans!"

Gupta saw an image form around them. He recognized Ae'omè's village from surveillance holos. Several of the villagers were wearing captured Tal Shiar battle helmets. Some of them were brandishing Romulan weapons, machine guns and lasers. Gupta could understand their words: they were plotting. Now that the outsiders were gone they were planning on attacking a neighboring tribe over land use. Gupta gasped when the helmets and weapons vanished.

"I've taken the poison from them but I cannot remove the knowledge." The image was neither sad nor triumphant.

"Surely seeing the Tal Shiar's devices vanish," T'Pol told the image.

The image of Sargon showed a scene of several Mintakan children playing. One of them was the apparent leader. He wore a childish head covering that looked very much like a Romulan helmet. The leader was goading the others into beating a weaker child.

"This device was not meant to be uncovered by my children for a great span of time. This device was never meant to become a deity. It was meant to teach my children something about my civilization; of our greatness and of our fall. For even the great can fall. But now you have come here and corrupted my children. Of all of our seeds, Sargon had the most hope for these."

Gupta put his arm around his mate and their child. He had thought that their work was done. He could feel T'Pol's mind project the same thought. He remembered Careaza who was Surak, how he had embarked to change his race for he better; the long walk before the great savior. He saw a long path hard before them.

"You must have somehow scanned our minds Image of Sargon," T'Pol started. She looked at him and gave him a very human nod. "We never met for any of this to happen but since it seems that we will not be leaving here, then it is logical that we repair the damage."

"The task will be hard." The chamber formed around them again as the image spoke. "This device shall be buried even deeper and concealed from outsiders. This device has read the DNA of Hanoch in both of you. It nearly destroyed you both. But Sargon's seed lives in you both and is strong. You two will have the burden of repairing the damage that was caused here. It is done."

They stood atop the lip of the cirque. All evidence of their encampment was gone. The only thing that remained was the body of Pakesh. He looked serene and peaceful. Gupta knelt before the lifeless husk of his friend. The grief was like a dagger in his heart. He remembered a western blessing that Frank McCoy had often used.

"God's speed Pakesh," he said softly. He closed his friend's unseeing eyes in the human fashion. "I hope that you find _vorta-vor_ to your liking."

He stood up in time to see Ae'omè coming out of the forest. H'ez'im walked beside her. She was leading a great group of the pueblo dwellers up to their position. Gupta took his mate's hand and waited for them. Ae'omè broke ranks and ran the rest of the way when she realized whose body lay there. She knelt and cradled the scholar's head in her arms. T'Pol spoke softly to her.

She stood up and hugged H'ez'im to her. The arriving villagers looked at the scene in confusion. T'Pol, who had learned much of Ae'omè's speech, spoke to them. They looked hard at him and T'Pol and their child. But, finally an older male and female gestured at them and spoke. T'Pol led the way through the villagers. She called to them in their tongue. Some of the males gathered up the lifeless form of Pakesh.

"I'll have to get busy and learn that," Gupta said. A rescue ship would never arrive now. The empire couldn't spare any. Once the wormhole closed then barring a breakthrough in space bending technology, it would take a lifetime for a starship to get here.

He felt a wave of homesickness. It was in his soul and it radiated from T'Pol as well. Barring a miracle they were stranded here. He had hoped for a homecoming. Now there would be none; at least not on Earth or Vulcan.

Gupta laughed in spite of the situation. "Just imagine: my instructor in Hindi said that I was lucky to be able to speak a coherent sentence! What did you say to them?"

She turned and looked at him and then handed him Kamala. Their child fussed and fidgeted. "Let us go home."


	52. Chapter 52

Romulan Imperial cruiser Riitraxa, enroute to Romulus, the Sixteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the Season of Tears,

Romulan Imperial cruiser Riitraxa, enroute to Romulus, the Sixteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the Season of Tears,

"Where am I?" Valdore asked. His eyes fluttered open.

"You are in the healer's ward my admiral," Major Denaton informed him.

He licked at his dry lips as he surveyed the small chamber. Several legionnaires lay in beds. None of them looked like they would leave the ward as living beings. That meant that Valdore was probably in a similar condition.

"Why, am I not dead and how long has passed?" he asked. Valdore got an uncomfortable feeling that he had been here awhile.

"There was an explosive decompression along the command center access tube," Denaton explained. Valdore looked over at his aide, seated in a chair beside his bed. The major's eyes were back at that fateful dawning. "You were pulling out legionnaires until you were struck by flying debris. It crushed your helmet and your head. The healer has been almost a quartrent healing you."

Valdore was about to speak when Denaton continued: "I saw no point in a glorious death, admiral. One of their accursed fighters destroyed one of our space bending pods. Our primary weapon field coil was destroyed. The missile tubes were destroyed." Denaton's look was haunted. "I maneuvered to a moon near to the first inner gas giant. A large meteor of magnetic ore must once have struck there. I managed to hide Riitraxa in its depths until we could make repairs and the alliance was in another volume. I set a course for home."

"Stiles…Stiles, the devil came at us from behind," Denaton continued.

"What is the disposition of the home guard?" he asked.

"I sent a message to the praetor himself admiral," Denaton replied. "He will release half of the guard for offensive action."

"Order them to Venador," Valdore said. "We mustn't allow for a last stand over Romulus. The illusion of strength must be maintained."

"I have already done so admiral," Denaton said. "The repair facility at Venador is basic at best. Riitraxa needs a major repair effort. Shall we continue onto Venador admiral?"

"We'll do our best to make our repairs there, Denaton," Valdore said. "How many…survived?"

Denaton looked away. "Six counting us, escaped. Two of those are said to have exploded later on. None of the N'Ela'n made it out."

Valdore held out his hands before him and flexed his fingers. He was alive. He was also ashamed. He had failed. Worse yet, he had lived to see his failure. Valdore listened as Denaton told him of braveries of his crew. There was something there in which to take heart. At the same time he wondered: was this the end of the empire? The healer came and fussed over him. Valdore sat up. For the first time since the war's start he doubted its outcome.

Kalenara, Romulus, the sixteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n

Augustus Kirk's head wagged back and forth as Colonel Aladar Desearious' air coach skimmed over the majestic Romulan countryside. He would never forget this place or its brave inhabitants for as long as he lived. Kirk saw problems in the Romulan culture but he also saw a goodness, and passion for living that was a creature unto itself. These were people who could be friends.

"It cannot be good that the praetor wishes to see you Augustus," the colonel told him.

It boggled Kirk that this Romulan valued him as a source for information. "Nor that fifty percent of your ships have been pulled off," Kirk countered.

"Rumors abound Augustus," Desearious told him. Kirk understood that the Romulan officer had come to trust him after a fashion. "Some say that we are near to defeat, while others say that the _Thoul'ons_ and _Klingons_ are going to ally with us."

Kirk watched as the colonel spiraled the coach down to a large, walled compound. The compound struck Augustus as a combination of early Spanish and Mediterranean architecture. Desearious guided the coach onto a landing pad that was bordered by a garden.

"You know what they say about rumors?" he asked. Desearious replied in the negative. "Rumors are like—well everyone has one. It loses something in the translation I guess."

"We have a similar saying," Desearious said. He laughed heartily. The hatch rolled up. An impressively decked out imperial soldier boarded the craft and told Desearious to wait. Well, Kirk thought, chances were that he was not going to be killed this dawning. The sub lieutenant beckoned for Kirk to follow him.

"I'll be back I suppose," he told Desearious.

The Romulan officer turned and looked directly into Kirk's eyes. "I shall be here , my friend."

Kirk scrambled out of the coach into the warm Romulan dawning. He followed the soldier up onto a beautifully landscaped terrace. Neatly trimmed bushes and hanging plants were contrasted with a rainbow of flowers. A small fountain sprayed water into a black pool; before the pool stood Praetor Karzan. Kirk started to bow deeply when Karzan extended a warning hand.

"There is no time for ceremony at our ages Kirk," he said.

"The tipping point, praetor?" he asked after the soldier departed.

"Perhaps near to it Kirk; I don't plan on surrendering the empire to you if that is what you think." Augustus watched him look out over the estate's grounds. "Walk with me Kirk."

Augustus followed beside the leader of the Romulan Empire. He told Kirk of the history of this place. Kirk found himself wondering why people who could create such beauty could also be so warlike and violent. Yet, hadn't he witnessed those extremes in Desearious and M'tiix? They strolled past a stone carved representation of what the Romulans called bent space. Kirk gawked at stone that had been worked to paper thinness.

"I assume that you came with a frequency and perhaps a cipher to talk to your president?" Karzan asked.

Kirk tapped the side of his head with a finger. "It's all up here Praetor Karzan."

He watched the elderly leader take a deep breath. "It may be time for that. There is a communication facility here Kirk. I believe that it is time to open a dialogue with President Thorpe. Mind you; this is tentative. I wish…to know what…a possible compromise might look like."

"I'll send the message praetor," he answered simply. President Thorpe had not given him any rules or guidelines since the wise Thorpe did not have any possible idea of what Kirk might find. The lack of restrictions allowed Augustus a greater degree of latitude.

"On another matter…" Kirk was struck by what looked like grief displayed on the old Romulan's sharp face. Whatever Karzan was about to tell him it seemed to affect him harder than a humiliating end to this war. Kirk waited patiently.

"Tarack—Tarang Gupta is…was left behind on the mission I sent him on. His Vulcan mate is stranded with him as well. I hope that they live. I…appreciate his bravery." Karzan gave Kirk a piercing look.

"He was not a traitor, Kirk. If a compromise results in us remaining anonymous then few will ever know what he did. I charge you, if you make it back to your _Earth_, ensure that President Thorpe knows of that officer's bravery. Sometimes individuals rise above the circumstances to do what must be done."

"If he's still alive on some planet…"

"Because of what happened there I will not supply you the coordinates. The inhabitants must be free to become whoever they want. My experts tell me that one dawning we may have ships that can go there in a quartrent. But for now, not my empire or your alliance has a ship capable of making the journey in anything more than one of your lifetimes. Perhaps in the future our races will be wiser. They will not make the mistakes that this generation did." Kirk sensed that Karzan was speaking about more than the war.

"It's too bad," Kirk said. He stopped by a stone railing and looked down into a pool formed by three waterfalls. "Too many mistakes were made."

"My personal guard will escort you to the communications' center Augustus Kirk."

Kirk bowed. The guard seemed to come out of nowhere. Augustus followed him while formulating exactly what he would say in the message. He had no doubt about Karzan's sincerity. But the crux of the matter lay in a proud peoples' surrender. Even if the praetor accepted Thorpe's cease fire how would he sell it to his people? One step at a time, Augustus thought.

The Presidium, San Francisco, the old United States, Earth, Jun 2160

"The doctor recommended coronary therapy," Maggie Thorpe told Christophur Thorpe.

"Doctors!" He issued the word as one might a curse. "I've had some problems. In case you haven't noticed there has been a war going on." He instantly regretted his last words. "I'm sorry!" he rushed to add. Maggie had stood with him through the darkest of times.

"I love you and I'm worried about you," his wife countered. "Prefect Soval is here with his personal physician. I've spoken with him about helping you. No one needs to know. Chris it's not a weakness. Lot's of men your age develop heart problems."

He went to her and embraced her. "Okay ma'am, I'll go to see Doctor Mayvex." A warm ocean breeze blew off of the bay. Across the water and up the coast Thorpe could see the lights from the construction of the new Star Fleet Headquarters.

She was right. It was just that Christophur had a strong dislike for doctors and their invasiveness. Even though the body could be scanned with a variety of instruments doctors, at least human doctors seemed to Christophur to have a bizarre touching fetish. Thorpe didn't like it. He took a small sip of Andorian ale while holding her close. This was where they had stood on that fateful night that he had discovered that his world was at war. So it was that he shuddered when the old style phone sounded. He stepped back and brushed his lips against hers.

"It's probably nothing," he said as he stepped inside to answer it.

The caller was a junior communications' officer. Thorpe had cleaned out the nest of civil servants in favor of dependable military personnel. The ensign told him of a coded transmission. He was beginning to think that this ensign might have picked up bad habits from the former employees. The entire call seemed to be about nothing. There were hundreds of coded messages that came in daily.

"Sir…the SOP's called for notifying you personally if a message came in on subspace channel 'K' using delta-three encryption." Thorpe froze. Kirk: the Romulans wanted to talk.

"I'll be right down," he snapped. "Please call the Vulcan embassy and notify Prefect Soval that I wish to meet with him on an important matter."

"Sir…it is after midnight," the ensign said.

"I'm aware of the time ensign," he said. He cut the line and turned to his wife.

"I know, I know," he told her. "I'll ask Soval about seeing his doctor." He leaned in and kissed her cheek and started to turn away. Thorpe stopped. He turned back to her, embraced her and kissed her deeply.

"You haven't done that for awhile Mister President. It must be good news."

"We'll see," he said cautiously.

"I hope that Kirk has not been…co-opted by the Romulans, Mister President," Prefect Soval said.

"We always knew that that was a danger," Thorpe answered. "The message doesn't seem misleading in any way. Frankly I'm surprised, given what I've learned about Romulan arrogance and pride. Kirk says that their praetor is asking for terms." Thorpe examined the message that he had printed out. "Kirk used some key words that we had discussed."

"Now, it is possible that he has been brainwashed. My people tell me that the right drugs can make a man do anything. So his information comes with that caveat. But to get to the point: Kirk's choice of words, his phrases, suggests that the Romulans are hit hard."

They sat comfortably in the underground residence. Thorpe suspected that the bombproof was the most private place in the residence. The only electronic and paper records were here. Thorpe intended to destroy those. He had never understood the penchant of previous politicians whose downfall had been caused by their very own meticulously kept records. Thorpe planned to leave nothing. He sat opposite Soval. A real fire burned in the fireplace.

"You plan to issue the terms that we discussed earlier?" the Vulcan asked.

"I do," he answered. "What is your opinion of those?"

Soval replied without hesitation: "My concerns are the same as Shran's and Creel Zarn's: the last demand." Soval looked down at the paper that contained the allies' terms.

"I agonized over that, but Admiral Forrest emphasized that that would ensure that the Romulans stay quiet for at least thirty or forty years." The Vulcan handed him the paper. He took the document from Soval and tossed it into the fireplace.

"They may not accept that term. It would leave them virtually defenseless," Soval said.

"Admiral Forrest thinks not. I mentioned that same thing. The admiral believes that the Klingons are only now feeling the stirring of expansion. They've fought a minor civil war. Besides us they are the only major power that is emerging in this sector. The Romulans shouldn't have to worry about them for some time. We are not conquerors. They will never have to worry about us. Finally there is this: they started this conflict. What we are asking is minor compared to the deaths of twenty million people."

"I see the logic in that sir—for the short term. You think that in twenty of your years this federation will be strong enough to deal with the secret if it is exposed. You are probably right." He watched Soval steeple his long fingers before his sharp face.

"I am not convinced of this federation's manifest destiny. You say that a time traveler showed up in Earth's past and proclaimed its existence. If true, then what if this federation becomes an oppressive empire? How do you not know that you do not stand at the head of a great conquering empire that will be despised by billions?"

"I don't. But it's not the claims of an ancient military record. I know that it seems fantastic. There are things buried in the archives that I've been privy to that do seem like nonsense: arks and star gates and remote viewers. But it's not the statement of some maybe time traveler that moves me. It's the things that we can accomplish together."

Soval studied him intently. He needed to convince the Vulcan, maybe himself of his conviction. He stood up and made a show of getting another small log and throwing it onto the fire.

"You said that Vulcans needed a change, that you were becoming stagnant."

"I did not use those words. But Syrran said what amounted to the same thing."

"The point is that you, Vulcans were becoming rooted, complacent. Shahar Shran suggested the same thing for his people. The Sons' of Terra showed that we had the same problem. We can't afford to become stagnant; none of us can. Maybe there is a race somewhere that is satisfied with the status quo. Personally I don't believe such a race could evolve past goo. If we turn away from one another…and into ourselves then we damn the future."

"This country we are in now. Do you know its significance?"

"The United States of America," Soval recited. "Not the first republic, but one whose constitution had been written well enough to guarantee the greatest liberty to its citizens for almost a hundred and fifty years."

"There's speculation about their fall but it occurred about the same time that they ran out of frontiers. We can't run out of frontiers prefect. We grew complacent and look what happened. This federation will make exploration cheap. That will appeal to the money changers. The scientists are already excited over the prospect of exploration. In a few decades exploration will return dividends and money and wealth will be a thing of the past. Everyone will be prosperous. In the meantime there will be new worlds and these new worlds will enjoy freedom like those old Americans dreamed of. When the homeworlds get too oppressive and stodgy then people can just emigrate. The throwbacks won't have the control that no frontiers gave to them."

"I resist the notion that some Vulcans were…throwbacks. Yet there is the fact of what happened on my world. I see your point sir. You humans have a saying: time will tell." Soval leaned forward and warmed his hands near to the fire. He looked sharply at Thorpe.

"I cannot predict the future but there is this in relation to the matter we were discussing: this last term will guarantee your federation an enemy. Consider; the Romulans waited for thousands of your years for a union with us. They have our ability to take the long view. These terms will guarantee that they remember our races—yours in particular, with a malice that will know no bounds. Your federation may unite many in this part of the galaxy but I fear that it will be a long time before the Romulans are members of it."

"I'll accept that," Thorpe said. People change, aliens change, he thought. He suspected that there could be no dialogue with them for a long time, but not forever. "I'll send the praetor the terms and we'll go from there. It's all a guess anyway. They are liable to say no." And then what would he do?

Venador, the sixteen hundredth turning of the Age of Pentar'n, the season of tears,

"We have interlacing ground and orbital platforms admiral," Colonel Petari told him. "An alliance attack on this world would be broken like a wave upon the shore."

"I need mobility colonel," Admiral Valdore said, "not fixed emplacements." Valdore removed his helmet and looked out over the artificial forest of metal missile launchers. The smell of raw sewage and industrial waste assaulted his sense of smell. His face ached where the bones had been fused back together. "I am impressed that you got the weapons manufacturing program going this quickly. We can transfer most of these missiles to our ships."

Petari's brows knitted together before he answered. "We spent many tens transferring them down here admiral. The crews are not shiftless but—"

"What do you mean colonel?" he snapped. "These missiles were made here were they not?"

"I…thought that the admiral was aware that we lacked the equipment for all but basic needs," Petari removed his helmet as he explained. "Sinphius ordered that our ships' stores be used for—"

"Denaton," he turned quickly to his first officer. "Get every able shuttle, soldier and technician and begin a transfer of these weapons back to our ships!" He slammed a fist into his palm.

The fleet that orbited over his head was practically toothless. They had come from Romulus with only basic stores. How could even Sinphius have been this foolish? There was no time or place for blame here, Valdore reflected hotly. Sinphius was dead, felled by Valdore's own hand. The damage was done. He watched and listened while the major organized the resupply effort. More time wasted!

"My admiral," Petari started, "I am sorry. We were unaware—"

Valdore cut him off gently and questioned him about just what else Sinphius had ordered while here. He wouldn't be surprised if the former Imperial Hand had actually removed the ships' point defense lasers and installed them on the ground for a light show. Besides missiles he discovered that many of the ship crews had been pulled away to perform defensive duties on the surface. Valdore ordered Petari to correct that situation immediately. No wonder the commanders had mentioned fatigue as a major problem. They had been operating on reduced crew loads.

The admiral had gathered his ships without stopping for an inspection tour. Valdore had looked down on such things as puffery. The commanders were capable of organizing their ground units. Now he saw that that notion was wrong. He needed the ground units to work efficiently to service the ships that had arrived from Romulus. The hand of Sinphius had reached out once more to interfere.

Valdore dismissed his subordinates. He walked steadily until the ground started climbing away from the desert plain. Soon Valdore was scrambling up a rocky mountain path. He thought that the summit should be just a short climb. It was longer than he thought that it was. He arrived huffing and puffing at the top. It did not help that this world's average air pressure was somewhat less than what he was used to.

The summit commanded a view of a great green sea. Ruby winged birds circled over the waves plucking out a type of jumping fish. Save for a few clouds the sky was empty. Valdore dropped to one knee, took his canteen from his belt and drank. He said a silent prayer to the gods of Vorta-vor. He prayed for the time needed to get his ships into open space. For there, the alliance was vulnerable.

It was a race. Valdore was sure of that. He looked out across the alien horizon and realized that just out of sight lay the pleasure island that Sinphius had been building. Probably that might be where Valdore would find the industrial equipment that was to have been used for ships and weapons. So much of what the mighty empire had wrought had been squandered. Valdore hoped the gods looked favorably upon those whose virtues were thrift, service and duty. That described most of his race. The Sinphius' were few but did great damage nonetheless.

The alien sun sank slowly into the sea. The sky turned red; the color of human blood. Valdore took it as a hopeful sign. It would take all that he had, all that his legionnaires had, but they must prevail. He stood up and looked out. A voice told him that it would be for the last time. Valdore turned and started down. The battle to turn the alliance away would soon be joined.

Romulan Battle Station N'Vec Teel, in orbit of Venador

Major Kiriaan Atvec examined the order asking him to do the impossible. First they had unshipped the missile sand taken them to the surface. Now someone was ordering them to do the reverse. He wished that that someone understood that the ground crews had put an extra chemical booster stage on each of the _Tvenga'n_. These boosters were cumbersome and even dangerous. He growled, cursed and then balled the order up and threw it across the room. It sailed long through the air thanks to the station's lower gravity field.

"Problems major?" his aide, Commander Avitus asked. Atvec told him of his dilemma.

"How can the admiral expect me to remove the booster so that they fit back in the shipboard racks and meet this timetable?"

"Respectfully Kiriaan," the commander answered. The two had been companions for many tens turnings. "You know that Admiral Valdore is a dynamic commander. His main concern is getting the missiles back into our fighting ships. It is past time for such a move; if I may say."

"You just did," Atvec interjected. The two had always worked well together. Atvec also happened to agree with his old friend. Nothing had been more pleasing than the arrival of Admiral Valdore's ship despite its battered condition. "Go on," he commanded.

"You are doubtless concerned about stabilizing the _xrelzizn_ propellant and then transferring it to a surface tanker?" Avitus continued without waiting for his reply. His old friend and aide was correct. "How about storing it in orbit? We'll just drop the extra stages and recover them later. We'll meet the admiral's schedule that way."

The propellant represented the pinnacle of Romulan chemistry. The oxidizing semi gaseous material was kept only just from exploding by being pressurized in the booster storage tank. Once released it needed almost nothing to ignite it, which was its danger. Atvec had indeed figured that the majority of his crews' time would be consumed in transferring the deadly explosive fuel to carriers. But why do that? The booster stages were a perfect storage container for that.

"Good thinking Avitus!" he exclaimed. He laid a gloved hand upon his friend's shoulder. "Pass the orders to the crews and queue the ships. We will soon have our fleet armed and then damn the Triple Alliance to Vorta-tx!"

Star Fleet cruiser Beagle, Taskforces 18 and 36, approaching the Cheron system, Aug 2160

Jocelyn Stiles stood before the main viewer. She had fought to command this probing action against the Birdies. The lack of action since Nelvana frustrated her. Stiles understood that Admiral Forrest was preparing a massive counterstroke. But at this rate she thought that the Birds would be rebuilt by the time that stroke came. At least the Star Fleet had harried the Romulan ships that had been deployed here.

Stiles looked at the tactical screen where the computer representations for her taskforces were displayed. Forrest had cobbled together Taskforce 36 to lend her a hand. The new taskforce was made up primarily of the new Daedelus class cruisers Phoenix, Icarus, Valiant and Proteus. The Daedelus' smaller cousins the Comets had been finally deployed for combat. Stiles had the Comet class Comet, Meteor and Aurora added to her taskforce while thirty six had the Nova, Pulsar and Nebula. The combined taskforces were made for fast attack.

"Commence a low level forward scan," Stiles ordered.

Chief Dalia Morris complied. Stiles expected exactly what the previous strikers had found: her Romulan counterparts dispersed, so that anything their small attack would accomplish would be very small. She paced around the bridge. She heard Morris' exclamation.

"What is it chief?" she asked.

"It looks like Romulan ships are running a supply chain around the third planet, commodore," she answered. Morris' face was plastered against her sensor hood. "But they are leaving metallic debris…no." Stiles watched her fingers deftly punch computer commands into the sensors. "It's not debris…cylinders…cylinders and they have a pressurized gaseous material in them. They look like missile boosters. That can't be." This last was muttered under the chief's breath.

"Let me see," Stiles snapped.

Morris stood aside. Stiles was not a seasoned sensor technician but she was a strong proponent of learning everything that her crewmen did. She, unlike Morris, had to stop and look at the touch screen to resolve the sensors but she soon concluded the same thing.

Stiles orders were to probe the system's outer defenses. Forrest wanted them weakened in preparation for a major strike. She weighed the costs of attacking the inner world. It would be disobeying orders, but she had already committed one such serious breach. Stiles would be out after the war anyway—if she lived. She sensed Captain Jospin behind her.

"That is a large concentration of ships in that position," he said. "If we could attack them we might well kill many of them."

"Even if they break and reform we can plaster that world with Grand Slams," she said. She stood up and backed out of the sensor alcove. "That world seems to be where they are basing and supplying from."

"I doubted you before commodore," Jospin told her in a voice for her ears only. "I think that you are considering something now. I will not doubt you again." Jospin had cleaned up the drinking and was looking better.

"Our sensors are probably better," she started. "That means that right now we have a small margin of surprise." She crossed the deck to stand behind the helmsman. She turned to Jospin. "Go to impulse drive," she commanded.

She waited until Jospin had passed that order to the rest of the ships. In the meantime she spoke to her science section. That area was very small these days, but it was still there. She remembered the ensign who headed up gravimetrics. He was an older man who served admittedly to have the opportunity to study things first hand. Like many in the sciences he had been given an additional duty that was combat related.

"Ensign Hall," she started. "This is Commodore Stiles."

For a long time there was no reply. Finally a surprised voice answered. "Come on Hannah, this is no time for jokes."

"Doctor Hall, this is Commodore Stiles calling from the bridge. This is not a joke. If you want I'll come down there and explain things in person." Stiles heard muffled voices in the background. Seconds later Hall came back with a deeply apologetic tone:

"I'm sorry ma'am…sir," he said. "It is just that you never call down here. Can I help you?"

"Have you done a thorough analysis of this system?" she asked. The taskforce was plodding along in normal space. She hoped that she had a few precious moments to use.

"A…" Stiles wrinkled her face. Hall was one of those people who dragged out articles when they spoke. "Ah…a yes the department submitted the standard military survey scan…a—"

"I hope that you went above and beyond that ensign," she interrupted.

"Well…I as a…"

A female voice intruded over the conversation. "We performed an in depth analysis in order to acquire statistical data for a study we are doing commodore. I hope that we haven't did anything wrong?"

"You haven't," Stiles took a deep breath and muffled a sigh. "Do you have enough detailed information to accurately plot the gravimetric folds?"

There was a short pause: "You want to sneak in there?" the female voice asked. The voice hastily added Stiles' rank. Jocelyn guessed that she was talking to the mysterious Hannah. She remembered that Hall was partnered in that section with another physicist. She just couldn't remember the crewman's name.

"That's exactly what I want to do crewman…"

"Lieutenant Hannah Lipkin," the female voice supplied. Hall was the senior researcher but Lipkin had her rank from a prior reserve tour. "I'm not sure how far you can get sir but I'll zip the details to the bridge right away."

Stiles thanked the woman, broke the connection and then waited. While she was doing that she studied the avenues of approach. All of them seemed obvious to her. That meant that they would be obvious to a Birdie. Stiles wasn't the expert that her science chiefs were but she doubted that there would be much difference between what her speculations and what they would hand her. The information arrived. Stiles had Jospin overlay it against the tactical view.

"Commodore, I'm reading a group of bogeys approaching the system from the third quadrant," Chief Morris reported.

"Their heading would put their outbound point at Romulus," Jospin declared as he examined Morris' findings.

"They're not our boys," Stiles said quietly.

She mentally drew a line from their present position over to the entry point that she guessed that the Birdies would take. The Star Fleet had recordings of what they thought was a version of alien IFF. It might be that, it might be something else. Stiles wondered how far the fog of war would take the Comet class ships. If they transmitted the unknown codes and the Romulans waited while they tried to figure things out the Comets should be able to get to a position very close to an area of heavy gravimetric distortion. Cheron was experiencing a rare planetary alignment.

"I know what you are thinking, commodore," Jospin said. He shook his head. "I was too conservative at Nelvana. I am not that here. Any forces we send in there will be practically naked for several AU's." He stared over her shoulder at the viewer.

The fold as depicted by Beagle's computer looked like a wisp of smoke. Stiles was reminded of holos of optical illusions. She remembered the young girl's face in the old woman's face in particular. But no matter how deeply she considered the matter the answer was the same: even the Comets with their speed couldn't surprise the Romulans. She just needed a few AU's to make it work and they didn't seem to be forthcoming. Jospin brushed by her and, stopping before the viewscreen put his hand up to the fold.

"I started in communications commodore," he started. "One of my first infractions for drunkenness," he added in a rare mention of his problem. "It came from in incident where I was to send a message to a freighter that we were to rendezvous with. Remember that those were the days of low band FTL emissions and radar."

"Captain is there a point—"

"_Oui_, there is a point," he uncharacteristically interrupted.

"We didn't have the understanding of space then that we do now. When I transmitted the coordinates for rendezvous and the time no one really understood that a fold, such as we have here, reflected my signal back." He turned and looked into her eyes.

"You see, the radar operator trusted the solution that he'd calculated from our transmission instead of the radar return. She actually corrected the return thinking that her unit was off. The result was that we came out of subspace almost two AU's off of where we should be. I was reprimanded because I'd been at the lounge the previous night. Actually I was quite sober. But…I never demanded a test. I thought that integrity meant something. I did start drinking more after I discovered that it did not."

His personal grudges aside, Stiles saw what he was driving at. If they commenced spoofing on a low subspace band it would reflect back from the fold. Would the Romulans operators range back from the signal's reflected position? She looked hard at Jospin.

"Taskforce 10 got in some hits on their outer sensor buoys last week," he explained. "That means that their data is coming from the inside of the system. Subspace sensors are extraordinary commodore but they are still translated as linear information."

"We can only guess that the Romulans are somewhat like us captain," she countered. More than you know Captain Jospin, she thought. Stiles needed to go through all of the possible arguments before she committed.

"That is true commodore," he replied. "But we are reasonably sure that they are using first generation subspace sensors. We know the limitations on those. Their operators are getting information from inside the system." He stopped for a moment.

"If we send the Comets in on standby fusion the Romulans won't read our mam plants until they get close. By then the Comets can make a high speed strike. We'll do the same to them that they have done with their Clavicles."

Stiles nodded. The Comets could use their high warp speed to escape if things turned sour. They could take a swipe at the primary target on the way out. Stiles went to her seat. She ordered the taskforce to go to warp along the line that she had first imagined. Jospin passed along details of the intended attack to the captains. Stiles ordered battle stations. She reckoned that they had about ten minutes until things heated up.

Romulan Battle Station N'Vec Teel, in orbit of Venador

"The last of the guard reinforcements from home," Commander Avitus told his friend and superior officer Major Kiriaan Atvec.

"Their recognition codes are from another sector entirely!" Atvec exclaimed.

"Those fools! May I see the transmission logs major?" Avitus asked. He handed the commander the printout.

"It could be an alliance trick," Avitus said.

"I'm going to send out a strike—"

The uhlan working the station's wireless intruded on his plan. "Major, the additional ships from Romulus have sent another message. This one was sent with the proper codes. The detector operator reports that he made an error in positioning but that he has our ships on his screen."

Atvec acknowledged the operator and after a brief pause decided that the initial code group that was sent was some kind of an error. Those ships had been training vessels for the most part. He had received the sad news that many of them were crewed by untried cadets from Norcela. Command had pulled the graduating class and the one to be for the next turn for space duty. He had a bad feeling. He was tired. Atvec removed his helmet and ran his hand through his lank unwashed hair.

"I should inform Admiral Valdore of this," he said.

"The admiral is busy elsewhere Atvec," his aide countered. "Are you going to report the observations of some tired detector operators or a commander who sent the wrong codes and then corrected the error?"

"Tell the detector operators to increase their sweeps," he said. It wasn't enough, a voice warned from the depths of his mind. He shoved it aside as fatigue and a grueling work schedule. "How goes the missile transfer?" he asked in an attempt to push his thoughts aside.

"We're stringing our vessels out in orbit and using rocket sleds to deliver the warheads."

"We can disperse in the event of an alliance attack," Atvec said. They needed but a little amount of time to restock their ships. Admiral Valdore wanted them ready to fight. "I'm going to notify the admiral. You are probably correct about the codes but this entire matter should be sent up."

"Don't let me stand in the way of an old friend who is making a serious mistake," Avitus said. "You are the section leader for the battle stations. The decision is yours. Just remember that Admiral Valdore is busy with plotting strategy. Do you think that'll he'll want to stop to admonish some commander who was just a training master sixty dawnings ago?"

Atvec floated over to the crystalline viewport. One of their older warships sailed gracefully by the station. It rolled to position itself for taking on supplies. The keel had black scorch marks had been scored by laser fire. One of the ship's three pods was skeletal. The technicians probably hadn't had either the time or the material needed to put plating back onto the space bending pod. Many things in the empire were like that pod, the major thought: in need of repairs that would not come for a long time.

Imperial Romulan cruiser Riitraxa, on the surface of Vendor's third moon,

Valdore had needed the walk. He had not walked on an airless world in some time. He made the bulky suit a part of him, as an old uhlan had once told a young Cadet Valdore to do. He bounded over large craters and then leapt upwards until he stood atop a rocky outcropping of a spiked mountain. He looked up at the clear unwavering stars and then back down at his flagship. The power room master had requested they land here so that he had a work space.

The last of his cruiser's skin was being welded back into place. The technicians were busy moving their work benches and portable stands back into the ship. Valdore was disturbed at the turn that this war had taken. But, looking below and seeing how his soldiers and technicians had met the challenge of repairing the wounded Riitraxa, had made him proud. They were Romulans; he should have expected nothing less. Valdore looked skyward again, into the blackness.

Somehow he had to draw out the alliance with a small force while sending another one to arc around and come at them from behind. They would be making approaches to here and Romulus soon, so that their possible entry vectors were limited. Valdore was anxious to see in what condition the home guard ships were. That would determine much of his future strategy.

He switched into the maintenance network. Denaton was issuing the first orders that would initiate the power up sequence. The power room master had taken Riitraxa's reactor offline in order to make several repairs that he had been unable to do before. His ship would soon be ready. Valdore looked up again—and saw a nightmare. A small group of ships burst into normal space.

They were small but their outlines were clearly visible. Valdore remembered rumors that the alliance had a secret type of vessel with a spherical command hull. These ships all had that. Each ship sported twin space bending pods attached at what was probably a power room section. The ships were soon gone, over the moon's horizon. Valdore immediately called Denaton on the command circuit.

"The detector stations saw nothing until the last tenth!" Denaton exclaimed. "Admiral, it will be awhile before we have full power. The ships in orbit are turning to engage but they are in Venador's gravity."

"Have the battle stations commence fire!" he ordered.

Comet class attack cruiser Aurora, nearing the third planet of the Cheron system, Aug 2160

"Maximum impulse! Take us to laser range!" Captain Daniel Kennedy ordered.

Kennedy's Comet class Aurora took the lead. Kennedy had asked for and been granted permission to change his ship's registry number from two-oh-two to one-oh-nine. Only a few of his close friends and those on his command staff understood the significance of that. The mission of these fast attack cruisers was not unlike that of his distant ancestor's PT boat. Kennedy had been briefed on what the Birdies were doing in orbit. He had a theory.

"Satellite defenses are powering up, Jack," his first officer, Lieutenant Gustav Tepper informed him. His subordinate and old friend from Heidelberg was one of the few people who used his nickname.

"Alter heading by forty degrees for ten seconds and then come back on heading minus two degrees," he snapped.

"Aye sir!" his helmsman acknowledged.

"Let the Birds try to lock onto that!" he said.

"Plasma cannon spike!" Chief Judy Nichols exclaimed.

The cannon fired just as Kennedy changed back to his original course. Nichols told him that they had been spared by a narrow margin. Aurora was well within Narwhal range. Kennedy ordered some Romulan cruisers targeted. His laser crew called up and told him that they had a solution of the discarded missile sections.

"Time to see if I'm right," Kennedy said. He looked around the Aurora's tiny bridge. He didn't need to raise his voice much to carry less than five meters. "Fire," he ordered in his heavy New England accent.

"Bring the primary weapon online!" Major Atvec practically screamed into the audio pickup. "Target antiship missiles for a dispersion pattern! Keep those ships away from the cruisers!"

His office, which sat atop the battle station's structure, was suddenly bathed in light. It was not the harsh brutal light from a nuclear detonation. He propelled himself to the port. Commander Avitus pushed into the chamber. He slammed into the port. Atvec caught his old friend by the arm.

He saw a strange ship with a spherical prow execute a tight curving turn that could only be performed by a spacecraft. He saw a light that could only be the mystery ship's laser. The invisible beam lanced out to cleanly cut one of the discarded missile stages into two. The gaseous propellant glowed white for just a brief instant before exploding. The explosion touched off another booster. This one had been floating before a cruiser's cargo lock. The warship was blown into pieces.

"Forgive me Kiriaan!" Avitus pleaded. "You were right to be suspicious!"

"Blame seems pointless at this time my friend," he declared. Atvec stared out as a section of the former cruiser, outlined by the blue gray planet below, careened on an exact trajectory for the station. Atvec heard a loud pop.

"Primary target destroyed commodore!" Captain Jospin announced.

Jocelyn Stiles heard his statement but was glued instead to the relayed tactical information from the Comets. Their attack had started a chain reaction of destruction that had practically wiped out the Romulan group in orbit. Stiles orders were to hit the one of the inner sensor buoys and its defense platform and then to leave.

"The hell with orders," she growled. "I'm sacked anyway."

"All ships turn on the inbounds!" she ordered. "Tell thirty six to continue the attack. Taskforce execute fleet maneuver Stiles-delta-tango."

"Turning to, commodore," Jospin said after sending out her orders to the taskforce.

There were sixty five Romulan ships inbound. Her taskforce would be outnumbered by greater than five-to-one. But they had hull plating and advanced targeting sensors. She watched as the distance between her ships and the Birdies decreased. Would they try a last desperate attempt to ram or rely on their superior numbers?

"Enemy warp fields dropping," Chief Morris announced.

"Helm, calculate exit for less than ten thousand klicks! Exec, pass that along and tell the gunners to calculate for proximity bursts followed by precision firing." Stiles strapped herself into her seat. Her ships were arrayed such that they looked like a small spider web. Jocelyn was the spider and she intended to make the Romulans her victims.

The Romulan attack group exited warp and spread apart. The attacking Star Fleet ships, practically invisible over the great distances, exited seconds later. The Romulan Sabinus and Veronus class cruisers immediately started powering their cannons. The emitters glowed white as a blanket of Narwhals enveloped a few of the lead cruisers. Cachalots fired from Furies and Champion systematically tore through the Romulan force.

The Romulans fired back. The Tellarite cruiser Hazmq was hit twice as it delivered a lethal volley of Merculite rockets. One of its Romulan attackers was reduced to small pieces in mere seconds. Hazmq turned away slowly; a third plasma beam caught the Tellarite on its aft. The ship split apart and exploded.

Beagle continued inward, destroying two Cabbages. The great ship's snarling dog hull art was turned into a blackened scorched mark. Blue static rained down Beagle's port side. The cruiser fired two more Narwhals while its Spiders defeated two incoming Romulan Moolahs. The Andorian ship Aktaba rushed in and reduced one of Beagle's attackers to atoms with a spread of starbursts.

The Star Fleet ships fired another proximity burst near to the regrouping Romulan force. A hail of missiles flew through the dying explosions toward the Romulans. Furies was hit twice but its attackers were in turn destroyed. The Conqueror turned away slowly, trailing bits of molten debris.

Jospin cursed in French. Stiles snapped her head around and realized that it was a curse of amazement; at surprise of discovering something extraordinarily good. They had won. Furies was crippled but still in the fight. Hazmq, Celebus and Seawolf along with four Minotaurs were no more. But so were the Romulans, no more.

"Report from thirty six!" she snapped. Stiles threw off her restraints and bounded to the communications' alcove.

"Comet reporting in," a nervous ensign reported. "They…they are in control of the skies over the third planet. All ships and orbital batteries are destroyed."

"Assess damage and report back exec," Stiles snapped.

Jospin was already on it. They still had Panther, Chesapeake, Ventizen and Aktaba. She also had the four Daedelus class ships. Icarus had taken serious damage but for now her captain reported it under control. Stiles ordered a course plotted for the third planet. Martin Ward fired back with the numbers. The sector was clear. The damaged ships could take care of one another.

"Order thirty six to look for and destroy enemy shipping," Stiles ordered. "Link to taskforce, set course one-one-eight mark two-six and engage at warp three!"

"All fighting ships are reporting back in," Jospin responded. "Course set and ready," he added. "Captain Vadam is sending his crew to the boats. Furies is recovering and can take on survivors."

"Engage," she ordered. Icarus and her crew were in good hands.

Valdore wanted to bury his face in his hands. He looked through the faceplate of his helmet at his ship. It looked like a pile of refuse, which for all practical purposes it might as well be. The power room master and his technicians had only just finished covering it with gray fibrous sheeting.

He had little time to reflect on the wonder of the metal fabric that was intended for the construction of temporary habitats on worlds like this. Fortunately it also could act as a foil for radar and bent space detectors. They would need that. All power had been shut off. Denaton had even ordered battery use limited. Most of the crew was huddled in Riitraxa's inner recesses, breathing foul air and relying on each other's body heat for warmth. Valdore looked up. The top third of the world that they had put their base upon was now visible.

Normally it would have cast a sick grayish blue light on this moon, but not this dawning. This dawning, the planet and its seven million soldiers and laborers were being subjected to a furious nuclear bombardment. Harsh white pinpricks expanded and then receded to a dull venomous glow as the Triple Alliance ships in orbit launched warhead after warhead. Whoever commanded their force was taking no chances. Valdore knew that it had to be Stiles.

Forrest, Buchanan, or Antor might use the same speed and ruthlessness to attack. But none of those would commence a surface bombardment of this nature. Only Stiles had that level of almost Romulan thoroughness and precise, practiced brutality. Valdore looked up and saw the main continent where they had built their bases, cities and factories. It was outlined by a molten red glow. He did not move when Denaton waved his gloved hand before his faceplate.

He could feel the major plug into his suit jack. "Are you alright admiral?" He could hear Denaton's concern.

"I live," he replied simply.

"The ground batteries were useless my admiral," Denaton said. "We've lost contact with the…" He imagined that the major had gotten a good look at the planet.

"Fixed emplacements are useless. It's a pity that I shot Sinphius. I should have deposited him there to see how his missile batteries have faired." Another bright plume erupted on the surface.

"Your air supply is nearing its end admiral," Denaton said. "You should cycle through the lock."

Run skulking into a hole and hide, Valdore thought bitterly. He suddenly wanted to be out here, wanted Stiles' ship to find him here and end it. He had failed the empire. All of Valdore's life, a good life of service and honor had led up to this defeat. He drew his sidearm, pointed it at the sky and fired. He felt the weapon's recoil. It was of course, silent in the moon's vacuum. Denaton grabbed at his arm. Valdore saw one of the accursed enemy ships emerge over the horizon.

"You can't accomplish anything by dying admiral!"

The ship, with its spherical bow section, passed overhead. Valdore emptied the gun's clip. He screamed unintelligibly. They didn't even find him a threat. They hadn't even paused to kill him; to swat him like an insect. He fell to his knees. Valdore vaguely realized that Denaton was dragging him back to Riitraxa.


	53. Chapter 53

Star Fleet Yeager Class shuttle, near to the Romulus system, Oct 2160

"Standing by, admiral," Captain Michael Cromwell said. He brought the little shuttle to a relative halt.

Commodore Jocelyn Stiles sat next to him in the copilot's position. Admiral Forrest sat behind them in the observer's position. Their other passenger was Soval, Prefect of Vulcan. Commander Trudy Schultheiss had come too. Michael had insisted upon having a surgeon along; just in case. He also wanted his wife-to-be here at perhaps the end of all of this.

Cromwell listened into his earpiece as a single spoken phrase came over the subspace radio. It was not cryptic in his opinion. It was also not coded and scrambled. It was obvious that Forrest wanted any unintended listeners to know what awaited them.

"Thor's hammer is in place admiral," Cromwell said. Michael looked back at the senior officer. "Do you think that we'll have to use it?"

"I was talking to Dan Kennedy at the awards ceremony," Forrest said. "He is a descendent of a US president."

"Was that the one at the turn of the nineteenth century admiral?" Schultheiss asked.

"Later twentieth actually doctor," Forrest said.

"The Cuban Missile Crisis," Prefect Soval supplied.

"Yes," Forrest said. "I thought of how telling that was. Kennedy's ancestor was faced with a situation that would have put offensive nuclear weapons right off the coast of the United States. Remember in those days Russia dominated through the old USSR. That was way before the European Hegemony."

"Your US had missiles in a country that bordered that nation," Soval countered.

"They did prefect," Forrest said, "and their removal was part of the behind the scenes diplomatic effort that resolved the situation. What is important is that that Kennedy ordered his entire military on alert. Bombers were in the air, ships were ready to launch and missile crews were at a heightened state of alert. Had the Russians not backed down there would have been war. They would have received the brunt of it."

"Our forces are poised to hit Romulus, aren't they admiral?" Stiles asked.

He nodded. "The order of battle is known only to Admiral Buchanan. That way if they are up to something here then they can't wring anything out of me. But rest assured, all of you, if we don't show up for the rendezvous with Daedelus then the Romulan Empire is done."

"Contacts inbound," Stiles told him. Cromwell turned and brought the display up on his panel. Thirty-four returns were on course for their position. They would have just two hours to wait. Daedelus would be out of sensor range by then.

Cromwell looked back at Trudy. She smiled playfully at him. He had debated her coming here but she was the only medical doctor that knew the Romulan secret. If they were to die, then it would be together.

"I should be in the attack fleet admiral," Stiles said.

"You've done enough," Forrest snapped. Cromwell could see the tension between the two. "You are here as the stick. Hopefully we won't need that."

There was an awkward silence and much to Cromwell's surprise it was Soval who relieved it. "There is time for a game of hearts."

"You're serious prefect?" Cromwell asked, hoping that he was not out of turn.

"Quite, I learned the game from Augustus Kirk," the Vulcan answered. "Overly simple, like most Earth games, but there is an interesting strategy involved."

"You miss him?" Forrest asked. Cromwell had heard that Kirk was on Romulus. He still found the notion hard to believe.

"Kirk has many of the admirable qualities that we saw in humans," Soval answered. "He also taught me much more about your people. What I mistook for trivial nonsense from him I later discovered masked much wisdom. Humor, I still don't understand it but I grasp its positive impact on your people. Kirk taught me that. And yes, I do miss him."

"I don't suppose anyone brought cards?" Schultheiss asked.

"We are about to meet the Birdies and you all want to play cards," Stiles snapped angrily. Cromwell knew that her career was to end after this. That probably played no small part in her bitterness.

The Vulcan removed a deck of cards from an inner pocket of his cloak. Cromwell saw that Forrest was about to admonish Stiles when Soval piped in:

"Lighten up commodore," he said in that unemotional Vulcan voice.

Michael was losing his third game when the Romulans showed up. He became convinced that Trudy and the prefect had a mental connection. He had been dealt some excellent hands only to have either his intended bride or the Vulcan pull the rug out from under him. Stiles sent the prearranged recognition signal. Cromwell got up, returned to his seat and watched as a pinpoint slowly grew into a monstrous green shape.

The bird of prey, proudly emblazoned on its hull was scored and burned in places. More of the ships took form as they got closer to the shuttle. A harsh light came from the Romulan Sabinus as shuttle bay doors parted. Cromwell looked back at the admiral. Forrest nodded.

"Take us in captain," Forrest said.

Cromwell flew straight and steady. He was very careful to execute the best docking that he could. The others came forward to look out of the port as he entered the cavernous bay. Romulan shuttles, apparently made of the same materials as were their capital ships sat neatly in formation. Their prows were shaped like the beaks of hunting birds. Slots in the sides marked what looked to be deployable wings. Cromwell turned the craft about its vertical so that they were facing the way that they had entered. He sat the shuttle down.

"Gravity field is forming outside sir," Stiles reported. "I'm reading partial pressure," she continued after the bay doors had rolled shut. "Stabilizing at almost the same as ours," she added after a few minutes. "The gas reads as oxy-nite mix, breathable," she said.

"Match pressure and open us up captain," Forrest ordered. Cromwell watched him get up and put on his dress uniform jacket. Michael did likewise. Forrest pulled out his sidearm and racked the slide.

"You are going to shoot your way out admiral?" Soval asked.

Forrest chuckled fiercely. "You never know prefect."

The hatch slid up. Forrest led, Soval followed. Stiles was next. Cromwell followed her. Trudy followed him. She seized his hand and squeezed it before they stepped down and out. Across the deck a human stood with three Romulans. One was slight and older with white hair. He was dressed in a cloak, pants and boots. The other two were dressed in uniforms. One of those must have received an injury for it marred his face. Hackles went up Michael's spine. This was surely the enemy general.

The taller of the two, this Romulan was a head shorter than Michael. But then again most people were. His straight black hair was shot through with gray. As the humans and the Vulcan drew closer Michael could see the officer's piercing gray eyes. They were engaging and assessing each of them. Cromwell found it hard to not look away when the Romulan commander's gaze fell upon him. The human spoke first:

"I am Augustus Kirk." He went about introducing the Romulans. "This is Senator Vrax who is here on behalf of Praetor Karzan."

"Wait!" Forrest exclaimed. "Does he have full authority to approve anything that we agree to?"

"I do," Vrax answered in English. His accent made him sound Eastern European to Cromwell. "I am designated as the Praetor's Hand."

Kirk continued after an uncomfortable silence. "These gentlemen are Admiral Valdore and his aide Major Denaton of the Romulan Imperial Star Forces."

The one named Denaton bowed his head slightly. None of the human officers returned the gesture. Forrest had briefed them not to. Forrest and Valdore seemed locked in a staring contest, neither looked away from the other.

"Very well," Kirk said quietly. "Senator Vrax, this is Prefect Soval of Vulcan. Admiral Maxwell Forrest, supreme commander of the Star Fleet, Commodore Jocelyn Stiles of the Star Fleet—"

"Stiles," the one named Denaton hissed under his breath. He uttered more words in his tongue until Valdore laid a restraining hand onto his shoulder.

The Romulan admiral turned his sharp gaze upon the commodore. "You do not look like a demon." Valdore's English was not as heavily accented as was Vrax's.

"You do look like a murderer," she spat.

"That's enough!" Admiral Forrest exclaimed.

"She has earned that Forrest," Valdore said softly. Cromwell saw the Romulan's gaze change from the look of a hunting beast to something else. He reminded himself that these were not humans. The expression might have been anything. Had Valdore been human then Michael would have called it pity. There was more awkward silence.

"I'm afraid that I don't know these two," Kirk said of him and Schultheiss.

Forrest finished the introductions. The Romulans escorted them to a briefing room. The oddly curving tight corridors were familiar to Cromwell from his study of the Romulan derelict. This was the same class of vessel. It was almost as badly damaged as that one had been. They passed several open relay boxes. The smell of burnt electrical systems filled the air. Romulan engineers engaged in repairs would pause and look at them. Their looks held sadness when they saw the humans. But the expression for Soval was different.

Cromwell's father had taken a young Michael to Rome once. They had stopped and toured the Vatican. Cromwell had not subscribed to that faith yet he could not help but to see the adulation upon the faces of the faithful who were there to see the Pope that day. That same look was on the faces of these Romulans. What sort of hope did Vulcans engender for these Romulans?

They were led to a briefing room. The seats looked to have been brought in at the last minute. Cromwell recognized them as the type that was in the Romulan crew quarters. He recalled Omar Bashir's speculation about why Romulans stood for briefings instead of sitting. They picked their places around the triangular shaped table top. Cromwell sat down. He was uncomfortable.

"Let's get to the point," Forrest said without ceremony.

"We wish to speak further about your final term," Senator Vrax started. "We cannot possibly maintain the sovereignty of the empire with the forces that you leave to us."

"We've run high speed sensor passes of your system senator," Forrest said. "You would have approximately fifty ships left to your disposal."

"Many of those are freighters and tankers," Valdore said. "We have agrarian colonies on several worlds. Our race relies on food shipments from those worlds. We need ships for that."

"Fifty ships can easily form the nexus of a freighter fleet," Cromwell said. Besides knowing the Romulans' identity Cromwell had discovered that Forrest thought of him as something of an expert in ship deployment.

"We would have no ships for self defense," Vrax countered. "We share a border with the Klingons and we've already had disputes with them."

"Self defense wouldn't be an issue if you hadn't attacked us senator," Forrest replied in a calm tone. "Frankly, your defense is not my problem. We've done an assessment of the Klingons though: you would have several human decades before they become a problem for you."

"This is unacceptable," Vrax said.

Forrest had laid out an ancient leather bound notebook before him. The pages were open to the details of the proposals. He reached down in a decisive manner and slammed the book close. Cromwell almost jumped out of his skin.

"Very well, we'll see you over Romulus. Commodore Stiles, you're with me." Forrest and Stiles stood up. Cromwell followed suit with Schultheiss. Soval remained sitting.

"Reunification will not happen in our lifetimes, senator, admiral," the Vulcan calmly told the Romulans. "Ending this meeting will ensure that it never occurs."

"Ally with them do you!" Denaton exclaimed while pointing at the humans. "Never unified after this!" he spat.

"You are a part of us major," Soval declared. "Given what has happened the present generation of Vulcans will never accept you as anything but conquerors. But there is hope for the future. We will ally ourselves with humans and Andorians and probably many others; this is true. We must change and so must you. This respite will allow time to alter our destinies. Vulcan needs to grow before we can accept you. You too will have to change."

"Conquerors we are!" Denaton declared. Vrax held up a warning hand.

"So we are," the senator said. "I heard the very same argument from our praetor, prefect. Perhaps we can survive with the ships you leave us." Vrax gestured for all to resume their seats.

"We Vulcans will embrace you in the future. It is not logical but…I sense that it will happen. But for now our paths must separate one last time." Soval looked at the humans. "Please admiral, let us all be seated again."

The Star Fleet officers returned to the table. The Romulans reluctantly agreed to the number of ships. Cromwell found that condition humiliating. He could only imagine how the more prideful Romulans must feel. But these were a defeated people. In the simplest of terms they had picked a fight and lost. Were it not for the Vulcans then it was a real possibility that there would be no conference out here and that the fleets would be heading for Romulus. The Romulans, for all that they had done, had gotten off lucky.

"This neutral zone will guarantee our anonymity," Vrax said. "It will also cut off trade with the Orions and the _Thoul'n_ among others." Cromwell realized just how old the Romulan senator was from his pained expression. "It is your custom to sign documents."

"It is, but we won't." Forrest folded his arms over his chest. "There will be no record of this meeting. Your praetor will communicate with Earth via subspace channel 'K' as we've indicated. The treaty will be concluded over subspace. It is to be set for ten of your dawnings hence."

Vrax closed his eyes for a long time. The room was silent. So silent that Cromwell could pick out the mechanical whir of the environmental units. He could hear Trudy's breath like a loud noise in a quiet library. Finally the elderly senator opened his eyes.

Vrax stood up. "As the Praetor's Hand I hereby accept the terms of the alliance powers for the Romulan Empire. It is agreed. It is over." He sat back down shakily and hung his head. To Cromwell he symbolized his people: shattered and beaten.

There was more silence. Cromwell watched Valdore. The admiral eyed the senator with concern. He reached out and touched the elder's shoulder. The act was gentle. Vrax looked up at him. Tears rolled down the old Romulan's cheeks, like drops of water on old paper.

Valdore stood up. "Major Denaton will conduct you back to your shuttle." He spoke a rapid stream of Romulan to the major. Valdore's subordinate seemed angry but finally relented. They started to leave. "I request to speak to Stiles—alone," Valdore said.

"Admiral I'm sure that—"

"Let Stiles decide if you would Admiral Forrest." Valdore held out both hands. "We are defeated. This is no act of pointless retribution. Will you not hear what I have to say commodore?"

"It's up to you commodore," Forrest told her. His tone was kindly and gentle.

Cromwell watched Stiles dark skin grow even darker. Her eyes were moist. Her fists were tight balls at her side. "You…fucking bastard! You killed my daddy…David…everyone."

"What is the harm in hearing the last words of an enemy that you crushed?" Valdore asked. "I know that you are courageous. Have courage enough to listen to me."

There was a long pause. Stiles nodded tersely. The others filtered out of the briefing room. Cromwell caught up to Augustus Kirk. He reached out and took Trudy's hand. He squeezed it gently. A few minutes later the strange group arrived back at the bay. The Romulan major entered one of their shuttles. A Romulan deck gang helped him prepare for launch. Stiles and Valdore entered while that was happening.

"Where is the major going?" Schultheiss asked.

Cromwell was silent. Augustus Kirk looked at the Romulan shuttle containing Denaton. He shook his head sadly. The Star Fleet personnel boarded. Cromwell resumed his seat. The bay depressurized and opened up. The Romulan flew out first. Michael followed. Denaton peeled away and headed for another of the ships.

"He's going to board one of the ships," Kirk said softly.

"They should be evacuating those!" Forrest exclaimed.

Cromwell brought the shuttle to a halt. Stiles seemed dazed but she darkened the port. Just in time as the Romulan ships erupted one after another. The shuttle was bathed in the scalding light of nuclear detonations.

"They were fully crewed." Kirk's voice was almost inaudible. "They were given the choice and decided to stay with their ships." The nuclear display continued as one after the other the Romulan ships engaged their self destruct devices. Cromwell saw tears in the old man's eyes.

"What a bloody waste of people," Cromwell mumbled softly as the carnage ended.

"They retained the worst of what we were captain," Soval said, "and perhaps the best," he added softly.

Vrax's cruiser passed overhead relative to the Sinjan's position. It shrank to a large dot and then stretched out into warp. Cromwell was silent. So was everyone else. Stiles laid in a course for the rendezvous and then sent the recall code. Two hours later Daedelus returned. No one had spoken a word in that time.

Marietta, Georgia, the old United States, Earth, Nov 2160

Commander Frank McCoy put the bottle to his lips and downed the cold beer. He had finally gotten a break from the intelligence business. Kanya was putting together their new home. Last night she had told him flatly that he would be a father—again. Frank smiled and took another sip. Funny where life takes a person, he thought.

His father had taken him to this very bar after he had enlisted. His dad, the mightiest man in the universe had cried while declaring how proud he was of McCoy. Frank doubted that the place had changed any in the two decades since.

"I told you Pete," A bellicose older, balding man started. He was speaking to a smaller quiet man who evidently wanted to be elsewhere. "That warmonger Thorpe got us into this. Make no mistake; it was Thorpe, not the Rommies that started this. Now this war will go on forever!"

"Why don't you shutup Neil!" an old man shouted from across the bar.

"Why don't you come over here and make me Lou!" Neil replied. "People have rights despite that idiot Thorpe. He's the worst president we ever had. Starts a war when people need looking after," he grumbled.

McCoy sighed softly. He was glad that he was not in uniform. But then again maybe Neil would be quiet if a uniform was here. Neil was rare among his ilk Frank reckoned. Most of them kept their foul opinions to themselves unless they were with a group of likeminded idiots. He sipped some more beer.

"I don't know about you Neil but I like taking care of myself," the bartender said. "The government never did a damn thing for me."

The vidcaster squawked. Frank piped up. Intelligence was scant these days. In fact he felt useless as most of the action was on the frontier. By the time that Frank and his staff got something it had already been analyzed. Frank guessed that maybe this was a weather warning. He was shocked to see the screen resolve into the form of a sitting President Christophur Thorpe.

"There's the chimp now—"

"Shutup Neil!" Frank barked. He got up off of the stool. "I _will_ come over there and make you if you don't." There was a flash of anger but Neil was becoming mollified. McCoy could hear Thorpe's voice in the background.

"Warmongers," Neil mumbled, "just wanted to talk."

"--oh-four seventeen Greenwich Mean Time yesterday the Romulan praetor asked for a ceasefire. I conferred with the council and the other allied leaders via subspace, that was granted, effective tonight at zero-zero-zero-one GMT. We have sent further messages to Praetor Karzan. On behalf of his empire he has agreed to a full cessation of hostilities."

The establishment was quiet for many seconds until the import of the president's words sank in, then it erupted into cheers. Two young women were seated next to Frank. One of them burst out into tears. The other spoke of a man who would be coming home. Her friend looked at Frank, jumped out of her stool and ran over and kissed him. He smiled and kissed her back. McCoy saw that she was crying. He was too.

"—terms of the peace are as follows: a neutral zone, one light year in diameter shall be established as a buffer. If ships of either side enter the zone then the state of war will resume. The Star Fleet shall establish armed monitoring stations, deep inside asteroids to enforce the zone. Subspace channel 'K' shall be maintained as a conduit for both sides to talk, should that become necessary."

"All of this is contingent on the vote of the World Council. The treaty committee has accepted my draft and put the treaty up for a full vote. I am assured that the votes are there for passage. The alien governments have already accepted the terms."

There were more cheers. McCoy also heard some mumblings about not going all the way. This was it he reckoned as the girl kissed him again. They both laughed. The president had hidden the Romulans' identity—for now, Frank reminded himself. He listened to the details and applied his military training to them.

Generation III subspace sensors were being tested this year. Frank imagined that they would be installed in some of the already existing asteroid bases. With those sensors he didn't believe that the Romulans would be able to send a beer can through the zone without being seen, much less a starship. Given their locations the powerful new sensors would cover more than the one light year of this proposed zone. It would take the Romulans too long to get around them.

"—not forget that this war was not ended by me, the council or our allies. It was ended through the blood, sweat and sacrifice of those who fought. Our military will soon stand down as the allies participate in building new exploratory starships while the expensive warships are scrapped. For those that volunteered, your sacrifice and those of your families is almost over, my thanks to all of you on behalf of a grateful people."

Neil was no where to be seen. Apparently he had lost his appetite for exercising his supposedly lost rights. The girl untangled herself from Frank and went back to her girlfriend. The old man named Lou, walked over and slapped Frank's shoulder. Frank turned around and shook his hand. His handheld vibrated against his leg. Frank pulled it off of his belt and answered it.

"Frank, it is over," Kanya's voice announced. He pressed the handheld against his ear and turned up the volume. The noise in the bar was getting louder.

He put the half empty beer bottle down. "I know," he said. "I'll be right home…I love you Kanya." Frank dug in his pocket pulled out a credit and tossed down the tip. He had decided to go home and ask Kanya about making their arrangement permanent.

"I love you too," she replied.

Times Square, New York, New York, the old United States, Dec 2160

"I'll burst if I don't get to pee soon," Edie Patelli said.

"We'll stop in the diner and you can go," Sharon Patelli told her mother. "I thought you loved coming to Times Square for Christmas. You've haven't stopped whining since we left the house!"

"I did! When you were a little girl, you aren't so little now. I figured that Christmas lights didn't mean so much to my girl who had seen the stars. Besides, you can ask that nice Eddie Narducci to take you. It's supposed to snow tomorrow. You kids can come up here and see the lights then."

"Ma, I don't like Eddie Narducci that way." Patelli pulled her scarf down away from her mouth. The wind was cold but it tasted moist, the promise of Saturday's snow.

"You and that farmer!" he mother scolded. "Enough, already with him! He let a good thing go when he let you come back home by yourself. My poor baby, all those nightmares."

"Ma—he is not a farmer. Just because Bill is from Kansas doesn't mean that he is a farmer!"

Maybe they wouldn't finish their mother-daughter trek to Rockefeller Plaza. But Sharon wanted to see the Christmas tree. Since her experience she had developed a sense of nostalgia. Those silly old things that she had seen and did while growing up meant something. They passed by a diner. Patelli led her mother into the scents of coffee and deli sandwiches. The elder Patelli excused herself while Sharon ordered two coffees to go. Perhaps she should call Eddie.

She and Narducci had dated once or twice. Sharon had been geared to go off to the academy and explore space while Narducci wanted to follow his father's footsteps. Eddie did indeed work in and now was an active partner in his father's restaurant. He had changed the simple but successful pizzeria into an upscale eatery. Sharon knew that he had gone to Tuscany to learn to cook. Eddie was not a fighter and had confessed no interest in the service. The attendant returned with her coffee. Sharon decided that the canollis looked good. She ordered three. Her mother came out and stood beside her.

"You keep them from your father!" her mother exclaimed. "He is turning into Mister Blimpo. I swear, the twenty-second century, a man should be able to look trim."

"Ma, he is fifty. He's picked up a few extra kilos. Would you cut him some slack!" Her mother started to sit.

"Can we go to the plaza?" she asked. "It would mean a lot to me." Her mother must have read her desire in her face. The waiter handed Sharon the neatly wrapped box of pasties.

Her mother touched her cheek. "Sure, I'll even come up again tomorrow if Eddie doesn't take you." Her mother leaned in and kissed her cheek. "No pressure sweetie. Eddie didn't go off to fight but he wasn't one of those antiwar nuts. He's a good man."

She smiled and fell into step with her mother. They waited while a harried young man escorted his wife and three children into the diner. Sharon laughed at the children but didn't envy the parents their tasks. The young mother grabbed one of the boys by the collar before he could terrorize the diner. It struck Sharon that she thought of herself as old. She doubted that the couple was much older than she. Patelli and her mother went back out into the brightly lit New York City night.

They passed by a group of humans and Tellarites. They were all drunk. They were all laughing. Even now, a month after the ceasefire, the festive atmosphere was still in full force. Informal parties were springing up as groups spilled out from clubs and restaurants into the street. Cheering started. Sharon figured that it was another group of returning Star Fleeters.

A grateful people were indeed thanking those who had fought. Thanks to high warp Vulcan transports and the few Fireball class ships crewmen were being returned to Earth a lot faster than it had taken them to get out there. Most were back to muster out and resume their lives. Sharon stopped and caught a glimpse of this group. She took a sip of coffee and exhaled a steamy breath.

The crewmen had been led into an informal parade. They each wore the plain blue service jacket over their slacks and boots. A few sported non regulation black knit watch caps. Patelli couldn't blame them for wanting to protect their heads from the cold New York winter. People lined up on both sides of the group and clapped and cheered.

Sharon gasped. One of the crewmen detached himself from the group. She saw the commander stripes on the sleeves of his jacket. The man was looking right at her. A warmth filled her that wasn't from the coffee. She smiled. Bill Waters smiled as he pushed his way through the happy throng.

"Do you need your vacuum cleaner repaired?" he asked her as he stopped to stand before Patelli and her mother.

"What are you—"

Snow started to fall. "I couldn't stay away. A good friend told me to take care of the important things in life." He embraced her. Her coffee and canollis dropped to the ground as she returned the hug. "You're important to me Sharon. I remember those things we talked about." He held onto her arms and stepped away. "If you'll still have me," he added.

"Oh Christ, the farmer," he mother groused.

Sharon nodded. Bill pressed his mouth to hers. "I'm home baby."

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, Earth Jan 2161

Christophur Thorpe didn't have to worry about smiling for the vidcasters. His replacement, Thomas Vanderbilt, would be taking care of that from now on. He wrapped his fur lined jacket tightly around him. His walking companion did likewise. Augustus Kirk had been ill from the flu but had recovered to meet Thorpe at the city where Christophur had grown up.

"The council approved the final draft of the federation agreement," Kirk told him. "The signing will be in a few months. Are you…"

"I think that Maggie and me are going to tour Andoria," Thorpe said. He stopped and pointed to an old house. "I spent most of my childhood there. I rode my tricycle down that alley. Somehow I hit something. I think that I was all of five. I was flipped off the bike and hit my head on the pavement." He laughed and shook his head. "Maybe that is what made me go into politics."

"You'll be missed at the signing sir," Kirk said.

Thorpe laughed again. There was bitterness this time. "I'm the loser; the one who didn't finish the job."

"History will vindicate you sir," Augustus told him.

"Funny thing about that Augustus," he replied. They cut across a snow covered side street. Ground and air cars were slowly disappearing as Emery Erickson's device was actually transporting people. "History usually waits until the person is dead." He smiled ruefully.

"I chose my place at the table Augustus. Sure, I'm bitter that the public turned against me this fast."

Aided by many who had spoken out against the war, he ruminated. These doves had suddenly grown talons when it had come to making money. More than a few of them had started building government bureaucracies in spite of Thorpe's efforts to stop that sort of childishness. He suspected that much of their anger had come from his manipulation of legislation that had caused their little agencies and make work jobs to be done away with.

"That's not why I asked you here though. By the way did you…"

"Transport?" Kirk responded. "The short answer is—no. Transporting is for the young. I like to keep my atoms all in one state, thanks."

Thorpe laughed. "I agree." He sighed. He pointed to an alien foods market. "That used to be the Peking Palace. Any time that there was a celebration my parents went there. I tell you Kirk that to this day me and my brothers hate Chinese food."

Augustus laughed. "I bet that you still took your parents there though?"

Thorpe nodded. "We passed the duty from sibling to sibling, but yes. But I treasured every bite of General Tso's chicken when I got to the age that I realized that I wouldn't always be able to talk to my mom and dad."

Kirk nodded. "Mortality is a bitch sir."

"You're right," Thorpe said. He took a deep breath. Here goes, he thought. "Tell me about Oguma, Kirk."

He watched his friend start to utter a reply and then stop. Kirk looked away from him. "The report attributed the loss to the Romulans."

"Augustus, you've never lied to me—until today," Thorpe said. He walked stridently past his old haunts. "You see, Admiral Forrest had done a detailed scan of their system. He wondered how or why they would deploy so far away when the fight was coming their way."

Kirk continued his silence. "Well," Thorpe said.

"What do you want me to say sir?"

"The truth."

"It was all a crazy mix up." Kirk looked straight ahead as he related the events of that day to Thorpe.

"Did you want me to come back and plant the seeds of the next war for you sir? I am truly sorry. You had so much responsibility. The Federation is your baby. History will remember you one day for that sir. I figured that the lie would die with me."

Thorpe looked at nothing as he walked. He had assumed as much. Kirk's tale of the Klingon attack confirmed what he had guessed. There was a suspicion of the Klingons. Thorpe had hoped that the federation would prevent future conflicts. Yet here was another challenge. Thorpe knew that it was not his.

"Thanks for being up front with me Augustus," he said at last.

"The Klingons are someone else's problem." Kirk shook his head. "The Klingons, even the damn Romulans, they should be our friends. Here we are going out in space, unlimited wealth and resources and we are fighting like twentieth century barbarians. It's all so goddamned stupid!"

Thorpe laughed. Kirk was where he had been in 2156. It was stupid. He agreed with Kirk. The two walked on in silence. One of Thorpe's old schools had been remodeled and renamed. Albright High after the former Canadian Star Fleet officer who had just been appointed as ambassador to Andor. No schools had been named for Christophur Thorpe. They plodded on for a while longer.

"My turn sir," Kirk said after a period of silence. "Tarang Gupta," Kirk added.

That was like a stab. Thorpe could rationalize the loss of Oguma. He could deal with the fallout from his political losses. But the young officer was someone who, without having met him, haunted his nights.

Christophur sighed. "I tried moving in the background. When I suggested a deep space mission to that sector the space probe agency head jumped on it. Admiral Archer wanted to know why. He wanted to know why I was interested in sending crews and ships on a fifty year long voyage to search through a sector of space." He shook his head. "Even if Karzan had told you the exact location I doubt that an expedition could make it there to rescue him, not in time to matter anyway."

"I issued him a Wounded Lion in his jacket, posthumous of course. The rest he did himself."

"How so?"

Thorpe laughed. "I sent him to Vulcan as a representative of Pan-Pacific Export; as a cover of course. As it turns out, after Vulcan lifted their embargo, Pan-Pac's business took off. They had huge backorders and an enormous amount of goodwill that Gupta had built up. Let's just say that I spoke to Mahendra Sawhney and that Gupta's family will receive a rather large block of stock. They will want for nothing, as if anyone does these days."

"Then he is officially a casualty?" Kirk asked.

"Ideally we should be able to go back and retrieve every single one of our soldiers. Ideally there should be a dialogue with the Klingons concerning their trigger happiness. But there won't be. Accepting my political fate is nothing compared to knowing that that officer is out there and that nobody will be sent for him. Gupta was one of the real heroes of this war. And he'll not receive a tenth of the accolades that he should. Worse, he'll be stranded far from home."

"Him and his Vulcan wife…uh mate might be dead for all we know sir."

Thorpe looked into the cold Canadian sky. "Everything that he went through and yet he completed the mission, I know that he is—that they are alive out there." They walked together in silence.

"You want to grab something to eat sir?" Kirk asked. Thorpe nodded. "How about Chinese?" his friend asked.

Thorpe laughed. "Go to hell," he told Kirk. "You're buying," he added.

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, the old United States, July 2165,

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the priest intoned.

Lieutenant Jocelyn Stiles looked straight ahead. Maggie Thorpe's small thin hand was cold in hers. Stiles could hear her small sobs of sorrow. About thirty people were gathered around the graveside. The Federation had sent a minor bureaucrat. Thorpe took her hand away and got up to stand by her deceased husband's grave. Stiles watched her stoop to take up a handful of earth.

"She will be alright," a deeply accented voice proclaimed. Stiles thought for a second that Jospin had come for the service. But it could not be: Jospin had died in a training accident six months after the neutral zone had been established. She turned, instead to see Pierre Oulette standing behind her.

She nodded. "My mama went through the same thing, admiral."

"It is mister these days," Oulette said.

Oulette was dressed in a severe black suit. Behind him a pretty woman of about the same age as Oulette stood with three children. Two were young, Stiles guessed about no more than seven. They each had Oulette's dark red hair. The third was a blossoming teen that was looking after her younger siblings. Stiles remembered that Oulette had adopted a survivor from one of the colonies. Commodore Leonard Zimmermann and his family came to stand beside Oulette's wife. Zimmermann had retired almost immediately after the treaty signing.

"Back in the service I see," Oulette remarked.

"Commander McCoy took me into intel."

There had been resistance to that to say the least. Maxwell Forrest had personally written a letter to President Vanderbilt criticizing the choice. But Vanderbilt was on the way out and fear of the Tholian Holdfast and Klingon Empire was on the way in. Forrest's opinions didn't carry much behind them anymore. He had left the service to become a professor of exopolitics at Dartmouth after being defeated in a run for president. No one wanted the warriors running things in spite of the Tholians and Klingons. No one publically anyway, Stiles thought.

Stiles got up out of her chair. A group of Andorians, Vulcans and Tellarites had beamed onto the grounds. She recognized Shahar Shran and Creel Zarn among their respective entourages. They walked towards them. A tearful Maggie Thorpe walked up to stand beside Jocelyn. Former Prefect Soval was there for Vulcan.

"Madam Thorpe," Soval said. He bowed his head. "Had I known of the president's condition…" Stiles was surprised to see a tear roll down the Vulcan's cheek. A younger Vulcan cast a piercing glance at the prefect. Soval dabbed at his face. The younger Vulcan departed after a surprisingly harsh exchange between the two aliens.

"It is alright sir," Thorpe said. The woman looked at Shran. "I'll be ready shortly Shahar."

"We shall wait as long as you say Madam Thorpe. There is mourning all across the ice since the news." Shran looked around. The Federation bureaucrat was walking over. Shran and Zarn's personal guards intercepted the man at their charges' behest.

"This is closed pipesqueak!" a burly Tellarite told the representative. Stiles wanted to chuckle at his mispronunciation. Maggie Thorpe _was_ laughing. The confused, berated official turned away.

Oulette and Zimmermann expressed their condolences. They walked over to the grave with their families, leaving Thorpe and Stiles alone with the aliens. Thorpe thanked all of them for coming.

"As we agreed," Shran said.

Thorpe nodded and smiled at Stiles. "He's not in there don't you know," she said while nodding at the grave. She must have seen Stiles' puzzled expression. "We are going to Andor. I told Chris that it would be an insult if he announced his intention to be buried there, even after the way he was treated after the war."

"He saved us all," Zarn said. "He was a fool to do it but fools lead and others follow. He led us to victory and the formation of the Federation." The Tellarite looked over at the Federation representative. "That one looks to be so young of your people that he was probably wearing a diaper while you humans were fighting the Romulans. Yet here he is profiting from the work of Thorpe."

"Chris knew that and he accepted it." Thorpe looked down at the ground and then she looked around her and then into the sky. "I grew up on this planet. I'll miss it."

"You're…not coming back?" Stiles asked. She was astonished. Was Thorpe that angry over the treatment of the president?

Margaret Thorpe gave her a knowing grin. "I know, and it is best that I leave so that that secret stays that way."

"Know what," Stiles started.

"Shhhh," Thorpe hissed softly. The older woman put a finger to Jocelyn's lips as her mother had often done. "I slept with the man. It's hard to keep secrets. Still, he did better than most I believe." Stiles thought of Trip Tucker and Jeff Sutton. No, it was easy to keep secrets with a bed partner. You just had to give up a piece of your soul to do it. "He knew that you know too Jo-jo."

"I had a part in informing the president of that," Soval added.

"I'm afraid that age might make me say things that I shouldn't. We are going to be with the Andorians so that won't be a problem. Chris had grown to love them." Stiles watched her smile at Shran. "Thank you for having us there after the election Shran. Christophur loved it. I can't remember him being so happy." She turned to Stiles. "You might think of a place to go after age comes for you, darling."

Who would have me? Stiles, who had been drummed out of the service. Sutton didn't know about the Romulans. Stiles had relented and finally accepted his marriage proposals. She had kept her name. Jeff was happy and Stiles maintained the façade of that. Jeff had wanted to forget the war. He had even gone as far as to beg off this obligation. She thought again about Maggie's suggestion. Where would Stiles go to die? She had perhaps one option.

She smiled. "I'll think of that Madam Thorpe—Maggie."

The older woman embraced her. Stiles realized that Thorpe was crying again. So was she. Thorpe released her hold. She smiled up at the taller Stiles.

"I'm going with the Andorians now," she told Jocelyn. She joined Shran. "Goodbye Jo-jo."

The Andorian leader bowed to Thorpe as did Soval. Even the normally irreverent Zarn bowed his head. The Andorians guards returned at Shran's order. They escorted the human woman to a location for beaming. The alien leaders followed. None of them had granted Stiles a place of exile for her old age, she observed. The group soon turned to energetic sparkles. They disappeared.

Stiles saw that most of the attendees were gone. She had chosen a shuttle over beaming at her doctor's request. No one knew if the new method of transportation could affect unborn children. She patted her belly while contemplating the briefing that she had received regarding the Klingons.

Commandant Michael Cromwell and his wife, Surgeon General of the Fleet Gertrude Cromwell separated themselves from the small throng of active duty Star Fleet officers and crewmen. Michael put a restraining hand on Michael Junior's shoulder. Cromwell imagined that he thought of the somber monuments and headstones as forts and castles. Their youngest was with Trudy's parents. Cromwell saw a familiar figure standing alone.

"Long time no see, lieutenant," Cromwell told Jocelyn Stiles.

Stiles merely looked at him. Star Fleet had eliminated the old style UESN salute. Still, most of those here for the president's funereal had rendered the old human respect. She did not. Cromwell was not surprised.

"Funny, you turned down my application for a teaching position at the academy sir," she responded. "That wasn't so long ago." Her bitterness was like a mask on her face.

"I won't lie to you. We have enough instructors in weapons and strategy. This is a new era. We need scientists, diplomats and cultural experts. The mandate of Star Fleet under the Federation Charter is defensive. Shooting is our last option."

She held up her sleeve for them. "I got back in anyway. From the reports that I read the Klingons differ with you."

"You're overlooking the strides that we've made," Cromwell shot back. "Our first contact with the aliens of Axanar, Horizon's study of the Iotians, our contact with the Ro'ha," he continued. "The future belongs to the explorers. This notion of frightening the populace with nonsense about Klingons or Tholians is the same rot as the twentieth century media moguls used to manipulate the public."

Her fists balled up at her sides. "Neither of those are nonsense sir! The day will come when we have to fight them."

"Perhaps," Cromwell said. He had read that many had never really gotten over the war. "The Star Fleet personnel that leave the academy know how to fight, rest assured of that. But the real genius is making your opponent agree with you. One day, the Klingons may be in the Federation, maybe even the Romulans. What will you do then?"

"The Birds will be back and it won't be to offer a handshake. You'll see."

"You are pregnant?" Trudy asked the infuriated woman. Stiles seemed to be taken aback by the sudden change of topic. She answered in the affirmative.

"Don't worry," Trudy told her. "I guessed from your general appearance and the fact that we have two of our own." His wife sighed. Michael felt the brief pride that only a father can. "I hope that having that child changes your outlook. Olly's philosophy isn't about surrender."

"We aren't computers lieutenant," Cromwell said. "We have more choices than ones or twos, either or. We won't start a fight. But we'll finish one if it is thrust upon us. There are all sorts of solutions for conflicts and those solutions arise out of a greater understanding of potential adversaries."

Cromwell was particularly proud of Ensign Picard in that regard. She was the one that had broken through the barriers with the Axanar aliens. It had not been with a .45 or a laser guided missile: it had been through careful observation of their culture. Those people and aliens were where the hope lay.

He watched Stiles shake her head. "Looks like they kept intel anyway. Someone must feel a need to do more than study alien mating habits." The young woman eyed them both. "Time will tell."

Michael had to agree. He also silently agreed with his wife. Stiles had to get rid of her hatred or it would be passed down to her child. He could see that her anger was merely covered. Hadn't the man whose funereal they were attending taught her anything? The group parted. Stiles walked away without even as much as a good day. Cromwell hugged his wife to him. So many veterans had failed to adjust since there return. He could only hope as did Trudy that Stiles would turn around.

Star Fleet Headquarters, San Francisco, California, Jul 2188

"What do you think?" Captain Jocelyn Stiles asked Commander Darrel Paris.

"Section 31 of the charter might mean anything captain," the boyish looking commander answered. "You are presenting it as a license to do anything that you want."

"What do think now that Kluge is dead?" she asked him.

Stiles was seated comfortably in her office chair. She was leaning back with her feet up on the desk. It was neither professional nor ladylike. Stiles really didn't give a damn either way. The commander looked sidewise before answering.

"Chancellor Kluge was agitating the Klingons for war. It was all horseshit and an excuse to fight, probably because he was their first humanoid Klingon leader. I…suppose that it's a good thing that he died."

"Funny how that happened wasn't it?" she asked. He started to answer. "Did you give Zaphro my present?" she asked, cutting his response off.

"The sack of pecans…yes," he answered. Stiles smiled.

She had raised enough children to be able to see through people. Paris had probably thought of discarding her gift for the Orion syndicate leader. But he hadn't, Stiles knew. The officer was almost there. She had been looking for an assistant for many years now. She was forty nine and would soon retire. Paris had caught her attention.

"You took our friend Zaphro, instructions on how to make a genetically altered virus Darrel. Kluge had to die. His dying of natural causes is the antithesis of his culture. Meaning that there will be no legacy or call to arms over his death. Neat isn't it? The Federation avoids a senseless war while the Klingons avoid a slaughter."

"Wait! You mean that I—"

"You didn't kill him," she cut him off. Stiles pushed a glass of Saurian brandy towards him. "You just delivered the method. It's okay, look at the mess we avoided."

He tossed his drink down. Paris shook his head. "We can't decide that. That is the job of the Federation Council."

"Come on!" she exclaimed. "The council; are you nuts? The council is made up of men and aliens. They are still debating if the Klingons are a threat! Someone somewhere makes a decision to do something. Organizations are only the window dressing that allow individuals to decide things and live with their decisions. We—I made a decision instead."

"That's true," he agreed reluctantly. He shook his head. "Where in the hell did you come by something that does this captain?"

Stiles decided that he wasn't ready for the knowledge about the Doomsday Vault. She smiled and put off an answer. They debated awhile longer. It was becoming apparent that Darrel was not going to be her replacement. That was too bad. Paris had a teenaged son and daughter. Stiles looked at the holos of her daughter-in-law's new baby girl. She did not offer Paris another drink. That drink would have contained the antidote for the poison that he had just drunk. Brain hemorrhages were rare these days but they still happened.

"Captain you really should confer with Admiral Barnstable over this," Paris told her.

"You're right Darrel," she answered. The remorse that wasn't in her heart was in spades on her face. "I went down a wrong turn. I'll…talk to the admiral tomorrow."

Paris seemed convinced. He might have thought differently by tonight, if it wasn't that he would be dead before that. Stiles' conversation led him into the direction that she wanted him to take. All the while she was considering possible replacements. She was satisfied that she had convinced him of her regret. She even invited him along to the meeting with Barnstable.

"We'll hash all of this out tomorrow Darrel," she said. "Now, why don't you beat it home to your wife and those hellraiser teens of yours. I think I'll transport over and see my grandbaby."

"Okay captain," he replied. There was a little doubt there. "See you tomorrow then," he said.

"See you then Darrel," she answered.

She stood up and watched him leave for the last time. Stiles was glad that she had moved the Doomsday Vault and its contents. She didn't know if Reed had been an alien monster or just a psycho. She did know that he was right about the vault: its toys were useful even in this day and age. Stiles closed her office up and started out. The transport chamber was a mere five minute walk. She would be glad to see her granddaughter. Her comm box squawked. It was Barnstable. She brought his image up on her desktop.

"Hello sir," she answered formally.

"Hi there Jo," he said. "How are things?"

He smiled perfunctorily. Geddy Barnstable was a tall foreboding man who carried an Asian heritage but spoke with a decidedly British accent. He had stayed in the fleet only by the thin ends of his fingernails. Comet captains for the most part had ended up scrapped just like their ships had been. Barnstable had managed to hang on through a series of humiliating jobs and commands.

"They aren't so good sir," she answered with a frown. "I'm afraid that our young protégé was not at all who we thought that he was."

"Are you taking steps to deal with that Jo?" She nodded. He frowned and nodded back.

"Your work on the Klingon folder was excellent Jo," he remarked. "It looks like there won't be any trouble in that area for some time to come."

"I agree," she said. "I have some more candidates for our endeavor, Geddy. I was wondering if you'd like to beam over for dinner Saturday to discuss them."

"Fried chicken and fried green beans?" he asked in reply.

She nodded and smiled.

"Jeff…"

"Will be down at Henry's to give the kids a break from their baby," she answered.

"Ah...then that will be perfect," he leaned into his viewer. "A new grandchild, may I see?"

Stiles nodded, reached over and retrieved the treasured holo and held it up the viewer's pickup. Barnstable made the usual grandfatherly noises. His grandchildren were all grown and had children of their own. Stiles replaced the holo to its rightful place.

"It is good that we can give them a safe and secure future, eh?" he asked.

She smiled. Yes it was indeed a good thing.

Starbase One, Star Fleet Museum, May 2228

"Wake up!" the harsh voice shouted. Jocelyn Stiles' eyes fluttered open. The Tellarite cadet who had been their guide was standing before her. "A starship is no place for an old woman!"

She agreed with that. Stiles smiled at the Tellarite. She slowly pushed her body out of the seat. So much had happened in this metal shell. All of it had flashed across her mind. Stiles had been here almost an hour. She smiled, this time her lips curled the expression into a grimace. A lifetime condensed down to an hour. Had it meant anything at all?

The cadet led her past the engineering hull and out into the connecting tube that led to the base proper. The transit tube was transparent. Nanotechnology allowed for shielding the eyes of humans and aliens when the station fell into sunlight. Right now that was not the case and Stiles had a birdseye view her old ship beneath her feet.

Rising up from Earth a Valley Forge class vessel was climbing out. The engineers had begun building the mighty starships on Earth. The great ship, its forward command hull contained in a saucer, was not as long as Beagle. But the new ships boasted phasers and a type of lethal high energy torpedo. This single ship could easily have dispatched the entire, combined Romulan and Star Fleet forces of her day. Yet its primary mission was one of exploration. It had weapons thanks only to people like her.

A few tourists passed by her. Star Fleet engineers hustled around in pursuit of their duties. One of them shuffled past her, his eyes glued to the screen of the new combination of sensors and handheld computer. Stiles remembered that its designers called it a tri field computational and recording device. Someone with common sense had shortened that mouthful to tricorder. Stiles also noted that the man that was lugging the briefcase sized device around was a rear admiral.

Harried aides ran in pursuit of the officer. "Admiral Roddenberry, you left without the specifications!" one of them yelled.

They walked on into the distance. The great tube was empty now except for another tourist. Another Vulcan by the looks of him, she thought. She also thought that he was aged; by the way that he hobbled. The corridor's transparent floor was bordered with a handrail so that tourists could relax while they looked out into the shipyard and beyond. The Vulcan walked up to her and leaned on the railing in a most un-Vulcan manner. The alien reached up and threw his hood back.

"Did you get all prettied up to see me admiral?" she asked.

Valdore was as she remembered him from that meeting of almost six decades ago. Oh, he was older but obviously surgeons had worked on his face in order to remove the v-shaped ridge in his forehead. Kirk, the old councilor Kirk, was it David or Augustus; she could not remember. Kirk had told her that the Birdies had conquered another species and later used their DNA to save their small population. That was where the ridge was from.

"The work was necessary in order to come here Stiles," he answered. He said nothing else. The Romulan looked out over the shipyard.

"We too are said to be rebuilding," he said at long last. Valdore continued in answer to her unspoken question:

"I accepted blame for the loss as did Praetor Karzan. He took the long walk into what waits for us all. Praetor Vrax had commanded me to assist in the tribulations that followed. I did what was expected for the empire and then was sent away. I only heard news as it came in from the freighter masters."

"Those of us soldiers that lived to return became pariahs. We rebuilt what we could of our world but the committee opposed Vrax. They knew that they could not use us and then execute us. They chose instead to reward our service by sending us to a farming world. You humans have a word: gulag."

"You expectin' me to feel sorry for ya?"

He looked straight ahead. "I told you then that there can be nothing to correct what happened."

"Why?" she asked. He knew that she wasn't asking for an apology.

"I…grew to understand you better than any of your contemporaries of that time. I believed, correctly as it turned out that it would be you who would prove to more lethal against us. You are a worthy adversary. Your people had a poor way of honoring you."

"I got what was comin' to me. We aren't killers. Everyone wanted to forget the war. There were so many broken people after that. That was enough. They didn't want ole Stiles until things started lookin' bad again. At least they dusted me off and put me back out, guess you didn't have that luck?"

"The farming world is pleasant and quiet. We were all stripped of rank and title. I expected no less. I worked until I had saved enough thrones to do as I promised you. I have a small home that you would find pleasant."

"As to why: I had studied your people in particular. That you were repudiated came as no surprise to me. All of your cultures dismiss their warriors after war. I knew after the treaty that you would never really adjust to civilian life. We did kill your father and mate-to-be. I cannot undo that action. I should hate you for inflicting such a defeat onto us but I do not. You did as one of us would. I suspect too that you've taken part in events that followed. Your society does not appreciate what you've done."

"I cannot undo what was done. I am responsible for what happened to you. My only answer was to offer you a final resting place among those who are like you. We belong to that time. We were caught up in those events. Blame me if you will but even had I opposed the war I would have been executed, another like me would have been there. I cannot take back those actions. I can offer you a resting place."

She nodded. "I half felt like a fool when I had that signal sent out. Hell, I figured you for dead. I'm gettin' old admiral. The docs say that it's fifty-fifty that I'll be pissin' my panties and forgettin' my kids. The genes are there and I_ have_ been forgetting." Stiles shrugged. "It could be just old age, nothing more. I still got thirty years they say."

"You are alone," Valdore said. "I am sorry about your mate."

"Jeff never knew," she said. "He would have thought that I was a monster. It wasn't enough to protect my babies. I wanted to see that everyone's babies were safe."

"Service to the state is treasured by us," Valdore said. "At least—it used to be. My Romulus is dead. The price for impatience and treachery was exacted. I do not like it but I accept it." He looked out past the blue curve of the Earth towards space.

"My home is small but comfortable. It might surprise you but you are looked at as a hero by those of us on Al'aton; probably in no small part because of my words. The war is over for us Jocelyn Stiles."

"I am not here to kill an old woman. The time for retribution is past. I offer you only rest among those like you—like us."

"Watch that old!" she exclaimed. "You ain't no youngster anymore!"

He laughed. Stiles looked around in alarm. Such an action would reveal more than should be known. Even after all of this time, what harm would exposing the secret cause? Stiles thought that it would not be good. No, now was not the time. Valdore recovered his unemotional demeanor though before any harm could be done.

"I am almost two hundred and forty of your years old. My span too draws to a close. I have secured passage through the Orion criminal network. You may join me if you will. I can spend no more than ten of your days here."

She laughed softly. "Time to blow this popsicle stand. My mama used to say that. Anyway what would killin' an old lady get you? When your people come out again, and I know they will, someone will be waitin'. They'll stop you just like I did."

"Perhaps," Valdore said. "I will await your—"

"No, I'm ready. I've thought about this a hunnert times after the president's funereal. There's plasma in the old girl's chambers yet." Stiles looked below at Beagle. "I left the group. The leak will fill the engineering space. I left some DNA there. Poor, confused old lady died in a plasma leak." She giggled. "Maybe they'll name a school after me."

Her sons and daughters would miss her. So would the grandchildren. But Valdore was right. This was not her time any longer. She had been miserable since war's end. She had only drawn peace from operating Section 31. Now that she was retired that was denied her. Knowledge of that organization and the Romulan secret could not be revealed by an Alzheimer's riddled old lady. It was time to go.

"We live as long as our children remember us. There is little else to immortality," Valdore said. He offered her his arm. Stiles took it.

The End


End file.
